Chapter 7
"Your Grace appears to be glaring at those ledgers with unusual intensity, even for someone reviewing accounts that have been mismanaged for the better part of three years."
Alaric didn't look up from the columns of numbers that had been swimming before his eyes for the past hour, refusing to resolve themselves into anything resembling sense.
Not because the mathematics was particularly complex, he'd been managing estate accounts since he was sixteen, but because every time he tried to focus on the figures, his mind wandered to flour-dusted hands and coffee-colored eyes and the way Marianne Whitby had felt pressed against him in the snow.
"These numbers are deliberately obtuse," he muttered, making another attempt to add the same column he'd been working on for twenty minutes.
"The numbers, Your Grace, or your ability to concentrate on them?"
"The numbers, Grimsby. Fletcher's handwriting looks like someone gave a spider ink and let it dance across the page in the throes of either ecstasy or death."
"How poetic. Though I suspect Your Grace's difficulty has less to do with penmanship and more to do with the fact that you've been staring at that same page since breakfast, which was two hours ago."
"I'm being thorough."
"Your Grace has added that column seventeen times."
"The numbers keep changing."
"The numbers are written in ink. They're incapable of change without direct intervention."
"Then someone is intervening."
"Yes, Your Grace. That someone is your wandering attention, which seems to be focused on the bakery across the square rather than the ledgers on your desk."
Alaric finally looked up to find Grimsby standing by the window, looking out at the village square with an expression of mild amusement. "I'm not watching the bakery."
"Of course not, Your Grace. You've merely glanced out the window forty-three times in the past hour."
"You counted?"
"I had little else to do while Your Grace was definitely not watching for a certain widow to emerge from her establishment."
"I'm concerned about village commerce. As the steward, I should understand the patterns of local business."
"Naturally. And this has nothing to do with this morning's incident involving pastry and compromising positions?"
"There was nothing compromising about the position. We've established it was gravitational inevitability."
"If Your Grace says so. Though I should mention that the story has evolved somewhat in the retelling. The current version involves Your Grace sweeping Mrs. Whitby into a passionate embrace while pies rained from heaven."
"That's absurd. Pies don't rain."
"They do in Mrs. Morrison's version. She's also added violins."
"Where would violins come from at four-thirty in the morning?"
"Mysterious musical providence, apparently. The story has taken on somewhat biblical proportions."
Before Alaric could respond to this ridiculous elaboration of an already embarrassing incident, there was a knock at the door.
Not the tentative knock of a servant or the apologetic knock of someone bearing bad news, but a confident, purposeful knock that somehow managed to convey both authority and amusement.
"Come in," Alaric called, hastily straightening his cravat and attempting to look like he'd been productively reviewing accounts rather than mooning over a baker like some lovesick poet.
The door opened to reveal Marianne Whitby, dressed in a practical dark green dress that had seen better days but somehow made her look like she belonged in a forest grove, ready to command an army of Christmas elves.
She carried a rolled parchment in one hand and wore an expression that suggested she was about to enjoy herself immensely at his expense.
"Mr. Fletcher," she said, with a smile that made his concentration issues significantly worse. "I hope I'm not interrupting your very important steward duties."
"Not at all. I was just reviewing the fascinating world of agricultural accounts. Did you know that the eastern field produced thirty percent less barley than projected? Riveting stuff."
"I'm sure it is. Though given that the eastern field has been growing wheat for the past five years, I'm curious about this mysterious barley."
Alaric looked down at the ledger, then back at her. "I meant wheat."
"Of course you did. Just like you meant to have the ledger right-side up?"
He looked down again. The ledger was, indeed, upside down. "I was testing whether the numbers made more sense inverted. Sometimes a fresh perspective reveals hidden patterns."
"And what patterns did you discover?"
"That Fletcher's handwriting is equally illegible from any angle."
She laughed, that bright sound that seemed to make the room warmer, and stepped fully into the room. Grimsby, with his impeccable sense of timing, excused himself with a bow that managed to convey both respect and the suggestion that his master was doomed.
"I've brought you something," Marianne announced, holding up the parchment with the air of someone presenting evidence in a trial.
