Most of the ride passed in warm silence, only broken by little patches of small talk. It settled around them like a thick quilt.

Fletcher busied himself with reading, the book in his hands made of leather and without a title. His calloused hands were bare, gloves discarded as the time passed. 

Hazel took their hair down, running a tortoiseshell comb through the brunette tresses. Their pretty ribbon was tied back in place, eyes trained out the window at the passing scenery. 

Outside the forests thinned into farmland. Rolling hills replaced the dense trees. Livestock ambled around, cows and sheep lifting their heads when the carriage passed by. The day wore on. Above the rings passed from aquamarine to a deep violet as the sun waned.  Soon afternoon dissolved away into evening. 

When the carriage reached Dunworth, the sun had almost kissed the horizon. 

With a lurch they pulled into the carriage house. This one was much nicer than Maple Hollow’s, sitting within the borders of the town. The whole building was polished wood, with a cobblestone path around it. Twinkling lights had been hung from the roof. 

Decor of pine brushes and ribbons were hung up. People milled about outside, laughter and chatter filling the cold air. Across the front of the carriage house was a large banner declaring ‘Dunworth Bicentennial Festival.’

The carriage door clicked open. “Welcome to Dunworth,” the coachman drawled, chewing on one end of his unlit cigar.