"Then what was it like?"
"It was..." He struggled for words. "It was real. Everything I said, everything I felt, it was real. The only lie was my name."
"Your name and your title and your position and the fundamental facts of your existence."
"When you put it like that, it sounds terrible."
"It is terrible."
They stood there for a moment, the fair continuing around them with forced cheer as people tried to pretend the enormous scandal unfolding in their midst wasn't happening.
"What are you going to do?" Mrs. Whitby senior asked finally.
"I don't know."
"That's not good enough."
"I know that too."
"She won't forgive easily. She doesn't trust easily in the first place, and when that trust is broken..."
"I'll make it right."
"How?"
"I don't know yet."
"Your Grace...can I even call you that? It feels strange after calling you Mr. Fletcher."
"Call me whatever you like. I probably deserve worse."
"Your Grace," she said firmly, "you have two choices. You can leave now, go back to London, and never return. Marianne will hurt, but she'll heal, and eventually, this will become just another story about the aristocracy's fundamental unreliability."
"Or?"
"Or you can stay and fight for her. Prove that despite the lies, there was truth in what you shared. Show her, show all of us, that you're more than just another absent landlord playing at understanding our lives."
"And if she won't listen?"
"Then at least you'll have tried. Which is more than your father ever did, and more than you've done for the past years."
The criticism stung because it was accurate. "You're right."
"I usually am. Now, the fair continues despite personal dramas, and someone needs to judge the pie contest. The actual judges are all too afraid of Mrs. Martin to vote against her, but a duke might have enough authority to be honest."
"You want me to judge pies? Now?"
"Life doesn't stop for broken hearts, Your Grace. The pies need judging, the bonfire needs lighting, and the Christmas service needs attending. You can participate as yourself for once, or you can run away. Your choice."
She walked away, leaving him standing there surrounded by the fair he'd helped build, the community he'd briefly been part of, and the wreckage of what might have been something wonderful.
Thomas materialized at Alaric’s elbow like a small, worried shadow, his usual mischief nowhere in sight. His cap was askew, his cheeks raw from the cold, and a feather clung stubbornly to his sleeve.
“She’s really angry,” he announced, solemn as a magistrate.
“I noticed,” Alaric said, still scanning the square as if he might catch a glimpse of Marianne between stalls and garlands and the drifting snow.
“I mean really, really angry,” Thomas persisted. “She called you some words I’m not supposed to know.” He paused, then added helpfully, “I knew them anyway.”
