Chapter 3 #2
"And if they ask why a duke who never visits cares about his servants' standards?"
"Tell them he's consistently inconsistent."
"That's actually believable."
"I'm choosing to be offended by that."
"Your Grace has that right."
Alaric made his way downstairs, ducking under the strategic mistletoe with newly acquired skill. Outside, the snow had intensified, turning the village into something from a Christmas card—the sort his mother used to collect, all soft edges and warm lights against the winter dark.
The square was even more chaotic than when he'd left it.
The star had returned, now being positioned near the tree with a complex system of ropes and wheels for lifting that looked like something from a naval operation.
Marianne stood in the middle of it all, somehow managing to direct multiple activities simultaneously while arguing with someone about garland density.
"No, Mr. Martin, we discussed this. The garlands need to overlap by at least six inches or they'll gap when the wind blows. Mrs. Hartley, not there; the lights need to go on first! Thomas, stop throwing snow at your sister!"
She spotted Alaric approaching and her expression shifted to one of amused surprise. "Mr. Fletcher. I didn't think you'd actually come."
"I was promised the sight of you eating a bonnet."
"Only if you actually help. Standing about looking critical doesn't count."
"What if I stand about looking helpful?"
"That's just standing about with a different expression."
"I have many expressions."
"Do you? So far I've seen critical, disapproving, and mildly unyielding."
"That last one is my thoughtful face."
"You might want to work on that."
Several villagers had stopped what they were doing to watch this exchange with interest. Alaric became aware that he was essentially bantering with the widow in front of an audience that probably hadn't had this much entertainment since the previous steward's dramatic departure.
"Right then," he said, affecting a businesslike tone. "What needs doing?"
Marianne blinked, clearly not having expected actual cooperation. "Oh. Well. The star needs to be lifted to the top of the tree, but the angle's wrong. We can't get it high enough without risking dropping it."
Alaric examined the setup. They were trying to lift the star directly up, fighting gravity and the weight of the ridiculously large ornament.
"You're approaching it wrong," he said. "You need a counterweight system. Basic physics."
"Basic physics," Marianne repeated. "Of course. How foolish of us not to have our physics textbooks handy while decorating for Christmas."
"Sarcasm doesn't change the laws of gravity."
"Pity. It would make life so much more interesting."
"Your life seems plenty interesting already, given the decorated sheep."
"You saw those? That was Mrs. Martin's idea. She felt they looked 'festively under-dressed.'"
"Festively under-dressed sheep. That's a phrase I never expected to encounter."
"Stick around Hollingford long enough, you'll encounter phrases you never knew existed. Last week, someone described the land steward's new hat as 'aggressively burgundy.'"
"How can a colour be aggressive?"
"You'd have to see the hat. It's like it's attacking your eyes with its colour."
Despite himself, Alaric found he was smiling. "Right. Your star problem. You need to run the rope through a higher point and add weight to the other end. The tree should have a strong enough branch about three feet from the top."
"Should have?"
"Unless your tree is decorative rather than structural."
"I have no idea what that means."
"Is it a pretty tree or a strong tree?"
"Can't it be both?"
"In my experience, rarely."
"That's a depressing life philosophy."
"It's kept me from being crushed by falling Christmas stars."
"Fair point." She turned to the assembled villagers. "Right, everyone! Mr. Fletcher suggests we need a counterweight system. Mr. Ironwell, can you climb?"
Mr. Ironwell, a spry man of about sixty, nodded enthusiastically. "Like a squirrel, Mrs. Whitby!"
"Excellent. Though perhaps aim for more dignity than a squirrel."
As the villagers reorganized themselves according to Alaric's suggestions, Marianne stood beside him, watching the proceedings with a critical eye.
"You know," she said, "for someone who hates Christmas, you're being remarkably helpful."
"I don't hate Christmas. I'm philosophically opposed to it."
"There's a difference?"
"Hate requires emotional investment. Philosophy requires only intellectual consistency."
"That might be the coldest thing I've ever heard."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment."
"I choose to take it as one."
She shook her head, but she was smiling. "You're very strange, Mr. Fletcher."
"Coming from a woman who decorates sheep, I'll take that as high praise."
"I didn't decorate the sheep."
"You allowed the sheep to be decorated. In some courts, that's considered equally culpable."
"What courts are these?"
"The Court of Reasonable Behaviour."
"That sounds like a place you made up."
"All courts are made up if you think about it."
