After Smith fiddled with the levers, the carriage picked up speed. Ikey pulled the tarpaulin tighter around himself as the wind chilled him. He glanced back through the cab window. Admiral Daughton sat behind an open newspaper. Ikey turned his attention to Smith. A shiver shook Ikey. “How far?” he yelled at Smith. Without looking from the road, Smith shrugged. He held up his mechanical hand, extended three fingers, then a fourth. “Not miles.” Smith shook his head. “Hours?” Smith nodded. Ikey pulled the tarp closer. His teeth chattered. He closed his eyes against the bone-jarring vibrations of the carriage. The chugging of the engine resonated deep in his chest. He inhaled deeply. The wind broke over his face and brought him a variety of scents, from sheep dung and horse manure to coal and woodsmoke, all smeared over the cold, metallic scent of rain.
