She showed him the craft stalls, where he managed to purchase a wooden horse for Molly without causing any diplomatic incidents. The craftsman, an elderly man with gnarled hands and kind eyes, wrapped it carefully in cloth and handed it over with something that almost looked like approval.
"For the little Whitmore girl, is it?" he asked.
"Yes. She was helpful to me earlier. I wanted to thank her."
"Hmm." The old man studied him for a moment. "You're not what I expected, Your Grace."
"So I've been told. Repeatedly."
"Not a bad thing, necessarily. Just... surprising." He handed Frederick the wrapped horse. "Come back next year. I'll make you something custom."
"I'd like that," Frederick said, and meant it.
They stopped at a stall selling hot cider, and Frederick discovered that village cider was nothing like the refined wines he was accustomed to; it was rough and sweet and tasted like autumn distilled into liquid form. He drank two cups and would have had a third if Lydia hadn't gently pointed out that cider was stronger than it seemed and perhaps he should pace himself.
"I'm a duke," he protested. "I can hold my drink."
"You're a duke who hasn't eaten anything but pie today and is currently swaying slightly on his feet. Sit down and have some bread."
He sat, and he had some bread while he watched the village swirl around him. Families and friends and lovers, all of them connected by invisible threads of history and affection; and he felt, for the first time in his life, like he might someday be allowed to be part of something like this.
She showed him the musicians, who were now in full swing with a collection of country dances that had half the village spinning and stomping with joyful abandon.
"Do you dance?" Lydia asked, watching the dancers with a wistful expression.
"I was taught. But I don't know these steps."
"They're not hard. It's mostly just spinning and hoping you don't fall over."
"That describes most of my social interactions."
She laughed; a real laugh, full and warm and utterly without guile. "You're funnier than I expected, you know."
"Am I?"
"Funnier. Sadder. More..." She searched for the word. "More human, I suppose, than I expected."
"I'll try not to be offended by the low expectations."
"You shouldn't be. The expectations were based on evidence. You're providing new evidence." She smiled at him, and something in his chest expanded painfully. "It's not a bad thing. It's just surprising."
The dancing continued. The sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose. Frederick watched the villagers spin and laugh and hold each other close, and he felt a longing so intense it was almost physical; the desire to be part of something, to belong somewhere, to have what these people had and took for granted.
"I should learn the steps," he said suddenly. "For next year."
Lydia looked at him. "Next year?"
"I intend to come back. If that's…" He stopped, suddenly uncertain. "If that would be welcome."
"You're planning that far ahead?"
"I'm trying to. I've spent eight years not planning at all. I think it's time to start."
The look she gave him then, not quite hope, not quite belief, but something in between, was worth every awkward moment of the day. Worth the mud on his boots and the gooseberry onhis chin and the dozen small failures that had preceded this one small success.
"I think," she said slowly, "that next year you should wear different boots."
"What's wrong with these boots?"
