They burst out of the woods and into the field beyond, where the deeper snow slowed both pursuers and pursued. Admiral Feathers stopped at the forest edge, apparently satisfied with having defended his territory, and let out a honk of victory.
"Did we just get routed by geese?" Alaric asked, breathing hard.
"Tactically withdrawn," Marianne corrected, also panting. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"It sounds better."
They looked at each other, covered in snow and pine needles, breathless from their undignified retreat, and simultaneously burst out laughing. Not polite laughter or restrained chuckles, but full, helpless laughter that left them both gasping.
"Your face," Marianne managed between giggles, "when Admiral Feathers charged..."
"Your strategic withdrawal technique needs work. You nearly pushed me into a tree."
"I was saving you from the geese!"
"By attempting to give me a severe blow to the head?"
"Better that than death by waterfowl."
"My obituary would have been interesting at least."
"'Here lies Mr. Fletcher, defeated by Christmas poultry.'"
"'He died as he lived—covered in pine needles and confusion.'"
They were still laughing when they reached the village, where their disheveled appearance and obvious mirth drew curious looks from various villagers. Mrs. Morrison was standing outside the inn and immediately bustled over.
"What happened to you two? You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backward!"
"We were attacked by the Christmas geese," Marianne explained.
"Again? Those birds are a menace. Though you both seem to have enjoyed it."
"We did not enjoy being chased by geese," Alaric protested.
"You're both laughing."
"Hysteria," Marianne suggested. "Post-goose-trauma hysteria."
"That's not a real condition."
"It should be."
"Well, regardless, you're just in time. We need someone to test the dance platform, and since Mr. Fletcher is already disheveled, he might as well risk further indignity."
"I haven't agreed to test anything," Alaric said.
"It's on the list," Marianne reminded him, producing the now-somewhat-crumpled parchment from her pocket. "See? Right there between 'sample pies for poison' and 'mediate pudding dispute.'"
"I could do the pie sampling instead."
"After this morning's baking disaster? I think not. Platform testing is safer."
"Safer for whom?"
"The pies."
