"They do in Mrs. Morrison's version. She's also added violins."
"Where would violins come from at four-thirty in the morning?"
"Mysterious musical providence, apparently. The story has taken on somewhat biblical proportions."
Before Alaric could respond to this ridiculous elaboration of an already embarrassing incident, there was a knock at the door. Not the tentative knock of a servant or the apologetic knock of someone bearing bad news, but a confident, purposeful knock that somehow managed to convey both authority and amusement.
"Come in," Alaric called, hastily straightening his cravat and attempting to look like he'd been productively reviewing accounts rather than mooning over a baker like some lovesick poet.
The door opened to reveal Marianne Whitby, dressed in a practical dark green dress that had seen better days butsomehow made her look like she belonged in a forest grove, ready to command an army of Christmas elves. She carried a rolled parchment in one hand and wore an expression that suggested she was about to enjoy herself immensely at his expense.
"Mr. Fletcher," she said, with a smile that made his concentration issues significantly worse. "I hope I'm not interrupting your very important steward duties."
"Not at all. I was just reviewing the fascinating world of agricultural accounts. Did you know that the eastern field produced thirty percent less barley than projected? Riveting stuff."
"I'm sure it is. Though given that the eastern field has been growing wheat for the past five years, I'm curious about this mysterious barley."
Alaric looked down at the ledger, then back at her. "I meant wheat."
"Of course you did. Just like you meant to have the ledger right-side up?"
He looked down again. The ledger was, indeed, upside down. "I was testing whether the numbers made more sense inverted. Sometimes a fresh perspective reveals hidden patterns."
"And what patterns did you discover?"
"That Fletcher's handwriting is equally illegible from any angle."
She laughed, that bright sound that seemed to make the room warmer, and stepped fully into the room. Grimsby, with his impeccable sense of timing, excused himself with a bow that managed to convey both respect and the suggestion that his master was doomed.
"I've brought you something," Marianne announced, holding up the parchment with the air of someone presenting evidence in a trial.
"Please tell me it's not another apron. I'm not sure my dignity could survive more red ruffles."
"Your dignity barely survived the first set of red ruffles, but no, this is something far more entertaining. Or horrifying, depending on your perspective."
"Why do I suspect those are the same thing in your view?"
"Because you're learning." She unrolled the parchment with a flourish that would have done credit to a royal herald announcing war. "Behold, Mr. Fletcher, the Official Fair Committee's Task List for the Estate Representative."
Alaric stared at the document, which appeared to be less a list and more a novel written in Marianne's surprisingly neat handwriting. It started at the top of the parchment and continued all the way to the bottom, with additions squeezed into the margins and what appeared to be footnotes.
"This is a list?"
"This is your sacred duty as the duke's representative to our humble village."
"This is a death warrant disguised as civic responsibility."
"Don't be dramatic. It's merely a few simple tasks to help prepare for the fair."
"A few simple tasks? Mrs. Whitby, this list includes something called 'Negotiate peace between the warring pudding factions.' What does that even mean?"
"Oh, that! Mrs. Martin insists that proper Christmas pudding must be made with thirteen ingredients, while Mrs. Ironwell maintains that six ingredients are perfectly sufficient for good pudding."
"They're fighting about pudding ingredients?"
"They've been fighting about it for fifteen years. Last year, someone threw brandy butter."
"As a weapon?"
