II

"It is often incumbent upon a narrator to dictate in detail the circumstances surrounding the general affairs of one's characters, often before thrusting into one's reader's view a hasty amalgamation of activity, the full appreciation of which, as has been stated, depends upon the narrator's disclosure of certain vital descriptions of those elements more widely known as 'setting,' of which the most simple of expositions concerning one or another character may well be part.

"Otherwise, one's reader may find the experience most unsettling, akin to wandering gibbering and unclothed in a waterless desert, or the streets of London."

Such were the words that flowed from Marianne Hensley's jolting pen; writing was her one consolation on the long carriage ride from Kerry to Freemanor. She hated traveling most dearly, preferring the comfort of familiarity and the warmth of an unmoving chair. The company consisted of an awfully destitute woman whose apparel seemed intent on conveying, poorly, that she belonged to any state other than her own. The woman was at the present laying quite still across from Marianne, a stream of saliva pouring pathetically from a brown-toothed orifice; like a badly-attired corpse now and then possessed by a spasm of the jerking carriage, she thought, hastily penning a description for a later chapter of her novel.
The driver, too, was most disagreeable. Despite the clearly apparent roughness of the country path, Marianne was certain the man jolted the carriage from time to time purely from spite -- a mutual sentiment at this point in her journey. Certain letters had become quite unreadable and there was more than one ink puddle splashed across her words like a hideous black tear-drop.
Marianne's chief purpose for embarking on a journey so fraught with despair and peril was to visit her dear friend from Wallencroft Girl's Preparatory Academy for Young Women, Louisa Winslough. Yet there was something more, she was sure; it was a rare impetus indeed that could pry her from her velvet writer's-chair, and acquaintances, however dear, however effusive in their appeals, did not oft occasion such reaction. What had spurred her to endanger herself and her well-being so? Marianne decided it was either the earnest plea for her company in Louisa's letter; or the well-crafted rhetoric; or the blackmail.

The night crept near as the carriage continued its rugged pilgrimage; Marianne sighed, shutting her book, distinctly aware that the inadequate moon was quickly becoming the only source of light, despite its unusual fullness.
Another fifteen minutes passed before Marianne was suddenly and inexplicably aware that her companion - the tragically-attired, socially decrepit woman - was, in fact, dead.