"It's really not."
"Let him help," Mrs. Morrison said with a grin that suggested she was already composing the story she'd tell at the committee meeting. "It'll be educational."
"Educational for whom?" Marianne asked suspiciously.
"Everyone involved, I'm sure."
Marianne looked from Mrs. Morrison to Alaric, then at the destroyed pies slowly freezing in the snow. "Fine. But if you ruin my kitchen, you're explaining to the committee why there's no breakfast."
"How bad could it be?"
"Famous last words, Mr. Fletcher."
The bakery was even warmer inside than it had looked from outside, filled with the smells of baking bread and spices. Marianne's mother, a short woman with Marianne's eyes but gray hair, looked up from where she was shaping rolls.
"Marianne, dear, did you...good heavens, what happened to you?"
"I collided with Mr. Fletcher."
"The new steward? How nice. Is he badly injured?"
"I'm standing right here, Mrs. Whitby," Alaric said.
"Oh! I didn't see you there. You're very... tall."
"So I've been told."
"And covered in mincemeat."
"That's a more recent development."
Marianne was already moving through the kitchen with practiced efficiency, pulling down bowls and gathering ingredients. "Mother, Mr. Fletcher has volunteered to help make new pies."
"Has he? How generous. Does he know how to bake?"
"No," Marianne said at the same time Alaric said, "how difficult can it be?"
Both Whitby women exchanged a look that suggested they were about to witness something entertaining.
"Right," Marianne said, tying a fresh apron around her waist and then pulling another from a hook. "Put this on."
The apron was clearly made for someone much shorter and rounder than Alaric. It was also red. With ruffles.
"This is your revenge, isn't it?"
"This is protection for your clothing. The revenge comes later."
"What form will this revenge take?"
"Depends on how badly you ruin my pies."
He put on the apron. It looked exactly as ridiculous as he'd expected. The ruffles were particularly offensive.
"You look very pretty, Mr. Fletcher," Mrs. Whitby senior said with a perfectly straight face.
"Thank you. I've always felt red was my colour."
Marianne snorted, then tried to cover it with a cough. "Right. First, wash your hands."
