"What will you think about?"
"Bread," she replied. "It’s simpler than dukes."
He tilted his head. "But less interesting?"
She met his eyes, a spark of humor returning. "Different interesting. Bread is predictably interesting. Dukes are chaotically interesting."
"I’m choosing to take that as a compliment."
"That’s very optimistic of you."
"I’m learning optimism," he said, smiling faintly.
"Careful," she replied. "It might suit you."
He left then, walking through the falling snow back to the inn. His hands hurt, his back ached from all the work, and hewas exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical labor and everything to do with emotional effort.
But she'd smiled. She'd held his hands. She'd invited him to the next day’s celebration. It wasn't forgiveness, not yet, but it was progress.
***
"Your Grace looks marginally less tragic than this morning," Grimsby observed when Alaric returned to his room. "Though significantly more damaged. Are those bandages?"
"Battle wounds from roof repair."
"Your Grace engaged in actual manual labor?"
"Your Grace engaged in four hours of roofing in winter weather."
"And survived?"
"Barely."
"And was this heroic effort appreciated?"
"She made me soup."
"Soup. How romantic."
"It was actually. We sat by her fire and talked without arguing for almost an hour."
"A miracle indeed."
"Don't jest, Grimsby. It's progress."
"I'm not jesting, Your Grace. I'm genuinely pleased. You've been brooding for five days. It's good to see you with something approaching hope."
"Is that what this is? Hope?"
"Either that or indigestion from the soup."
"The soup was excellent."
"Then it's hope."
"Your Grace appears to be attempting to strangle his cravat, which suggests either a sudden hatred of neckwear or an unprecedented level of nervousness about tonight's village celebration."
Alaric stopped his fourth attempt at tying the perfectly simple knot he'd been managing without thought since he was twelve and turned to face Grimsby, who was watching with an expression of barely contained amusement.