"My technique isn't that complicated."
"Everything is complicated when done well."
"That's very philosophical for bread-making."
"My tutors at..." he caught himself, "...my tutors were fond of finding philosophy in everything."
"Your tutors sound exhausting."
"They were... thorough."
"Where did you receive this thorough education? You speak like someone from Oxford or Cambridge."
Dangerous territory. "My father believed in education above station. He worked for a man who insisted his staff be well-educated." Not entirely a lie—his father had indeed insisted on the best education, just not for a steward's son.
"Progressive of him."
"He had his moments."
Marianne handed him an apron—not the red ruffled one from before, but a plain white one that actually fit. "Right, let's see if you remember anything from the last lesson."
She showed him again how to mix the ingredients, how to bring the dough together, how to turn it out onto the floured surface. This time, he paid attention to her hands rather than her face, which helped his concentration considerably.
"Better," she said as he began kneading. "You're not attacking it this time."
"I've learned that dough responds poorly to aggression."
"Most things do."
"Tell that to the Christmas geese."
"The geese are a special case. They respond poorly to everything."
His hands were already beginning to ache from the unfamiliar work, but there was something soothing about the rhythm of it, the push and fold and turn. Marianne worked beside him on her own batch, and they fell into a companionable silence broken only by the storm outside and Mrs. Whitby senior humming as she shaped rolls.
"Your hands," Marianne said suddenly, then seemed to catch herself.
"What about them?"
"Nothing. I just... they're very smooth for someone who works on an estate."
Alaric looked at his hands; pale, uncallused, the hands of someone who held a pen more often than a plow. "I've been doing more administrative work recently. Ledgers don't cause calluses."
"No, I suppose they don't." But she was still looking at his hands with a slight frown.
To distract her, he asked, "how long have you been baking?"
"Since I could reach the counter standing on a stool. So... twenty-five years, give or take."
"You started young."
"Everyone starts young in a bakery family. Thomas's been helping since he was five."
"Thomas's?"
"Thomas Ironwell. He's just adopted me as a secondary mother. His actual mother is lovely but somewhat scattered. I provide structure and fresh bread."
"And wisdom about geese warfare."
