They were standing closer now, having somehow drifted together while bantering, and Alaric was very aware that people were watching them with the intensity of scientists observing a rare phenomenon.
"Marianne," he said quietly, "everyone's staring."
"I know."
"Doesn't it bother you?"
"It did. This morning, it would have mortified me. But then I spent all day thinking about what you said last night."
"What did I say?"
"That you have nothing but time. That you'll prove yourself every day in small ways until I believe you."
"I meant it."
"I know. That's why I'm here, holding your arm in public and causing enough gossip to fuel village conversation until spring."
"Is that the only reason?"
"No," she said simply, and then, before he could ask what the other reasons might be, Mrs. Morrison's voice rang out across the square.
"Gingerbread time! Everyone who's participating, to the bakery! We have two hours until midnight!"
"That's our cue," Marianne said, taking his arm again with a naturalness that made his chest tight. "Ready to prove you belong here?"
"By making gingerbread?"
"By participating in ridiculous traditions with good humor and bad baking skills."
"I've been practicing."
"Have you?"
"No, but I thought it might make you feel better about what's about to happen."
"Which is?"
"Complete disaster, probably."
"Definitely. But at least it'll be entertaining disaster."
The bakery was already crowded with villagers when they arrived, every available surface covered with bowls and ingredients and the controlled chaos of communal baking. Marianne had to release his arm to navigate the crowd, butshe caught his hand instead, pulling him through the press of people with casual intimacy that had several women exchanging significant looks.
"Here," Marianne said, guiding him toward a worktable tucked near the back of the crowded bakery. “This is traditionally the least desirable station—too close to the oven, perpetually too warm, and cursed with uneven heat. But it has one advantage: fewer witnesses when you inevitably create something unspeakable.”
“Your confidence in my abilities is overwhelming,” Alaric replied dryly.
“I have perfect confidence in you,” she returned sweetly. “Perfect confidence that you will somehow turn flour, sugar, and spice into a form of chaos hitherto unknown to mankind.”
“That was one time.”
“Three,” she corrected. “You have failed spectacularly at baking in my presence on three separate occasions.”
“Third time’s the charm?”
“Fourth time’s another disaster...but we shall see.”
She began gathering the ingredients with quick, practiced movements. There was a grace in the way she worked; fluid, efficient, assured. She measured by sight, by instinct, by the subtle understanding that came only from a thousand repetitions. Alaric found himself watching her hands, the sureflex of her fingers as she scooped flour, the deft wrist turn as she cracked an egg.
