"The Court of Reasonable Behaviour."
"That sounds like a place you made up."
"All courts are made up if you think about it."
"That's..." she paused, considering. "Actually oddly profound."
"I have my moments."
"All two of them?"
"Three, actually. But one was in private, so it doesn't count."
The star-raising operation had progressed to the point where Mr. Ironwell was now perched precariously near the top of the tree, threading rope through branches while his wife shouted helpful suggestions from below.
"Don't look down, Harold!"
"I'm in a tree, Martha. Where else would I look?"
"Up! Look up!"
"At what? The sky? I know what the sky looks like!"
"This is going to end badly," Marianne murmured.
"Almost certainly," Alaric agreed. "Shall we take bets on how?"
"That seems uncharitable."
"Five shillings says he gets tangled in the rope."
"I shall accept the wager. My money's on him falling into the garland display."
They shook on it, and Alaric tried not to notice how her hand felt in his; warm and surprisingly soft for someone who presumably spent her days kneading dough.
"Oi! Mr. Fletcher!" Mr. Ironwell called from his perch. "Where does this bit go?"
"Through the branch above your left hand. No, your left; that's your right."
"This is like watching someone try to teach a dog mathematics," Marianne observed.
"That's unfair to dogs. They at least understand pointing."
"Mr. Ironwell understands pointing."
"He's currently trying to thread rope through his own sleeve."
"Oh dear. HAROLD! THE BRANCH, NOT YOUR JACKET!"
Too late. Mr. Ironwell had somehow managed to attach himself to the tree via his own clothing. His attempts to free himself only made things worse, and within moments he was effectively gift-wrapped to the spruce.
"I believe that means you owe me five shillings," Alaric said.
"He's not tangled in the rope, he's tangled in his jacket."
"Which is tangled in the rope."
"That's indirect tangling."
