"Details," Mrs. Morrison said again.
Marianne shook her head, gave a small curtsy that seemed more mocking than respectful, and left. Alaric watched her go, noting the way she ducked under the mistletoe with practiced ease and how she immediately started issuing orders to someone about garland placement the moment she stepped outside.
"She's a lovely girl," Mrs. Morrison said, following his gaze.
"She's certainly... energetic."
"She's been holding this village together since her husband died. Took over the bakery from her mother, organizes all the events, makes sure the elderly have enough food in winter. She's a treasure."
"She sounds exhausting."
"She's lonely," Mrs. Morrison said, with surprising insight. "Oh, she'd never admit it because she is too proud. But you can see it sometimes, when she thinks no one's looking. She gets this expression like she's forgotten something important but can't remember what."
Alaric didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing.
"Well," Mrs. Morrison continued, "I'll show you to your room. You must be tired after your journey."
The room was, as promised, the inn's best, which meant it was clean, had a fire already laid, and only featured a moderate amount of Christmas decoration. The view did indeed overlook the square, where Marianne was now directing what appeared to be the untangling of a massive knot of lights.
"Dinner is at seven," Mrs. Morrison informed him. "We're having roast goose, in honour of the season."
"How festive," Alaric said dryly.
"That's the spirit! Oh, and Mr. Fletcher? Do be careful moving about the inn. The mistletoe has a tendency to appear in unexpected places."
"It spontaneously generates?"
"Something like that." She gave him a wink that was deeply alarming and left.
Grimsby immediately began unpacking with the efficiency of long practice. "Your Grace..."
"Not here, Grimsby. The walls probably have ears. Also eyes and possibly strong opinions."
"Very well, Mr. Fletcher." The emphasis on the false name conveyed volumes of disapproval. "May I ask what His Grace is thinking?"
"Honestly? I have no idea. I intended to go straight to the hall, review the books, and leave. Instead, I'm apparently staying at an inn run by a madwoman and have somehow become involved in Christmas fair preparations."
"If I may say so, Your...eh, Mr. Fletcher, this seems unnecessarily complicated."
"Everything about this is unnecessarily complicated. Did you know the previous steward was a thief?"
"I gathered as much from Mrs. Whitby's comments."
"And the house is apparently uninhabitable."
"Also gathered."
"And the entire village is Christmas-obsessed to a degree that borders on medical concern."
"That was evident from the decorated sheep I observed."
"The what?"
"Someone has dressed several sheep in red and green ribbons. They're in the field behind the inn."
Alaric moved to the window and looked out. Indeed, a small flock of sheep stood in the snowy field, each wearing what appeared to be festive ribbons tied in bows around their necks.
"That's disturbing."
