Chapter 8
He reached for the branch Thomas had indicated, which was indeed perfect—thick with needles, beautifully shaped, and just the right size. He pulled out the saw he'd been given and began cutting, trying to ignore the way the tree swayed with his movements.
"Careful, Mr. Fletcher!" Marianne called. "That branch is supporting..."
The warning came too late. The branch he was standing on, weakened by the redistribution of weight as he cut, gave way with a sharp crack. Alaric had a moment of perfect clarity, enough time to think "Oh, no" but not enough to do anything about it, before he found himself falling.
He hit several branches on the way down, each impact spinning him in a different direction, before landing flat on his back in a snowbank with a thump that drove all air from his lungs. The pine bough he'd been cutting landed on his chest a moment later, like a festive insult to injury.
For a moment, everything was silent. Then Marianne's face appeared above him, haloed by winter sunlight and trying very hard not to laugh.
"Are you injured?" she asked, her voice trembling with suppressed mirth.
"Only my dignity," he wheezed, still trying to recover his breath.
"Your dignity was injured already. This is more of a fatal blow."
"Thank you for that compassionate assessment."
"You're welcome. Can you move?"
"I'm choosing not to. I live here now. In this snowbank. With my pine bough."
"That seems impractical."
"More impractical than climbing trees at my age?"
"You're two and thirty, not eighty."
"I feel eighty.
She extended her hand to help him up, and he took it, trying not to notice how natural it felt to have her hand in his. She pulled with surprising strength, and he managed to get to his feet, though his back protested the movement.
"You're covered in pine needles," she observed.
"I'm aware."
"And snow."
"Also aware."
"It's very festive."
"I'm glad my suffering has seasonal appeal."
She reached up, apparently without thinking, and plucked a pine needle from his hair. The gesture was so casual, so intimate, that they both froze for a moment, suddenly aware of how close they were standing.
"Sorry," she said, stepping back quickly. "I didn't mean to..."
"It's fine. I probably have an entire tree's worth of needles in my hair."
"Not an entire tree. Maybe half."
"How reassuring."
"Mr. Fletcher!" Thomas called from his perch. "That was brilliant! Can you do it again?"
"Absolutely not."
"But it was so dramatic!"
"I shall not endure a second humiliation."
"First performances are sufficient?" Marianne asked innocently.
"First performances are accidental. Second performances would be nothing short of self-punishment."
"At least you got the branch," Mr. Ironwell pointed out, holding up the pine bough Alaric had managed to cut before his dramatic descent.
"A pyrrhic victory," Alaric muttered.
"A what now?" Jeremy asked.
"A victory that comes at too great a cost."
"It's just a few bruises."
"And my reputation as someone with basic coordination."
"You never had that reputation," Marianne said helpfully.
"I could have developed one."
"Not after this morning's pie incident."
"That was different."
"You're right. This morning you were horizontal voluntarily. Just now gravity made the choice for you."
"Either way, I ended up in the snow with you standing over me."
"It's becoming a pattern."
"An unfortunate pattern."
"I don't know," Marianne said with a smile that did dangerous things to his composure. "Some patterns are worth repeating."
Before he could parse what that might mean, Thomas let out a shout from his tree. "The geese! The Christmas geese are coming!"
Everyone turned to look where he was pointing. Indeed, a formation of large white geese was marching through the forest with military precision, led by an enormous gander that could only be Admiral Feathers.
"What are they doing in the woods?" Marianne asked.
"Flanking maneuver," Mr. Ironwell said grimly. "They know we're here for pine boughs. They're trying to cut off our escape route."
"That's absurd. They're geese, not military strategists."
As if to disprove this statement, Admiral Feathers let out a honk that was clearly a command, and the geese spread out in a pincer movement.
"Run?" Jeremy suggested in a small voice.
"Never run from geese," Marianne said firmly. "They see it as weakness and exploit it."
"Then what do we do?"
"We stand our ground and show no fear."
"I'm full of fear," Jeremy admitted.
"Then fake it."
Admiral Feathers advanced slowly, his neck extended in what could only be described as an aggressive posture. His lieutenants flanked him, while the foot soldiers or wing soldiers, spread out behind in support formation.
"This is ridiculous," Alaric said. "They're waterfowl, not an invading army."
Admiral Feathers fixed him with a beady eye that suggested otherwise.
