"It's the only answer that matters."
Before he could argue, Mrs. Whitby senior appeared, full of morning energy and apparently oblivious to the tension in the room.
"Mr. Fletcher! You survived the night. Excellent. I was worried you might freeze, but Marianne says the ovens kept you warm enough."
"More than adequate," he said, and caught Marianne's small smile at his choice of words.
"Good, good. Now, breakfast, then you can help with the storm cleanup. The whole village will be out. It's tradition after a big blow—everyone helps everyone. Even the duke himself would be expected to help if he were here."
"Would he?" Alaric asked, curious despite himself.
"Oh yes. The old duke, the current one's father, he was useless at it but he tried. Spent one memorable storm aftermath trying to nail boards and hit his thumb so many times the physician had to bandage it. But he tried, which is more than his son has ever done."
"Mother," Marianne said in a warning tone.
"What? It's true. The boy, well, he's not a boy anymore, must be past thirty now, he's never once helped with anything. Never shown his face, never checked on his tenants, never participated in the life of the village his family has owned for two hundred years."
"Perhaps he has reasons," Alaric said quietly.
"Everyone has reasons. The difference is whether we let those reasons become excuses."
It was like being scolded by his own mother, if his mother had lived long enough to scold his adult self. He felt ashamed and defensive in equal measure.
"You're right," he said finally. "Reasons shouldn't become excuses."
Mrs. Whitby senior looked at him approvingly. "You're a good man, Mr. Fletcher. The duke is lucky to have you."
If only she knew, Alaric thought.
After breakfast, which was awkward with Marianne being overly polite and her mother being overly observant, they ventured out to see the storm's aftermath.
The village looked like it had been buried in white. Snow reached the windows of some buildings, and various Christmas decorations were either destroyed or relocated to improbable places. A garland hung from the church weather vane, and what appeared to be part of Mrs. Martin's Christmas cathedral had somehow ended up on the bakery roof.
"How did that get there?" Alaric asked, staring at the large wooden star perched at an angle on Marianne's chimney.
"Wind does strange things," Marianne said.
The entire village was indeed out, working together to clear paths, repair damage, and salvage what they could of the fair preparations. It was organized chaos, with the land steward directing efforts like a general commanding troops.
"Mr. Fletcher!" he called. "Good to see you survived! We need tall people for the garland recovery mission."
"Garland recovery?"
"The high street garlands are in the trees. All of them. It looks like the forest is decorated for Christmas."
Alaric spent the morning climbing trees to retrieve garlands, helping to rebuild vendor stalls, and shoveling more snow than he'd thought possible. The physical labor was exhausting but oddly satisfying. People worked together without complaint, sharing tools and labor and occasional flasks of something warming.
Marianne worked alongside everyone else, directing and helping in equal measure. They moved around each other carefully, politely, maintaining a proper distance that felt entirely wrong after the intimacy of the previous evening.
"You're being weird," Thomas announced, appearing at Alaric's elbow while he was wrestling with a particularly stubborn garland.
"I'm being helpful."
"You're being weird with Mrs. Whitby. You keep looking at each other when you think the other's not looking."
"That's not true."
"You're doing it right now."
