"Try to enjoy yourself a little. I know Christmas isn't your preferred season, but you're stuck here for a while. Might as well make the best of it."
"I don't do 'best of it.' I do 'endure with dignity.'"
"That sounds exhausting."
"It's actually quite restful. No expectations to meet."
"Except your own."
"Those are the worst kind."
She studied him for a moment, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she was seeing more than he intended to show.
"Goodnight, Mr. Fletcher."
"Goodnight, Mrs. Whitby."
She walked away, her figure quickly disappearing into the swirling snow. Alaric stood there longer than necessary, watching the space where she'd been.
"Your Grace."
He turned to find Grimsby, holding an umbrella and looking disapproving.
"Dinner is served at the inn."
"Ah. Yes. Dinner."
"With Mrs. Morrison."
"Heaven help me."
They walked back to the inn through the snow, Alaric ducking under increasingly elaborate mistletoe arrangements.
"She's added more," he observed.
"Every hour on the hour, Your Grace. I've been timing it."
"The woman is relentless."
"She mentioned something about you being 'a challenge worth rising to.'"
"That's ominous."
"I thought so too, Your Grace."
Dinner was, as threatened, roast goose with all the trimmings. Mrs. Morrison had seated Alaric at what was clearly the place of honor, with herself to his right and, surprisingly, Marianne's empty chair to his left.
"I invited her," Mrs. Morrison explained, "but she always says no. Something about needing to prepare tomorrow’s bread."
"At seven in the evening?"
"Oh, she starts the dough the night before. Very dedicated to her craft, our Marianne."
"Our Marianne?" Alaric repeated.
"Well, she belongs to the village, doesn't she? We all look after each other here."
This was such an alien concept to Alaric, the idea of belonging to a place, of being looked after by anyone other than paid servants, that he didn't know how to respond.
