“I probably deserved them.”
“Probably,” Thomas agreed, with the ruthless honesty of youth. He tipped his head, studying Alaric as though examining a curious specimen. “Are you really the duke?”
“I am.”
Thomas let out a low whistle. “That’s actually pretty impressive. I mean, the lying is terrible, but being a duke is magnificent.”
“It’s really not.”
“You have a castle?”
“It’s a hall, not a castle.”
“Still amazing,” Thomas said, undeterred. “Do you have a coat of arms? With, like, lions and daggers and a Latin word no one can pronounce?”
“Yes,” Alaric said, because arguing about heraldry felt easier than contemplating the wreckage he’d made. “No daggers.”
“Pity.” Thomas planted his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. “Mr. Fletcher...sorry, Your Grace, look, you’ve hurt her. You know that.”
“Thomas, I’ve hurt someone you care about.” The admission scorched on the way out. “I see it.”
“Yeah. You have.” Thomas’s gaze drifted toward the bakery as though he could see through snow and brick to the woman inside. “But you also helped with the fair and fought the geese and made her laugh. She hasn’t laughed like that since her husband died.”
“And now she’ll never laugh with me again.”
“Maybe. Or maybe not.” Thomas shrugged in the helpless, hopeful way of boys who have seen sorrow and chosen stubborn optimism anyway. “Mrs. Whitby’s pretty forgiving. Eventually. After she’s done being scary and angry.”
“How long does scary and angry usually last?”
“Depends on the offense.” He began counting on his fingers. “When I broke her kitchen window with a ball, it was three days. When Mr. Martin said her bread was dry, it was a week. For lying about being a duke while making her feel things?” He lifted both hands, palms up. “Could be forever.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“I’m just being honest.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Want some advice?”
“From a twelve-year-old?”
“I’m a very wise twelve-year-old.” Thomas’s expression did not invite dispute. “Also observant. Also fast on my feet, which is useful when the geese organize.”
Against all sense, Alaric almost smiled. “All right. What’s your advice?”
“Grovel,” Thomas said promptly. “A lot. Publicly. With gifts.”
“Gifts?”
“Good gifts. Not duke gifts—no diamonds the size of plums or horses with four names. Real gifts. Things that show you were paying attention.”
“Such as?”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed, as if riffling through memories. “She complains when the flour sacks tear because someone’s been skimping on twine. She hides the last slice of cake in the blue tin with the dented lid. She says the vicar’s hands get cold in winter and he won’t admit it, so she gives him warm stones wrapped in linen before services. She keeps a book of poems under the flour bin, don’t tell her I know, and she pretends she doesn’t cry at the poem about snow and lamps, but she does.” He looked up, satisfied. “Start there.”
Alaric swallowed. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“That’s my job. I pay attention and then I do something about it. You could try that.” Thomas tilted his head again, studying Alaric’s face. “And don’t talk like a duke when you apologize. You do that thing where your words line up like soldiers and none of them are allowed to feel anything.”
“I’m not sure I know how to talk any other way.”
“Then learn.” Thomas’s voice softened. “You learned how to knead bread without murdering it. You learned how to dodge Admiral Feathers. You can learn this.”
