Alaric leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. "Sometimes, Grimsby, I suspect you take pleasure in my discomfort."
"Never, Your Grace. I merely anticipate it with remarkable accuracy."
The journey north proceeded with the sort of monotonous efficiency that Alaric preferred. They changed horses at Hatfield, where the innkeeper's wife attempted to press a mince pie upon him "for the journey, Your Grace, made with my own hands just this morning." Alaric regarded the pie with the same expression he might have worn if offered a small explosive device.
"Madam, I appreciate the gesture, but I make it a policy never to accept baked goods from strangers."
"But Your Grace, it's Christmas!"
"So I am repeatedly informed. The answer remains no."
The woman retreated, clutching her pie and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "unnatural." Alaric was not offended. He had been called far worse by far more distinguished persons.
"That was somewhat harsh, Your Grace," Grimsby observed as they resumed their journey.
"Was it? I thought I was rather polite. I didn't mention that her establishment smells like cabbage and disappointed dreams."
"The very soul of discretion, Your Grace."
They continued north as the morning gave way to afternoon, the landscape gradually shifting from the tamed prettiness of the Home Counties to something wilder, more honest. Alaric had always preferred the north. It didn't pretend to be anything other than what it was; harsh, unforgiving, and utterly disinterested in one's comfort or consequence.
"Look, Your Grace," Grimsby said, gesturing toward the window. "Snow."
Indeed, the threatened snow had finally begun to fall, fat white flakes that seemed in no particular hurry to reach the ground. They drifted past the window with lazy grace, already beginning to dust the hedgerows and fields.
"How picturesque," Alaric said in a tone that suggested he found it anything but. "No doubt someone will compose a poem about it. 'Ode to Frozen Precipitation' or some such nonsense."
"I believe Your Grace once wrote poetry."
"I was seventeen and in love with my tutor's daughter. We all make mistakes in youth. The key is not to repeat them in maturity."
"What happened to the young lady, if I may ask?"
"She married and had six children. I received a letter last Christmas informing me that she names her chickens after Romantic poets. Apparently, Wordsworth produces exceptional eggs."
"A narrow escape, Your Grace."
"Indeed. Can you imagine? I might have been married to a woman who anthropomorphises poultry."
The snow grew heavier as they traveled, transforming the landscape into something from a children's story—all soft edges and mysterious shadows. Alaric watched it with deep suspicion. Snow, in his experience, was nature's way of making everything more difficult while pretending to make it more beautiful. Rather like Christmas itself, come to think of it.
"Are you certain Fletcher is expecting us, Your Grace?" Grimsby asked as they paused to rest the horses at a posting inn near Leicester.
"I sent word three weeks ago. Though given his recent correspondence, or lack thereof, I'm not entirely certain he can read. His last letter contained more ink blots than words and seemed to suggest that the entire east wing had been invaded by moths or goths. His handwriting left the matter unclear."
"Perhaps he meant guests, Your Grace."
"At Hollingford? Who would guest at Hollingford? It's three hours from the nearest proper town and the last time I visited, which was many years ago, the most exciting local entertainment was watching the blacksmith shoe horses."
"Rural communities often have their own diversions, Your Grace."
"Yes, I'm familiar with rural diversions. They generally involve either alcohol, violence, or livestock, and sometimes an unfortunate combination of all three."
The inn at Leicester proved to be slightly more sophisticated than their previous stop, though the innkeeper still felt compelled to offer them what he called "traditional Christmas cheer," which appeared to be a cup of something that smelled like paint thinner mixed with cinnamon.
"For the cold, Your Grace," the man said, beaming as though he'd offered liquid gold.
Alaric accepted the cup, took the smallest possible sip, and managed not to visibly recoil. "Fascinating. What do you call this beverage?"
