She looked from him to the star, then back to him, her expression cycling through annoyance, calculation, and finally, grudging acceptance.
"Well then, what would you suggest, Mr...?"
"Fletcher," he said, surprising himself. But something about admitting he was the Duke of Wexmere while standing in a snowstorm arguing about Christmas decorations seemed absurd even by his standards. "And I would suggest taking it back the way it came and going around the long way."
"The long way adds an hour, and we're losing light."
"Then perhaps you should have considered the logistics before attempting to move a barn-sized star through a space better suited to a reasonably sized cow."
Her eyes narrowed. "Are you always this helpful, Mr. Fletcher, or is this a special performance for the holidays?"
"I consider it my Christmas gift to the village. Free practical advice, delivered with only mild condescension."
Despite herself, he could see her fighting it, her lips twitched toward a smile. "How generous. I suppose next you'll tell me the tree is too tall and the garlands are hung inefficiently."
"The tree is actually perfectly proportioned for the space, though whoever is decorating it appears to be drunk. The garlands, however, are a fire hazard."
"A fire hazard?"
"Too close to the lanterns. One good wind and you'll have very festive kindling."
She stared at him for a moment, then laughed—a bright, unexpected sound that seemed to cut through the cold. "Oh wonderful. We've acquired a practical critic just in time for the fair. How delightful for everyone."
"I do try to spread joy wherever I go."
"Like a festive plague."
"Exactly like that, indeed."
This time her smile broke free entirely, transforming her face from merely pretty to something that made Alaric's chest do an odd stuttering thing he chose to attribute to the cold.
"Marianne Whitby," she said, extending a hand as though they weren't standing in a snowstorm surrounded by stuck Christmas decorations and increasingly vocal villagers.
He took her hand automatically, noting that despite the December cold, it was warm and callused; a hand that did real work. "A pleasure, Miss Whitby."
"Mrs. Whitby, actually. Or it was. I'm a widow." She said it matter-of-factly, without the dramatic pause he'd come to expect from society widows.
"My condolences."
"Thank you, though it was three years ago. I've had time to adjust. Now, Mr. Fletcher, since you're so clever about spatial relations, perhaps you'd like to help us actually solve this problem instead of simply critiquing it?"
"I should point out that I have my own transportation concerns." He gestured toward his carriage, which was now attracting considerable attention from the villagers.
"That's a right fancy carriage," someone called out. "Is the duke finally coming for Christmas?"
Marianne's expression shifted to something almost wistful. "The Duke of Wexmere? No, he never comes. Hasn't been here since his mother passed."
"Quite a lot of years," Alaric admitted without thinking, then caught himself. "Or so I've heard."
Marianne gave him a curious look. "You seem well-informed about our absent landlord."
"I'm his new steward. He sent me to review the estate." The lie came surprisingly easily, though Grimsby, still in the carriage, was probably having palpitations.
"Oh!" Marianne's entire demeanor shifted, becoming somehow both more formal and more frustrated. "Well, that explains the fancy carriage, I suppose. Though you might have announced yourself properly instead of standing about criticizing our decorations."
"In my defense, I've been in your village for exactly seven minutes, five of which have been spent discussing the geometric impossibilities of your star."
"Fair point." She turned back to the crowd. "Right, everyone! Mr. Fletcher's correct, so we'll need to go back and around. Yes, I know it's longer, but unless someone's brought a saw and feels like explaining to the land steward why we destroyed the star, it's our only option."
