"Probably. But my papers will be impeccably sorted for the estate sale."
She laughed, that bright sound he was beginning to anticipate. "You're impossible."
"I prefer improbable. Impossible suggests I couldn't exist, yet here I am."
"Causing chaos in my carefully planned Christmas preparations."
"Your carefully planned preparations involved a man becoming part of a tree."
"That was unplanned excitement."
"Is there planned excitement?"
"Tomorrow we're hanging the garlands on High Street. I fully expect at least two arguments and one minor injury."
"How festive."
"You could help."
"I could also stick needles in my eyes."
"That seems excessive."
"Have you seen how many garlands you have?"
"Not nearly enough, according to Mrs. Martin."
"Mrs. Martin may have a garland problem."
"Mrs. Martin has many problems. Garlands are the least of them."
Before Alaric could ask what the greatest of them might be, the church bells began to ring, clear and bright in the cold air.
"Seven o'clock," Marianne said. "Dinner time. You're at the inn?"
"Unless Mrs. Morrison has evicted me for insufficient Christmas spirit."
"Give her time." Marianne pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "I should go. Mother will be wondering where I am."
"You live with your mother?"
"Above the bakery. It's convenient and economical."
"And probably warm, given the ovens."
"Extremely. Sometimes too warm. Summer is interesting."
"I imagine."
They stood there for a moment, neither quite moving to leave. The snow was still falling, lighter now, and the village around them was settling into evening; windows glowing warm, voices calling children in for dinner, the comfortable sounds of a community preparing for night.
"Thank you," Marianne said suddenly. "For helping with the star. Even if you were insufferably smug about it."
"I prefer confidently correct."
"Of course you do." She started to walk away, then turned back. "Mr. Fletcher?"
"Yes?"
