"Then I suggest you start by participating in the Christmas Day traditions as yourself, not as Mr. Fletcher or as the brooding duke, but as yourself."
"I don't know who that is anymore."
"Then perhaps it's time to find out."
Alaric bathed and dressed properly, though his hands shook slightly as he tied his cravat—not from fear but from the weight of what lay ahead. When he descended to the inn's common room, conversation stopped immediately. Every eye turned to him, some curious, some hostile, some pitying.
"Happy Christmas, Your Grace," Mrs. Morrison said with formal politeness that lacked all her usual warmth. "Will you be joining us for the Christmas Day caroling?"
"If I'm welcome."
"Everyone's welcome at Christmas," she said, though her tone suggested there might be exceptions. "It's tradition."
The caroling was a village tradition where groups went from house to house, singing and sharing Christmas greetings. It was exactly the sort of communal activity that normally made Alaric uncomfortable, but he found himself following the group as they made their way through the snow-covered streets.
At the first house, old Mr. Thompson came to the door, saw Alaric, and said loudly, "is that the duke who's been lying to us all week?"
"Yes," Alaric said simply. "It is."
"Hmph. Well, at least you sing better than Fletcher did. That man couldn't carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on it."
It was perhaps the strangest acceptance he'd ever received, but Alaric took it.
They moved from house to house, and at each one, the reception was different. Some villagers were cold, offering formal greetings that emphasized his title and the distance it created. Others were curious, asking questions about why he'd done it, what he'd hoped to achieve. The children were the most direct, with one small girl asking, "are you the one who made Mrs. Whitby cry?"
"Yes," he admitted, feeling the weight of it. "I am."
"That was mean."
"Yes, it was."
"Are you going to say sorry?"
"I'm going to try."
"You should bring flowers. Mummy always likes flowers when Daddy says sorry."
"I'll remember that."
But when they reached the bakery, Marianne wouldn't come to the door. They could see her through the window, working at her ovens, but she didn't acknowledge their presence.
"We should sing anyway," Thomas said. "It's tradition. Every house gets carols on Christmas Day."
So they sang, standing in the snow outside the bakery while Marianne worked inside, pretending not to hear them. They sang "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" and "The First Nowell," and then someone started "The Herald Angels Sing."
Alaric knew this one. His mother had loved it, had sung it every Christmas even when his father wasn't there to hear it. Without thinking, he found himself singing—not well, his voice rough with emotion and lack of practice, but with feeling that surprised even him.
“Joyful, all ye nations, rise, join the triumph of the skies….”
Through the window, he saw Marianne's hands still on the dough she'd been kneading. She was listening.
“Hark! The Herald Angels Sing...”
His voice cracked slightly on "angels sing," remembering his mother's voice in the empty halls of Hollingford Hall, but he continued. The other carolers had gone quiet, letting him sing alone.
When he finished, Marianne was standing at the window, looking out at him. Their eyes met for a moment, just a moment, before she turned away and disappeared deeper into the bakery.
"Well," Mrs. Morrison said after a moment of uncomfortable silence, "that was... something."
