"I know so, Your Grace."
They stood there in the Christmas night, watching the village settle into sleep. The future would bring challenges—earning trust, proving commitment, learning to be part of a community instead of apart from it.
But tonight, he had a gingerbread heart and the faintest hope of forgiveness, and that was more than he'd had in twenty-three years.
"Happy Christmas, Your Grace," Grimsby said quietly.
"Happy Christmas, Grimsby."
Chapter 16
"Your Grace has developed a disturbing habit of rising before dawn, which would be admirable if it weren't accompanied by an equally disturbing habit of staring out the window at a certain bakery like a lovesick poet composing odes to unrequited affection."
Alaric didn't move from his position at the window, though Grimsby's observation was, as usual, uncomfortably accurate. Five days had passed since Christmas, five days of careful distance and polite formality from Marianne, five days of proving through action rather than words that he intended to stay.
"I'm observing the village beginning its day," he said, watching as the bakery's chimney began producing smoke, indicating Marianne was already at work. "It's important to understand the rhythms of the community I'm now part of."
"Of course, Your Grace. And this has nothing to do with the fact that Mrs. Whitby begins work at precisely four-thirty each morning and can be glimpsed through her kitchen window if one positions oneself at exactly the right angle?"
"That would be an oddly specific thing to notice, Grimsby."
"Indeed. Almost as oddly specific as Your Grace's sudden interest in early morning village observation that coincidentally aligns with Mrs. Whitby's working hours."
"You're suggesting something, Grimsby?"
"I'm suggesting nothing, Your Grace. I'm merely observing that you've worn a path in the carpet from your bed to this window, and that path happens to provide the optimal view of the bakery."
"Carpets naturally develop wear patterns."
"Not usually in the shape of what I can only describe as 'yearning trajectory.'"
"That's not a real term."
"It is now. I've coined it specifically for Your Grace's morning ritual of architectural pining."
Before Alaric could defend his entirely reasonable interest in village commerce patterns, there was a knock at the door; the enthusiastic, slightly chaotic knock that could only belong to one person.
"Thomas," Alaric said as Grimsby opened the door to reveal the boy, already covered in snow despite the early hour. "It's not even six o'clock."
"Couldn't sleep," Thomas announced, bouncing into the room with energy that suggested sleep was a concept he found generally optional. "Too much happening. The New Year's Eve preparations are in full chaos mode, Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Ironwell are having another dispute about decoration placement, and most importantly, I have intelligence about Mrs. Whitby's emotional state."
"You have intelligence?"
"I'm very intelligent."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant. You want to know about Mrs. Whitby. She's moved from angry baking to contemplative baking."
"There's a difference?"
"Oh yes. Angry baking involves a lot of aggressive kneading and occasional muttering of words I'm not supposed to know. Contemplative baking is quieter, more thoughtful. She stares at the dough like it might reveal universal truths."
"And this is progress?"
"Definitely. The stages of Marianne Whitby's emotional processing are well-documented. We've moved from stage two to stage three-point-five."
"Point-five?"
