The carriage ride to the old monastery was quiet and smooth. Eric sat inside, reviewing a final report from Prescott, while outside, the green, rolling hills of the countryside slid past the window. As they rounded a long, sweeping bend in the road, the grey stone tower of the monastery came into view.
From his high seat on the driver's box, Mr. Rye saw it first. He saw the small, solitary figure of Delia standing by the side of the road, and his professional, impassive face almost broke into a smile. But then he saw the other vehicle. A shabby, covered wagon, much further down the road, moving far too fast, its path erratic and uncontrolled. And it was heading directly for Delia.
Delia, however, saw only one carriage. She saw the familiar, elegant coach with the Carson crest, and her face lit up with a brilliant, happy smile. She raised her hand and waved, a cheerful, enthusiastic gesture of welcome.
