At five in the morning, the first rays of light in London had yet to climb onto the red brick rooftops of Bayswater, and Thomas Whickriff was already awake.
The stable still retained the dampness and smell of hay from the previous night; as a coachman, Whickriff's every dawn began like this, gray, cold, silent, yet everywhere imbued with the atmosphere of labor.
Thomas donned his brand new coat, polished to a shine, and pushed open the door to the stable.
The two black horses he had cared for less than a week raised their heads slightly at the sound of footsteps, breathing out puffs of white air.