"That's..." she paused, considering. "Actually oddly profound."
"I have my moments."
"All two of them?"
"Three, actually. But one was in private, so it doesn't count."
The star-raising operation had progressed to the point where Mr. Ironwell was now perched precariously near the top of the tree, threading rope through branches while his wife shouted helpful suggestions from below.
"Don't look down, Harold!"
"I'm in a tree, Martha. Where else would I look?"
"Up! Look up!"
"At what? The sky? I know what the sky looks like!"
"This is going to end badly," Marianne murmured.
"Almost certainly," Alaric agreed. "Shall we take bets on how?"
"That seems uncharitable."
"Five shillings says he gets tangled in the rope."
"I shall accept the wager. My money's on him falling into the garland display."
They shook on it, and Alaric tried not to notice how her hand felt in his; warm and surprisingly soft for someone who presumably spent her days kneading dough.
"Oi! Mr. Fletcher!" Mr. Ironwell called from his perch. "Where does this bit go?"
"Through the branch above your left hand. No, your left; that's your right."
"This is like watching someone try to teach a dog mathematics," Marianne observed.
"That's unfair to dogs. They at least understand pointing."
"Mr. Ironwell understands pointing."
"He's currently trying to thread rope through his own sleeve."
"Oh dear. HAROLD! THE brANCH, NOT YOUR JACKET!"
Too late. Mr. Ironwell had somehow managed to attach himself to the tree via his own clothing. His attempts to free himself only made things worse, and within moments he was effectively gift-wrapped to the spruce.
"I believe that means you owe me five shillings," Alaric said.
"He's not tangled in the rope, he's tangled in his jacket."
"Which is tangled in the rope."
"That's indirect tangling."
"Tangling is tangling, Mrs. Whitby. Pay up."
"I don't have five shillings on me."
"Then you'll have to owe me."
"I could bake you something instead."
"After your admission about Tuesday loaves? I think not."
"My Sunday baking is perfectly acceptable."
"Faint praise."
"HELP!" Mr. Ironwell called. "I'm becoming part of the tree!"
"We should probably help him," Marianne said.
"Should we though? He seems to be fulfilling his lifelong dream of becoming one with nature."
"That's terribly philosophical for someone concerned with basic physics."
"I contain multitudes."
"You contain sarcasm and mild social discomfort."
"Those are multitudes if you count them right."
Marianne laughed and started toward the tree. "Come on, Mr. Fletcher. Let's rescue Harold before Martha decides to leave him up there as an ornament."
"That would be festive."
"And slightly illegal."
"Only slightly?"
"Well, he volunteered."
The rescue operation took another twenty minutes and involved three ladders and a pair of scissors. By the end, Mr. Ironwell was free but his jacket was a casualty of war, and the star was still on the ground.
"Right," Marianne said, hands on her hips. "New plan. Mr. Fletcher, since you're so clever, you can climb the tree."
"I absolutely will not."
"Why not?"
"I don't climb trees. It's undignified."
"Everything about this situation is undignified."
"Exactly. No need to compound the problem."
"So your solution is to stand there being unhelpful?"
"I was extremely helpful. My counterweight idea was sound."
"Your counterweight idea resulted in Mr. Ironwell becoming a Christmas ornament."
"That was execution error, not design flaw."
"Either way, the star's still on the ground."
They stood there, locked in a stalemate, while the rest of the village watched with the fascination usually reserved for public hangings or particularly good gossip.
"What if," a small voice piped up, "we used the ladder?"
Everyone turned to look at Thomas, who had appeared seemingly from nowhere, covered in even more snow than before.
"What ladder?" Marianne asked.
"The really tall one from the church. Mr. Williams uses it to clean the windows."
There was a moment of silence while everyone digested this remarkably sensible suggestion.
"That's..." Marianne started.
"Actually brilliant," Alaric finished. "Well done, Thomas."
Thomas beamed. "Does this mean I get to help?"
"Absolutely not," Marianne and Alaric said in unison, then looked at each other in surprise.
"Jinx," Thomas said. "Now you have to buy each other a drink."
"That's not how jinx works," Marianne protested.
"It is in Hollingford."
"Since when?"
"Since right now. I just made it up."
"You can't just make up rules."
"Why not? Someone made up the first rules."
"He has a point," Alaric said.
"Don't encourage him."
"Why not? He's the only one here who's had a sensible idea all evening."
"That's..." Marianne paused. "Actually also a fair point."