"Today was a deviation."
"Or today was practice."
Before he could respond, Thomas burst through the door, covered in snow and excitement.
"Mrs. Whitby! Mr. Fletcher! You have to come see! Mrs. Martin's Christmas cathedral collapsed and buried Mr. Martin! He's calling for last rites!"
They rushed outside to find that Mrs. Martin's ambitious architectural project had indeed collapsed, though Mr. Martin was more embarrassed than injured, sitting in a pile of garland and broken timber while his wife alternated between fussing over him and berating his clumsiness.
"I told you not to lean on it!" she was saying.
"You said it was structurally sound!"
"For looking at, not for leaning on!"
"What's the point of a structure you can't lean on?"
"It's art!"
"It's a disaster!"
"It's both," Marianne murmured to Alaric. "The true Hollingford way."
As they helped extract Mr. Martin from the wreckage, Alaric found himself actually laughing at the absurdity of it all. The whole village gathered to offer helpful advice, most of which contradicted the other advice, while Mrs. Martin tried to salvage what she could of her vision.
"You're smiling again," Marianne noted.
"It's becoming a terrible habit."
"Terrible?"
"Definitely. Next I'll be enjoying Christmas carols and developing opinions about garland density."
"Fate worse than death."
"Exactly."
But he was still smiling as he said it, and when Marianne laughed, he realized that maybe, just maybe, three more days in Hollingford wouldn't be the ordeal he'd expected.
It might be something else entirely.
Something that felt dangerously close to magical.
Not that he believed in magic, of course.
But standing there in the village square, surrounded by chaos and Christmas decorations and Marianne's laughter, he could almost understand why other people did.
Chapter 9
"Your Grace appears to be actually accomplishing something with those ledgers, which is either admirable dedication or a sign that something bad is imminent."
Alaric didn't look up from the columns of figures he'd finally managed to make sense of after days of trying. The extent of Fletcher's embezzlement was worse than he'd initially thought—the man had been systematically stealing from both the estate and the tenants for at least two years, possibly longer given how creatively he'd hidden his tracks.
"Fletcher was stealing approximately thirty percent more than I initially calculated," he said, making another notation. "The man was either a criminal genius or the estate's oversight has been criminally negligent."
"Given that Your Grace hasn't visited in years, I would suggest the latter."
"Your support is, as always, overwhelming, Grimsby."
