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 It's almost a shame that the carriage house must be such a beautiful building, hidden as it is and bowing under the shadows of ancient, sky-reaching trees... gabled peaks... trim carved fine as lace... all in rich shades of umber and clay... and in the front, a single broad barn door, with iron hinges... another, smaller entrance at the side...
Those stables, for the time being, house no animals, only a private barouche, a crested phaeton, some equestrian trappings better suited for human wear, and in a protected corner, behind high walls, the sedan chair.
The chair is in place and ready for its unveiling with the first spring thaw... it has been housed under sheets until now, renovated and cleaned for a new year's worth of comfort in travel... The interior of the box is upholstered in a diamond-plush pattern, of rich red Corinthian leather... (say it along with me - Cohrrrr-IN-thian...), and it's cushions are velvet, crimson of course.
 On the outside, past drapes of shimmering black satin, the wood is carved in Byzantine figures, knots and ropes and geometric designs rising all the way up to the dangerously pointed spires at the four corners. A golden tassel tops each point, to mirror the tassels at the ends of each
of the supporting bars.
Let's not forget the salvaged go-cart... Between dust and disheveled rows of chamois rags and tin cans, scattered tools and bits of old mechanical parts, a capricious moonbeam makes its way through the skylight in the ceiling... Its light is like a mirror on the past, illuminating the bright red Rose-A-Go-Go, glossy as everything with which she surrounds herself, with the number "69" helmet at rest on the driver's seat, and Traevyn's side car still affixed, though he has long since given up anything that remotely resembles childhood...
Oh, yes, and there is one more thing - another relic, set aside now and locked away for winter's return... the sleigh...
All the way at the end, and glistening in spite of the fact that the light does not quite reach this last bleak corner, sits a fully stocked, striped and detailed, A110 Berlinette Alpine Sleigh, complete with steel runners and rechromed bumpers, a convertible top and an interior of butter-soft black latigo.
The chassis has the rugged appearance of a Shelby Cobra base rather than the foundation for a winter recreation vehicle, with its 94.5"-wheelbase, of rectangular steel tubing, with 2".x.2" outriggers to secure the body and superstructure, and the undercarriage is chromed, of course, as are the bumpers and the trim lining running boards molded onto the body.
The body itself is constructed of smooth fiberglass, with a tubular steel reinforced superstructure, in candy-apple red, the classic shade of so many street machines in the heyday of Route 66.
 Its low, narrow nose and streamlined hood make for a far more sleek design than the average sleigh, rendering it extremely adept adept for night-time maneuvers - dependent, of course, on the power of the team pulling it, and perhaps even more so on the power of the whip driving the team.
All it wants is a little snow on the ground, to make this vehicle road-worthy... or, rather, to make the road worthy of the vehicle...
And hanging on the wall, just to the side of the stall, is a tangle of leather and nylon webbing, harnesses, presumably, save the fact that they are clearly too small for the average horse... but certainly the right size for a team of average men...
The Groundskeeper's Cottage
Forlorn - perhaps that is the best word to describe it.
Long since abandoned by its original inhabitants (judging by the overgrowth
that has been allowed to tangle the surrounding countryside), the cottage
huddles, frightened, in the shadows of the carriage house, a study in jarring
angles and material contrasts.
The building looks as though it might once have been a doll's house, until
time and necessity caused a room to be slapped on here, a wall erected there,
a new roof dashed over the top to even things out (though that shingled layer
seems to be listing dangerously to one side now).
Like the pieces of a frustrated child's puzzle, none of it seems quite right,
but rather forced together and held there with a bit of putty and a prayer.
Even the door hangs from its hinges, a miserable testament to the dust and
emptiness inside. At the slightest stirring of a breeze, it slaps against
the frame, but the rest of the cottage seems far to concerned with adjusting
its own uncomfortable weight to pay heed.
Shutters hang from upper floor windows like tired eyes, too long deprived
sleep and yearning for the peace of the hereafter, and its face is marred
with scars in the plaster, and riverbed stones like blisters for trim. Granted,
it was never a beautiful face to begin with, and now it can only hope that
the ivy and cobwebs hanging over all will grow down enough to hide its shame.
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