A collective groan went up from the assembled villagers, but they began the slow process of reversing the star's journey.
"While they're sorting that out," Marianne said, turning back to him, "you should probably know that Mr. Fletcher, the previous Mr. Fletcher, not you Mr. Fletcher, left rather suddenly about a month ago."
"Well, yes he is a distant cousin of mine, but you say he has left without saying anything?"
"In the middle of the night, apparently. Took two silver candlesticks and the good brandy from the hall's cellar."
"How enterprising of him."
"That's one word for it. We've been managing things ourselves since then, waiting for the duke to send someone." She studied him with those dangerous coffee eyes. "I suppose you're that someone."
"It would appear so."
"Well, Mr. Fletcher, and it is strange calling you that when I've only just gotten used to the previous Mr. Fletcher being gone, you should know that we've organized the Christmas fair without any help from the estate. We couldn't very well cancel it just because our steward turned out to be a thief."
"Heaven forbid Christmas be canceled."
She tilted her head, studying him. "You don't approve of Christmas, do you?"
"What gives you that impression?"
"Oh, just the way you say 'Christmas' like it's a particularly unpleasant medical condition."
"I prefer to think of it as a form of collective hysteria."
"How romantic. Do you also disapprove of birthdays and sunshine?"
"Birthdays are merely reminders of one's inevitable mortality, and sunshine in December is suspicious."
She laughed again, that bright, surprising sound. "Oh dear. You're going to be absolutely miserable here, aren't you? We take Christmas very seriously in Hollingford."
"So I'm beginning to gather. Is it always this..." he gestured vaguely at the controlled chaos around them, "enthusiastic?"
"This? This is nothing. Wait until you see when we start the actual fair preparations. We have competitions, Mr. Fletcher.Competitive carol singing. Aggressive mince pie baking. Last year, Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Hartley nearly came to blows over the gingerbread house contest."
"Physical violence over gingerbread. How festive."
"Mrs. Martin accused Mrs. Hartley of using non-traditional icing. It was quite the scandal."
"I'm sure the London papers were devastated to have missed it."
"Mock all you like, but our Christmas fair is the highlight of the year. People come from three villages over."
"Three entire villages. However do you manage the crowds?"
"With difficulty and strategic placement of mulled wine stations." She paused, seeming to really look at him for the first time. "You must be freezing. And I'm keeping you standing in the snow while furniture-sized stars are being redirected. Where are you staying?"
"I had intended to go directly to the hall."
"The hall?" She looked genuinely shocked. "But it's been closed up for a month. No fires, no aired rooms, and I'm fairly certain Mrs. Appleby, the housekeeper, has been staying with her sister in York since Mr. Fletcher disappeared."
This was getting better and better. "I see. And the other servants?"
"What other servants? There's only ever been Mrs. Appleby and Thomas, the groundskeeper, and he's older than the foundation stones. The duke hasn't exactly been generous with the household budget."
Alaric felt a flash of indignation on his own behalf before remembering that he was, theoretically, not himself. "Perhaps there's an inn?"
"The Laughing Sheep. It's just there." She pointed to a building whose sign featured a sheep that did indeed appear to be laughing, though possibly it was just having some sort of seizure. "Mrs. Morrison runs it. Fair warning though—she's already Christmas mad and it's only December fifteenth."
