"They're defending my honour."
"Your honour needs better soldiers. These ones are crumbly."
Marianne laughed, the sound bright and warm in the cold morning air, and Alaric felt something in his chest tighten. This was dangerous. This was very, very dangerous. He was lying in the snow with a provincial baker's widow on top of him, covered in pastry, and all he could think about was how her laugh made him want to make her laugh again.
"We really should get up," Marianne said, though she still hadn't moved.
"Yes."
"People will be waking soon."
"Undoubtedly."
"This will be the talk of the village for months."
"Years, probably."
"Decades if Mrs. Morrison has her way."
"Centuries. They'll build a monument. 'Here lies where the duke's steward was assassinated by pies.'"
"That's a terrible monument inscription."
"I'm open to suggestions."
"'Here lies where Marianne Whitby finally lost the last shred of her reputation.'"
"That's rather long for a plaque."
"Fine. 'Here lies where everything went wrong.'"
"Pessimistic."
"Realistic."
"Is it though?" The question slipped out before he could stop it, loaded with more meaning than he'd intended.
Marianne went very still, looking at him with an expression he couldn't read. "Mr. Fletcher..."
"Marianne Whitby, what on earth are you doing?"
They both turned their heads to see Mrs. Morrison standing in the inn doorway, fully dressed despite the hour, looking like Christmas had come early and brought her the gift of premium gossip.
"Good morning, Mrs. Morrison," Marianne called with admirable calm for someone in her position. "I've had a small accident."
"That's not what it looks like from here!"
"What does it look like from there?"
"It looks like you're embracing Mr. Fletcher in the street!"
"I'm not embracing him. I'm... positioned above him. Temporarily. Due to gravity."
"Gravity doesn't usually require such close positioning!"
"It does when ice is involved."
"I see no ice!"
