"Right you are, Your Grace!"
Chapter 2
As they continued their increasingly adventurous journey north, Alaric found himself thinking about Hollingford Hall. He hadn't been lying when he'd told Grimsby the estate had been neglected. His father had never liked the place, too far from London's pleasures he said, and after his mother's death, Alaric had found excuses to avoid it. The memories were too sharp, too tinged with that particular brand of sadness that came from watching someone you loved pretend to be happy.
But the ledgers didn't lie, and something was definitely amiss with the estate's management. Rents were being paid irregularly, repairs seemed to cost twice what they should, and Fletcher's reports had become increasingly vague and increasingly rare. The man was either incompetent or corrupt, and Alaric intended to discover which.
"Your Grace," Grimsby said suddenly, "I believe we're approaching civilization."
Alaric looked out to see lights in the distance; not the grand illumination of a great house, but something smaller, warmer. A village.
"That would be Hollingford village," he said, recognizing the church spire even through the snow. "The hall is another mile beyond."
As they drew closer, however, it became apparent that Hollingford village had been transformed into somethingunrecognizable. Every building was draped in greenery, every window glowed with candlelight, and the entire main street appeared to be one continuous display of Christmas enthusiasm.
"My goodness," Alaric breathed. "It's like a Christmas fever dream."
The village square, which he remembered as a sedate patch of grass with a memorial to some long-forgotten battle, had been converted into what could only be described as a winter wonderland. Stalls were being erected despite the falling snow, an enormous fir tree stood in the center already half-decorated, and the entire population seemed to be out in the streets, hanging lanterns, stringing garlands, and generally behaving as though December was a perfectly reasonable time to be outside in a snowstorm.
"It appears," Grimsby observed with what Alaric considered inappropriate amusement, "that Christmas has indeed found Hollingford."
"This is a disaster."
"Perhaps if Your Grace simply passes through quickly..."
But even as Grimsby spoke, the carriage began to slow. Alaric could hear Bridges calling to the horses, and then they stopped altogether.
"What fresh torment is this?" Alaric muttered, though he was fairly certain he knew. He opened the carriage door to find Bridges looking apologetic and snow-covered.
"Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but there's a bit of a situation."
"Of course there is."
"The road ahead is blocked. Seems they're moving some sort of enormous decoration, looks like a star, Your Grace, made of wood and roughly the size of a small barn, and they've got it stuck between the baker's shop and the inn."
Alaric climbed down from the carriage to better assess this catastrophe. Indeed, an enormous wooden star, painted gold and clearly intended for the top of the Christmas tree, was wedged at an impressive angle between two buildings. A crowd of villagers stood around it, offering helpful suggestions that seemed to mainly consist of "push harder" and "try pulling instead."
"Can we go around?" Alaric asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.
"Not unless Your Grace fancies driving through Mrs. Morrison's front garden, and I'm told she's particular about her roses."
"It's December. She doesn't have roses."
"She's particular about where her roses will be, Your Grace."
A young woman's voice rose above the general chaos: "No, no, no! If you push from that angle, you'll scratch the paint! Thomas, for heaven's sake, mind the gilt work!"
Alaric turned to see who was issuing orders with such authority and found himself observing what he could only describe as organized chaos in human form. The young woman wore a practical wool dress in deep blue that had seen better days, currently decorated with snow, what appeared to be flour, and several pine needles. Her dark hair was coming loose from its pins, creating a somewhat wild halo effect, and her cheeks were pink from cold and exertion. She was standing on a crate, directing the star-moving operation with the intensity of a soldier at war.
"If someone could just...Mr. Ironwell, that's your foot, not the star! Oh for heaven's sake." She jumped down from her crate with surprising grace and marched over to the stuck star. "Right, everyone listen. We're going to need to lift it vertically first, then rotate it forty-five degrees, no, Mr. Martin, your other forty-five degrees, and then we can slide it through."
"That will never work," Alaric found himself saying.
The woman whirled around to face him, and he was struck by eyes the color of coffee with just a hint of cream; warm and slightly dangerous if consumed too quickly.
"I beg your pardon?" she said, in a tone that suggested she did not, in fact, beg anyone's pardon. "And you are?"
"Someone with a basic understanding of geometry. Your star is approximately twelve feet at its widest point. The gap between these buildings is perhaps ten feet. Unless you're planning to temporarily relocate one of the structures, your star isn't going through there."