"Please tell me it's not another apron. I'm not sure my dignity could survive more red ruffles."
"Your dignity barely survived the first set of red ruffles, but no, this is something far more entertaining. Or horrifying, depending on your perspective."
"Why do I suspect those are the same thing in your view?"
"Because you're learning." She unrolled the parchment with a flourish that would have done credit to a royal herald announcing war. "Behold, Mr. Fletcher, the Official Fair Committee's Task List for the Estate Representative."
Alaric stared at the document, which appeared to be less a list and more a novel written in Marianne's surprisingly neat handwriting. It started at the top of the parchment and continued all the way to the bottom, with additions squeezed into the margins and what appeared to be footnotes.
"This is a list?"
"This is your sacred duty as the duke's representative to our humble village."
"This is a death warrant disguised as civic responsibility."
"Don't be dramatic. It's merely a few simple tasks to help prepare for the fair."
"A few simple tasks? Mrs. Whitby, this list includes something called 'Negotiate peace between the warring pudding factions.' What does that even mean?"
"Oh, that! Mrs. Martin insists that proper Christmas pudding must be made with thirteen ingredients, while Mrs. Ironwell maintains that six ingredients are perfectly sufficient for good pudding."
"They're fighting about pudding ingredients?"
"They've been fighting about it for fifteen years. Last year, someone threw brandy butter."
"As a weapon?"
"As another argument. It was very sticky."
Alaric read further down the list, his expression growing increasingly incredulous. "Test the structural integrity of the dance platform? What am I supposed to do, jump on it?"
"Dancing would be the traditional method, but jumping works too. Mr. Ironwell tested it last year by attempting a jig. The resulting collapse is why we have a new platform this year."
"So you want me to potentially destroy another platform?"
"Only if it's structurally unsound. Better to find out now than during the actual dancing when it would take half the village down with it."
"Fetch pine boughs from Wickham Wood—the tall ones. Why specifically the tall ones?"
"The short ones are within Mrs. Martin's reach, and she's already claimed them all for her personal garland empire. She's building something she calls a 'Christmas cathedral' in her front garden. It's either going to be magnificent or violate several laws of physics."
"Supervise the hanging of HIGH street garlands. Why is 'high' in capital letters?"
"Because last year someone, and by someone I mean Mr. Martin after several brandies, hung them at head height. The vicar ran full tilt into a low-hanging one and spent the rest of December speaking in whispers."
"Judge the children's choir practice?"
"Someone has to tell little Timothy Ironwell that enthusiasm doesn't compensate for tone-deafness."
"Sample all competition pies for poison?"
"I added that one just now. You seemed to survive this morning's batch, so you're clearly qualified."
"Catch the escaped Christmas geese? The geese have escaped?"
"They escape every year. It's tradition at this point. They're probably plotting their break as we speak."
"Mediate the annual Martin-Ironwell garland dispute? Is this different from the pudding dispute?"
"Completely different. The garland dispute is about density versus artistic arrangement. The pudding dispute has other implications. Do try to keep up."
Alaric set down the list and looked at her with a combination of horror and reluctant admiration. "You're enjoying this immensely, aren't you?"
"I'm enjoying watching your expression as you realize what you've gotten yourself into by pretending to be a helpful steward, yes."
"I'm not pretending to be helpful. I'm actually helpful. I helped with the star."
"You stood about making observations about physics while Mr. Ironwell became a tree ornament."
"I also helped with the pies this morning."
"You created an adhesive substance that I'm still trying to remove from my work surface. That's the opposite of helpful."
"I provided entertainment?"
"You provided chaos in an already chaotic situation, which is actually somewhat impressive."
"So you were impressed?"
"I was impressed by your ability to get flour and butter on the ceiling. I'm still not sure how you managed that."
"Natural talent?"
"For destruction, certainly."
Alaric picked up the list again, reading more carefully.
Some of the tasks seemed genuinely necessary—chopping wood for the bonfire, helping to construct vendor stalls, organizing the distribution of donated food to the poor.
Others seemed designed specifically to humiliate whoever held the position of estate steward.
"Polish the commemorative turnip?" he read aloud.