"It's useful."
"What do you observe about me?"
The question caught him off-guard. "What?"
"You've been observing me all evening. What do you see?"
He should have deflected, made a jest, changed the subject. Instead, he found himself answering honestly.
"I see someone who holds everyone together while letting no one hold her. I see someone who makes everyone else's problems her responsibility while never asking for help with her own. I see someone who's so busy being strong that she's forgotten it's all right to be tired."
Marianne stared at him, her eyes wide. "That's... that's not observation. That's mind-reading."
"It's pattern recognition. You do the same thing my..." He caught himself. "The same thing I've seen in others who've lost someone important. You fill every moment with activity so you don't have to think about the empty spaces."
"And what would you know about loss, Mr. Fletcher?"
"More than you might think."
They stood there, the snow falling between them like a curtain, separating them from the warm, noisy world of the inn.
"I should go," Marianne said finally. "Early morning, bread to bake, empty spaces to avoid filling."
"Marianne..."
"Goodnight, Mr. Fletcher. Thank you for helping with the star."
She was gone before he could respond, disappearing into the snowy night with the efficiency of someone who knew exactly how to escape uncomfortable conversations.
Alaric stood in the garden a while longer, snow gathering on his shoulders, wondering what exactly he thought he was doing. He'd come here to review ledgers and fix problems, not to notice how widows tucked their hair or to have deeply personal conversations in snowy gardens.
"Your Grace."
He turned to find Grimsby, holding an umbrella and looking even more disapproving than usual.
"Are you planning to freeze to death, Your Grace? It would be inconvenient for the estate."
"Always thinking of the estate, Grimsby."
"Someone has to, Your Grace."
They walked back through the inn, where the dancing had reached levels of enthusiasm that bordered on violence. Alaricglimpsed Mr. Ironwell spinning his wife with such vigor that nearby furniture was in danger.
"They seem happy," he observed.
"Simple pleasures for simple people, Your Grace."
"There's nothing simple about these people, Grimsby."
"No, Your Grace?"
"They're remarkably complex. Frustratingly so."
"If you say so."
"I do say so."
"Then it must be true, Your Grace."
