"As another argument. It was very sticky."
Alaric read further down the list, his expression growing increasingly incredulous. "Test the structural integrity of the dance platform? What am I supposed to do, jump on it?"
"Dancing would be the traditional method, but jumping works too. Mr. Ironwell tested it last year by attempting a jig. The resulting collapse is why we have a new platform this year."
"So you want me to potentially destroy another platform?"
"Only if it's structurally unsound. Better to find out now than during the actual dancing when it would take half the village down with it."
"Fetch pine boughs from Wickham Wood—the tall ones. Why specifically the tall ones?"
"The short ones are within Mrs. Martin's reach, and she's already claimed them all for her personal garland empire. She's building something she calls a 'Christmas cathedral' in her front garden. It's either going to be magnificent or violate several laws of physics."
"Supervise the hanging of HIGH street garlands. Why is 'high' in capital letters?"
"Because last year someone, and by someone I mean Mr. Martin after several brandies, hung them at head height. The vicar ran full tilt into a low-hanging one and spent the rest of December speaking in whispers."
"Judge the children's choir practice?"
"Someone has to tell little Timothy Ironwell that enthusiasm doesn't compensate for tone-deafness."
"Sample all competition pies for poison?"
"I added that one just now. You seemed to survive this morning's batch, so you're clearly qualified."
"Catch the escaped Christmas geese? The geese have escaped?"
"They escape every year. It's tradition at this point. They're probably plotting their break as we speak."
"Mediate the annual Martin-Ironwell garland dispute? Is this different from the pudding dispute?"
"Completely different. The garland dispute is about density versus artistic arrangement. The pudding dispute has other implications. Do try to keep up."
Alaric set down the list and looked at her with a combination of horror and reluctant admiration. "You're enjoying this immensely, aren't you?"
"I'm enjoying watching your expression as you realize what you've gotten yourself into by pretending to be a helpful steward, yes."
"I'm not pretending to be helpful. I'm actually helpful. I helped with the star."
"You stood about making observations about physics while Mr. Ironwell became a tree ornament."
"I also helped with the pies this morning."
"You created an adhesive substance that I'm still trying to remove from my work surface. That's the opposite of helpful."
"I provided entertainment?"
"You provided chaos in an already chaotic situation, which is actually somewhat impressive."
"So you were impressed?"
"I was impressed by your ability to get flour and butter on the ceiling. I'm still not sure how you managed that."
"Natural talent?"
"For destruction, certainly."
Alaric picked up the list again, reading more carefully. Some of the tasks seemed genuinely necessary—chopping wood for the bonfire, helping to construct vendor stalls, organizing the distribution of donated food to the poor. Others seemed designed specifically to humiliate whoever held the position of estate steward.
