The morning of the departure was chaos.
Servants ran back and forth, drivers shouted at each other, and the entire residence smelled of horses and dust. Eric stood at the courtyard entrance with his peacock-feather fan in one hand and watched the convoy assemble like a general surveying troops.
Except Eric had never actually surveyed troops, so mostly he was just enjoying the view.
The carriage—because of course it was a carriage, only the best for the general's wife—was an ornate wooden thing with painted panels and cushioned seats, drawn by two well-fed horses. Eric had been assured it was the most comfortable vehicle in the residence.
It was a lie.
The first hour was fine. The second hour was tolerable. By the third hour, Eric had decided that whoever designed carriages had clearly never actually ridden in one.
