Zechariah's barouche drew to a halt, which was not an uncommon thing in these parts ... but it was certainly an annoying one. He idly ran his fingers down his chin, scouting for follicles that had dared rise up through his slumber.

After thirty-nine (thirty-nine!) God-forsaken seconds of waiting in the street, Zechariah's head popped out the side with a menacing glare.