The carriage wheels rumbled over the wooden bridge, signaling the end of the public road and the beginning of the private grounds. The rhythmic clop-clop-clop of the horses' hooves changed pitch as they hit the smooth, crushed white gravel of the long driveway.
Inside the carriage, the air was warm and smelled faintly of lavender and sandalwood.
Ines was asleep. Her head rested heavily on Carcel's shoulder. She had fought the exhaustion for the first three hours of the journey, determined to see every tree and hill, but the gentle rocking of the carriage had eventually won.
Carcel sat very still. He didn't want to move his shoulder and disturb her. He looked out the window. The familiar green hills of his childhood rolled past. The ancient oak trees, standing like sentinels along the drive, cast long shadows in the late afternoon sun.
He saw the house emerge in the distance.
Carleton.
