"This one does. Look at it!"
Alaric studied the tree in question, noting the particularly symmetrical arrangement of its branches and the density of its needles. It would, he had to admit, make excellent Christmas decoration.
"I'll get it," he said, surprising himself.
"You'll climb the tree?" Marianne asked, skepticism evident.
"How hard can it be? Thomas managed it."
"Thomas is twelve and part squirrel."
"I'm thirty-two and part... determined."
"Part what now?"
"I'm still working on the analogy."
"Part fool, more like," Mr. Ironwell muttered, but he was grinning.
Alaric approached the tree, studying its structure. He hadn't climbed a tree since he was a boy, and even then, it had been the carefully maintained trees in Hyde Park, not wild pines in a winter forest. But the principle was the same, surely. Find handholds, don't look down, don't fall.
The first few feet were easy enough. The branches were sturdy and well-spaced, and his height was actually an advantage. But as he climbed higher, the branches became thinner, more flexible, and covered in snow that made everything slippery.
"You're doing well!" Marianne called up, and he could hear the surprise in her voice.
"Did you expect me to fail immediately?"
"I expected you to refuse to try."
"I'm full of surprises."
"That's one way to put it."
Chapter 8
He reached for the branch Thomas had indicated, which was indeed perfect—thick with needles, beautifully shaped, and just the right size. He pulled out the saw he'd been given and began cutting, trying to ignore the way the tree swayed with his movements.
"Careful, Mr. Fletcher!" Marianne called. "That branch is supporting..."
The warning came too late. The branch he was standing on, weakened by the redistribution of weight as he cut, gave way with a sharp crack. Alaric had a moment of perfect clarity, enough time to think "Oh, no" but not enough to do anything about it, before he found himself falling.
He hit several branches on the way down, each impact spinning him in a different direction, before landing flat on his back in a snowbank with a thump that drove all air from his lungs. The pine bough he'd been cutting landed on his chest a moment later, like a festive insult to injury.
For a moment, everything was silent. Then Marianne's face appeared above him, haloed by winter sunlight and trying very hard not to laugh.
"Are you injured?" she asked, her voice trembling with suppressed mirth.
"Only my dignity," he wheezed, still trying to recover his breath.
"Your dignity was injured already. This is more of a fatal blow."
"Thank you for that compassionate assessment."
"You're welcome. Can you move?"
"I'm choosing not to. I live here now. In this snowbank. With my pine bough."
"That seems impractical."
