"They're abstract," Alaric defended.
"They're certainly something," Thomas agreed. "Can I have one?"
"Take your life in your own hands," Marianne warned.
Thomas grabbed a pie and bit into it. His expression went through several interesting variations before settling on surprise. "It's actually good!"
"Don't sound so shocked," Alaric said.
"But it looks terrible."
"Appearance isn't everything."
"Tell that to the committee. They judge the pie contest on looks too."
"There's a pie contest?" Alaric asked.
"Every Christmas fair," Marianne confirmed. "Very competitive. Last year someone sabotaged Mrs. Ironwell's entry with salt instead of sugar."
"That's dedication."
"That's village politics."
"Same thing, really."
"Spoken like someone who's never experienced real politics."
If only she knew, Alaric thought. He'd sat through enough Parliamentary sessions to know that village pie sabotage was probably more civilized than what happened in the House of Lords.
"I should get these to the inn," Marianne said, beginning to box the acceptable pies. "Before Mrs. Morrison sends a search party."
"I'll help carry them," Alaric offered.
"You've helped enough."
"I could help more."
"My kitchen might not survive."
"Your kitchen is stronger than it looks."
"Unlike your pastry."
"That seems unnecessary."
"But accurate."
Chapter 6
They loaded the pies into boxes, working in companionable silence. The sun was beginning to rise, painting the snow-covered village in shades of pink and gold. Through the window, Alaric could see other shops beginning to open, the village coming alive for another day of Christmas preparation.
"Thank you," Marianne said suddenly.
"For destroying your kitchen?"
"For trying. For being willing to look ridiculous in the name of helping."
"I don't look ridiculous."
