Saiper8

    Always during great periods of doubt, when I’ve wrestled with questions of humanity and its future, the black carriage arrives. It’s a covered carriage: lit lanterns at the fore, rich velvet interior. The carriage is perfectly ordinary in every way, aside from the realization that the reigns stretch out to an empty harness.    Herbert sits in the carriage, hands folded in his lap. He’s an older gentleman, accustomed to adventuring when it’s comfortably between two covers. As it rattles to a halt, he remembers his first trip, with a bright-eyed lad from Scotland Yard.    One can hear the whinny of the invisible