Talk:Climb into its crimson-lacquered carriage/@comment-92.227.217.60-20180110014336

Judged
The carriage flies through the streets, heedless of comfort and pedestrians. With every sharp turn you are flung around inside. After the remorseless corner at Pennyweather Lane and Fondle Street, you have to remove yourself, apologising, from Mr Sacks' lap.

Moments of city life flick by the windows like a magic lantern show. Mr Sacks does not look. Instead, its cavernous hood is turned to you. Its gloved hands – a pen in each – scratch methodical letters onto scraps of paper. It hands you one.

A PAWN DREAMS OF THE FINAL RANK. A QUEEN DREAMS FURTHER. NEITHER MOVES ALONE.

It takes the note back, and hands you the other one. It reads: DISAPPOINTED. It's written on the back of a piece of official Bazaar correspondence.

The carriage slithers to an abrupt halt. Mr Sacks opens the door. Clearly, you are expected to leave. You step out, and into the caliginous weight of the Bazaar's shadow. The carriage has brought you to its very foot. Above, the script on its skin pulses and wriggles, languorous as leeches at supper. The carriage speeds away, leaving furrows in the lacre-snow.