"Mr. Fletcher," Marianne said quietly, "whatever you do, don't..."
Alaric took a step forward, intending to shoo the geese away like the farmyard birds they were. This was, in retrospect, a mistake.
Admiral Feathers interpreted this as a challenge to his authority and charged with a honk that sounded like a war cry. The other geese followed their leader, and suddenly the peaceful forest became a battlefield of wings, beaks, and very loud honking.
"Every man for himself!" Mr. Ironwell shouted, grabbing an armful of pine boughs and running for the path.
Jeremy needed no further encouragement, sprinting away with impressive speed for someone who'd been complaining about the cold. Thomas swung down from his tree and joined the retreat, laughing maniacally as he went.
Marianne grabbed Alaric's hand. "Come on! Unless you want to add 'mauled by Christmas poultry' to today's list of indignities!"
They ran, slipping and sliding on the snowy path, while behind them the geese gave chase with disturbing enthusiasm. Admiral Feathers was surprisingly fast for something with such short legs, and his honks of outrage echoed through the forest.
"This is insane!" Alaric shouted as they ran.
"This is Hollingford!" Marianne shouted back. "Same thing!"
They burst out of the woods and into the field beyond, where the deeper snow slowed both pursuers and pursued. Admiral Feathers stopped at the forest edge, apparently satisfied with having defended his territory, and let out a honk of victory.
"Did we just get routed by geese?" Alaric asked, breathing hard.
"Tactically withdrawn," Marianne corrected, also panting. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"It sounds better."
They looked at each other, covered in snow and pine needles, breathless from their undignified retreat, and simultaneously burst out laughing. Not polite laughter or restrained chuckles, but full, helpless laughter that left them both gasping.
"Your face," Marianne managed between giggles, "when Admiral Feathers charged..."
"Your strategic withdrawal technique needs work. You nearly pushed me into a tree."
"I was saving you from the geese!"
"By attempting to give me a severe blow to the head?"
"Better that than death by waterfowl."
"My obituary would have been interesting at least."
"'Here lies Mr. Fletcher, defeated by Christmas poultry.'"
"'He died as he lived—covered in pine needles and confusion.'"
They were still laughing when they reached the village, where their disheveled appearance and obvious mirth drew curious looks from various villagers. Mrs. Morrison was standing outside the inn and immediately bustled over.
"What happened to you two? You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backward!"
"We were attacked by the Christmas geese," Marianne explained.
"Again? Those birds are a menace. Though you both seem to have enjoyed it."
"We did not enjoy being chased by geese," Alaric protested.
"You're both laughing."
"Hysteria," Marianne suggested. "Post-goose-trauma hysteria."
"That's not a real condition."
"It should be."
"Well, regardless, you're just in time. We need someone to test the dance platform, and since Mr. Fletcher is already disheveled, he might as well risk further indignity."
"I haven't agreed to test anything," Alaric said.
"It's on the list," Marianne reminded him, producing the now-somewhat-crumpled parchment from her pocket. "See? Right there between 'sample pies for poison' and 'mediate pudding dispute.'"
"I could do the pie sampling instead."
"After this morning's baking disaster? I think not. Platform testing is safer."
"Safer for whom?"
"The pies."
The platform had been erected in the center of the square, a raised wooden structure about twenty feet square that looked sturdy enough but had suspicious creaking sounds whenever the wind blew.
"How exactly does one test a platform?" Alaric asked.
"Dancing, traditionally," the land steward said, appearing with his usual talent for being present whenever something potentially embarrassing was about to happen. "But since you probably don't know our local dances..."
"I know how to dance," Alaric said, offended. He'd been taught by the finest dancing masters in London, though he suspected their elegant ballroom techniques wouldn't translate well to whatever rural enthusiasm passed for dancing in Hollingford.
"London dancing isn't the same as country dancing," Marianne said.
"Dancing is dancing."
"Oh, Mr. Fletcher," she said with a grin that promised trouble, "you're about to learn otherwise."
Someone had produced a fiddle, there was always someone with a fiddle in these situations, and struck up what Alaric recognized as a country reel. Several villagers immediately pushed Marianne toward the platform.
"Go on, Marianne! Show Mr. Fletcher how it's done!"
"I couldn't," she protested, but she was already moving toward the steps. "Someone else should..."
"Nonsense!" Mrs. Morrison declared. "You're the best dancer in the village, and Mr. Fletcher needs educating."