"Ah," Marianne said. "She's reinforced it since this morning."
"Is it possible to enter through a window?"
"She's thought of that. Thomas tried it last year and found mistletoe tied to the windowsill."
"The woman is a menace."
"She's a romantic. There's a difference."
"Yes, romantics are more dangerous. Menaces at least have predictable motivations."
Marianne pushed open the door, ducking expertly under the mistletoe. Alaric attempted to follow but was immediately accosted by a woman who could only be Mrs. Morrison; a formidable lady of middle years with the determined expression of someone who had married off three daughters and was looking for new projects.
"A new face!" she exclaimed with alarming enthusiasm. "And such a handsome one! Marianne, you didn't tell me you were bringing gentleman callers."
"He's not a caller, Mrs. Morrison. This is Mr. Fletcher, the duke's new steward."
Mrs. Morrison's eyes lit up with an unholy gleam. "The new steward! How wonderful! And so tall! You know, Marianne, tall men make excellent..."
"Mrs. Morrison," Marianne interrupted firmly, "Mr. Fletcher needs a room for tonight. The hall isn't ready for habitation."
"Of course, of course! Our best room! It has a lovely view of the village square, perfect for watching all the Christmas preparations."
"How delightful," Alaric said in a tone that suggested it was anything but.
"And will you be staying long, Mr. Fletcher?" Mrs. Morrison asked, already seeming to be calculating something that Alaric suspected involved mistletoe and strategic ambush tactics.
"That remains to be seen."
"Oh, but you must stay for the fair! It's in three days, and it's the social event of the season. Everyone attends. Everyone." She emphasized this last word while looking meaningfully at Marianne, who had suddenly become very interested in a spot on the floor.
"I'll certainly consider it," Alaric said, which in duke-speak meant 'absolutely not' but probably translated differently in whatever language Mrs. Morrison spoke.
"Wonderful! I'll prepare the room immediately. Marianne, dear, why don't you show Mr. Fletcher to the private parlor? He must be frozen."
Before either of them could protest, Mrs. Morrison had bustled off, moving with the purposeful stride of a woman on a matrimonial mission.
"I apologize," Marianne said once she was out of earshot. "She means well, but she's been trying to marry me off for the past two years."
"And you're resistant to her efforts?"
"I'm resistant to her choices. Last month she tried to set me up with a traveling man who she insisted had 'kind eyes.' He also had three teeth of his own and breath that could strip paint."
"The kind eyes must have been a comfort."
"Oh certainly. I was thinking of them while I climbed out the kitchen window to escape."
She led him to a small parlor that was, predictably, decorated within an inch of its life with Christmas paraphernalia. Garlands, ribbons, candles, and what appeared to be an army of tiny knitted angels covered every available surface.
"It's like Christmas exploded in here," Alaric observed.
“This is actually restrained for Mrs. Morrison. You should see her private rooms. She even insisted last year to put mistletoe in church.”
"And people say London society is strange."
Marianne smiled, settling into a chair by the fire with an ease that suggested she was familiar with this room. "London society is strange in boring ways. All those rules about who can talk to whom and when you can wear what color gloves. Here, we're strange in interesting ways."
Alaric found himself sitting down across from her, which he hadn't intended to do. He'd meant to excuse himself, find Grimsby, and organize his temporary accommodation with minimal fuss. Instead, he was sitting by a fire talking to a flour-dusted widow about Christmas decorations.
