"That was terrible," Thomas said cheerfully. "Your Grace really can't sing."
"Thomas!" his mother scolded.
"What? It's true. But it was also sort of nice. In a painful, listening-to-cats-dying sort of way."
"Thank you for that assessment," Alaric said dryly.
"You're welcome. Are you going to keep trying?"
"Yes."
"Good. It's entertaining. Also, I have money riding on you not giving up."
"How much?"
"My entire Christmas money. Five whole shillings."
"I'll try not to disappoint you."
"Or you could just pay me the five shillings now and save time."
"Thomas!" his mother said again.
"What? I'm being practical!"
The caroling group moved on, but Alaric found himself lingering outside the bakery. Through the window, he could see Marianne working, her movements sharp and aggressive as she attacked the dough.
"She's angry baking," Mrs. Ironwell observed, having stayed behind with him. "That's stage two."
"Stage two of what?"
"Marianne's anger process. Stage one is cold silence. Stage two is angry baking. Stage three is usually throwing things, though she restricts that to private moments. Stage four is crying, and stage five is either forgiveness or permanent banishment."
"How long does the process usually take?"
"Depends on the offense. When Mr. Martin insulted her Christmas pudding, it took three days. When her husband forgot their anniversary, it took a week. For this?" She shrugged. "Could be months."
"I don't have months."
"Then you'd better figure out how to speed up the process."
"How?"
"By doing something that matters. Not to you, but to her. Show her you understand what she cares about."
"She cares about the village."
"Then start there."
Alaric left the carolers and walked through the village alone, really looking at it for the first time. Not as the quaint Christmas scene he'd been enjoying for the past few days, but as a real place with real problems.
He saw the cottage roofs that needed repair, patches covered with canvas and hope. He saw the elderly residents carefully rationing coal, their homes cold despite the Christmas season. He saw the children playing with handmade toys because their parents couldn't afford anything from the shops.
This was his responsibility. These were his tenants, his people, and he'd abandoned them for twenty-three years because he couldn't bear to face his memories.
"Your Grace?"
He turned to find Thomas following him, looking uncharacteristically serious.
