"Meaning?"
"Meaning she's hung mistletoe in strategic locations and she's not above physically pushing people under it. Last year she trapped the vicar under there for twenty minutes until his wife rescued him."
"Assault by mistletoe. Another charming rural tradition."
"You really don't like Christmas, do you?" She seemed genuinely curious rather than offended.
"Let's say I fail to see the appeal of forced merriment and scheduled joy."
"What about unscheduled joy?"
"That's called alcohol, and I approve of it entirely."
She laughed yet again, and Alaric found himself oddly pleased to be the cause of it. Which was ridiculous. He was the Duke of Wexmere. He didn't care about making random village women laugh. Except apparently he did, because he was already trying to think of something else amusing to say.
"Mr. Fletcher!" A man's voice called out, and for a moment Alaric forgot that was supposed to be him. "The star's free!"
Indeed, the wooden monstrosity had been liberated and was being slowly transported in the opposite direction, like some sort of festive funeral procession.
"Your carriage should be able to get through now," Marianne said. "Though..." She glanced at the sky, where the snow was falling with increasing enthusiasm. "You might want to secure a room quickly. This looks like it's going to get worse before it gets better."
"Your meteorological assessment is noted."
"My meteorological assessment comes from living here for thirty years. When the clouds look like that and the wind comes from the north, we're in for at least a foot, possibly two."
"Marvelous. Trapped in Christmas village by snow. It's like something of a new circle Dante forgot to mention."
"The one where people are forced to decorate trees for eternity?"
"While listening to off-key caroling, yes."
She grinned. "Come on, Mr. Fletcher. Let me introduce you to Mrs. Morrison. If we're lucky, she'll give you the room without mistletoe access."
"And if we're not lucky?"
"Then you'll spend the next week diving around corners to avoid her strategic placement. It's actually quite good exercise."
She started walking toward the inn, apparently assuming he would follow. Which, to his surprise, he did.
"Mrs. Whitby," he called, and she turned back. "What exactly is your role in all this? The fair, I mean."
"Oh, I'm the general coordinator of chaos. Officially, I run the bakery, just there, see the shop with the crooked sign, but somehow I've also become responsible for preventing the village from destroying itself every December."
"And you do this voluntarily?"
"Someone has to. Left to their own devices, they'd hang the garlands upside down and put the tree in the pond."
"That sounds entertainingly disastrous."
"You weren't here for the year they tried. We had to fish it out with boat hooks. The land steward fell in. It was December, so you can imagine how well that went."
"I'm beginning to think your village has a drinking problem."
"Only in December. The rest of the year we're quite sensible."
"How reassuring."
They reached the inn's entrance, where a truly impressive amount of mistletoe hung from the door frame like a festive threat.
