"Oh yes. Brought his son too—the current duke. Though he was young then, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Very serious young man. Looked rather like Montrose, actually. Same dark hair, same austere expression."
"How interesting," Marianne said, and her tone suggested she found it more than interesting. "Mr. Fletcher, you must have known about this Montrose, working for the duke as you do."
"The name's familiar," Alaric said carefully. "There are employment records, of course."
"Of course. Records. You do like your records."
Before the interrogation could continue, Thomas burst in. "Mrs. Whitby! Mr. Fletcher! Crisis! The geese are in the pie tent!"
"Again?" Marianne sighed.
"They're organized this time. Admiral Feathers stationed guards at the entrance while the others raid. It's a military operation!"
"Of course it is." Marianne was already moving. "Mr. Fletcher, we need your help. Unless you're still recovering from your near-death experience?"
"I think I can manage goose warfare."
"Good, because this is going to require strategy. And possibly a net."
They rushed out to find the fair in full swing despite the goose invasion. Stalls lined the square, selling everything from wooden toys to knitted scarves to questionable-looking Christmas puddings. Children ran about with ribbons and bells, adults clustered around braziers for warmth, and somewhere a band was playing carols with more enthusiasm than skill.
The pie tent was indeed under siege. Admiral Feathers had positioned his lieutenants at strategic points while the foot soldiers systematically demolished the competition entries. One goose had its head buried in what looked like Mrs. Ironwell's prized apple pie.
"This is sabotage!" Mrs. Ironwell cried. "They know I'm favored to win!"
"Geese don't understand pie competitions," Marianne said patiently.
"These geese do! Look at them! They're targeting the best pies!"
She had a point. The geese did seem to be showing remarkable discrimination in their destruction, focusing on the more elaborate entries while leaving the simpler ones alone.
"We need to flank them," Alaric said, studying the situation. "Thomas, you and the other children create a distraction at the front. Marianne and I will come in from behind with the net."
"You're enjoying this," Marianne accused as they circled around the tent.
"I'm applying strategic thinking to a practical problem."
"You're playing soldier with geese."
"Very intelligent geese, apparently."
"That doesn't make it less ridiculous."
"No, but it does make it more interesting."
They crept behind the tent, where Marianne had procured a large fishing net from somewhere. Admiral Feathers was focused on directing his troops, his back to them.
"On three," Alaric whispered. "One... two..."
"Wait," Marianne said suddenly. "Is that Lord Dupont?"
Alaric followed the line of Marianne’s pointing finger, and in that instant his stomach dropped.
Lord Dupont was impossible to miss—draped in his infamous purple coat that gleamed like a royal banner against the snow, cutting through the bustle of the square like a man born to interrupt delicate moments. Worse, he was coming straight toward them with the determined gait of someone who had recognized something, or someone, very important.
“Marianne,” Alaric said sharply, his pulse beginning to roar in his ears. “We need to go.”
She blinked at him, still clutching the net. “Go? Now?”
