"Dignified icicles."
She shook her head but was smiling as she helped him out of his frozen greatcoat. The bakery was blessedly warm, filled with the heat of the ovens and the smell of baking bread. Mrs. Whitby senior appeared with towels and immediately began fussing over both Thomas and Alaric with the efficiency of someone who'd weathered many storms.
"Sit," she commanded, pushing Alaric toward a chair near the largest oven. "Both of you, sit and warm up before you catch your death."
"This is perfectly adequate, thank you," Alaric said as soon as he sat, then caught himself looking at Marianne's raised eyebrow. The chair was worn, comfortable, and clearly much-used—hardly something that required such formal acknowledgment.
"Adequate?" Marianne repeated. "It's a chair, not a parliamentary seat."
"I meant comfortable. The cold has affected my vocabulary."
"Your vocabulary seems more formal when you're cold. How interesting."
Mrs. Whitby senior handed him a cup of something hot that smelled of apples and cinnamon. "Drink this. It'll warm you from the inside."
"What is it?"
"Cider with a touch of brandy. My mother's recipe."
Alaric took a sip and immediately felt warmth spread through his chest. "This is excellent. The balance of spices is perfect."
"How kind of you to say so," Mrs. Whitby senior said, but she was looking at him oddly. "You speak like someone who knows about such things."
"I've had cider before."
"Yes, but you speak like someone who's had many different kinds and developed opinions about them."
"I... observed carefully during my training. In various houses." That sounded weak even to his own ears.
"Your training must have been very thorough," Marianne said, and there was something in her tone that suggested she wasn't entirely buying his explanation.
Thomas, having warmed up sufficiently, announced he was going home, while adding "before Mum sends out a search party" and headed back into the storm with the fearlessness of youth. This left Alaric alone with the two Whitby women, who were both looking at him with expressions that suggested they found him interesting in ways that had nothing to do with his role as steward.
"Well," Mrs. Whitby senior said, "since you're here and the storm's getting worse, you might as well make yourself useful. Marianne's got the evening baking to do, and an extra pair of hands would be helpful."
"Mother, Mr. Fletcher is a guest."
"Mr. Fletcher is someone who needs to stay warm and busy or he'll sit there brooding about estate management. I can see it in his posture."
"My posture doesn't brood."
"Your posture is currently attempting to maintain perfect dignity while sitting in my kitchen. You sit like someone's about to inspect you."
She wasn't wrong. Alaric forced himself to relax slightly, though years of training made it difficult. Dukes didn't slouch, even when pretending not to be dukes.
"There, that's better. Now, Marianne will teach you to properly knead bread. Last time was a disaster, but everyone deserves a second chance."
"Third chance," Marianne corrected. "The first attempt created glue, the second created abstract art."
"Third time's the charm, then."
The wind howled outside, rattling the windows and occasionally sending drafts that made the candle flames dance. But inside the bakery, it was warm and safe, a bubble of comfort in the midst of meteorological chaos.
Marianne had already begun preparing for tomorrow’s baking, measuring flour and warming water for the dough. She moved with the unconscious grace of someone completely at home in their space, and Alaric found himself watching her perhaps more intently than was strictly proper.
"Are you going to help or just observe?" she asked without turning around.
"I'm studying your technique."
