"The gate was three feet to your left."
"The fence was more direct."
"The fence was more cowardly."
"Grimsby, has anyone ever told you that you're occasionally insubordinate?"
"Daily, Your Grace. Usually by you. And typically when I'm being particularly accurate about Your Grace's emotional state."
Before Alaric could respond to this piece of impertinence, there was a knock at the door.
Grimsby opened the door to reveal Thomas Ironwell, looking harried and covered in what appeared to be tinsel.
"Mr. Fletcher, sir, you're needed immediately at the church because Mrs. Whitby says the garlands are all wrong and she needs someone tall to fix them, and also rational because everyone else is being what she calls 'aggressively festive' about the decoration placement."
"Aggressively festive?"
"Mrs. Martin wants to create what she's calling a 'garland waterfall' from the altar, and the vicar's having some sort of crisis about it, and Mrs. Whitby said to fetch you because you're the only person who can reach the high points without a ladder and also the only person who might be able to explain to Mrs. Martin why garland waterfalls in churches might be considered a bad idea."
"Why would I be able to explain that?"
"She said you have a talent for making the ridiculous sound reasonable through the strategic use of long words."
"That's... actually fairly accurate."
"She also said if you try to hide behind that newspaper again, she'll come fetch you herself and it will be, and I quote, 'significantly less dignified than coming voluntarily.'"
"She saw me reading the newspaper?"
"The entire village saw you reading the newspaper, sir. You were holding it in front of your face while walking through the square yesterday. You nearly walked into the memorial horse trough."
"I was absorbed in an article."
"You walked into a tree."
"It was a very absorbing article."
"The tree disagreed. Anyway, Mrs. Whitby says you have ten minutes before she comes to get you, and she mentioned something about still having that red apron if you need additional motivation."
The threat of the red apron was apparently sufficient, because Alaric found himself following Thomas through the village streets, which were in a state of controlled chaos that suggested the fair was both imminent and possibly impossible. Vendors were setting up stalls, children were running about with ribbons and bells, and someone had dressed the bronze turnip in a small Santa hat, which somehow made it even more absurd.
"It's madness," Alaric observed.
"It's Christmas Eve," Thomas replied, as if this explained everything. "Oh, and Mr. Fletcher? Fair warning—Lord Dupont arrived this morning. Early. He's staying at the Jennings' place because the inn's full, but he's been wandering around asking questions."
"Questions?"
"About the fair, mostly, but also about you. He seems to think he knows you from somewhere."
Alaric felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. Lord Dupont was one of his father's old friends, someone who'd known Alaric since childhood. If Dupont saw him properly, recognition would be instant and inevitable.
"Where is he now?"
"Last I saw, Mrs. Morrison had trapped him near the mistletoe at the inn somewhere and was interrogating him about London society. He looked rather frightened."
"Mrs. Morrison has that effect on people."
"She has that effect on everyone. Even the geese avoid her during her matchmaking moods."
