"Fair enough. We all have our secrets."
They sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the storm and the crack of the fire. The brandy was doing its work, making everything softer around the edges, lowering the careful guards they both maintained.
"Can I ask you something?" Marianne said eventually.
"You've been asking me things all evening."
"Something serious."
"As opposed to the lighthearted discussion of my dining posture?"
"Mr. Fletcher." Her voice had changed and had become softer. "Why do you really hate Christmas?"
"I don't hate..."
"Please. Don't deflect. Not tonight. There's something about a blizzard that makes honesty seem more important than politeness."
Alaric stared into his brandy, watching the firelight play through the amber liquid. "My mother loved Christmas. Desperately, determinedly loved it, even when there was nothing to love."
"What do you mean?"
"My father would leave every December. Business, he said, though everyone knew it was his mistress. Mother would pretend everything was fine, decorate the entire house, organize celebrations, sing carols while..." he paused, the brandy making him more honest than was safe, "while crying. She thought I couldn't see, but I could. She'd sing 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' with tears streaming down her face."
"Oh, Mr. Fletcher."
"Edmund," he said without thinking, then caught himself. His middle name, safer than Alaric. "My name is Edmund."
"Edmund." She tested the name. "How old were you?"
"Eight when I really understood what was happening. Nine when she died."
"And Christmas became associated with that pain."
"Christmas became a reminder that people pretend. That they perform happiness while suffering, that they create elaborate facades to hide unbearable truths."
"That's one way to see it."
"What other way is there?"
Marianne was quiet for a moment, swirling her brandy. "My first Christmas after William died was the worst day of my life. Worse than his funeral, somehow. Because at the funeral, everyone expected grief. But at Christmas, I was supposed to be grateful, joyful, celebratory. I burned everything I baked for three weeks. Literally charcoal. Mother had to take over the bakery because I couldn't stop crying long enough to measure flour."
"But you seem to love Christmas now."
"I chose to. Not because I felt it, but because the alternative was letting grief win. I decided that creating joy, even when I didn't feel it, was an act of defiance against despair."
"That seems like another form of pretending."
"No. Pretending is lying about what you feel. What I'm talking about is creating something despite what you feel. Your mother wasn't pretending to love Christmas—she really did love it. The fact that she could love it even through her pain makes it more real, not less."
"I never thought of it that way."
"You were nine. Nine-year-old children don't have much experience with complex emotions."
"I suppose not."
"But you're not nine now."
"No," he agreed. "Though sometimes I feel like I stopped growing emotionally at that age. Like I decided feelings were too dangerous and simply... opted out."
