Chapter 8 #2
Marianne climbed onto the platform, which groaned ominously but held. She held out her hand to Alaric. "Well, Mr. Fletcher? Are you coming?"
"Is this wise?"
"Probably not. But it's on your list."
He climbed up beside her, very aware that most of the village had stopped whatever they were doing to watch. The platform creaked again but remained standing.
"The key to country dancing," Marianne said, taking his hands in a way that was probably perfectly proper for rural dancing but felt anything but, "is enthusiasm over precision."
"That sounds like chaos."
"Controlled chaos. Follow my lead and try not to think too much."
"Not thinking isn't my strong suit."
"I've noticed. Ready?"
"No."
"Perfect!"
The fiddle struck up properly, and Marianne began to move, pulling him into the dance. It was nothing like the stately quadrilles and waltzes he knew from London ballrooms. This was wild, energetic, full of spins and stamps and moments where they were pressed close before spinning apart again.
Marianne was magnificent; graceful and strong, her face flushed with exertion and joy. She laughed as she danced, and her hair, already loosened from the morning's adventures, came completely free, streaming behind her as she spun.
"You're thinking!" she called over the music.
"I'm trying not to fall!"
"Same thing! Feel the music!"
"I'm feeling the platform shake!"
"That's just enthusiasm!"
They whirled and stamped, the platform protesting with increasing volume. Other villagers had begun clapping in time, shouting encouragement and occasionally helpful suggestions like "Don't let go!" and "Mind the weak board!"
"What weak board?" Alaric shouted.
"The one that's..."
There was a sharp crack, and suddenly Alaric's foot went through the platform. He would have fallen completely, but Marianne grabbed him, using their spinning momentum to pull him away from the hole.
"Platform's not sound!" she called cheerfully to the crowd.
"We noticed!" someone shouted back.
They finished the dance, avoiding the hole and two other boards that looked suspiciously bendy, and when the music finally stopped, the crowd erupted in applause.
"Not bad for a London man!" the land steward declared.
"He only fell through once!" Thomas added helpfully.
"The platform fell through," Alaric corrected, breathing hard. "I was an innocent victim of structural failure."
"You were magnificent," Marianne said quietly, and something in her voice made him look at her sharply. She was smiling, but there was something else in her expression, something warm and wondering that made his chest tight.
"I was adequate at best."
"You were fun. When's the last time you did something just for fun?"
He had to think about it. "Define fun."
"The fact that you need a definition proves my point."
"I have fun. I review ledgers. Very entertaining."
"Mr. Fletcher, ledgers are not fun."
"They are when they balance."
"That's satisfaction, not fun."
"What's the difference?"
"Fun doesn't need to balance."
Before he could respond to this piece of philosophy, Mrs. Morrison's voice rang out across the square. "The geese! The Christmas geese are in the bakery!"
Everyone turned to look. Indeed, through the bakery window, they could see Admiral Feathers and his army investigating the shelves with destructive enthusiasm.
"My bread!" Marianne gasped and took off running.
Alaric followed, along with what seemed like half the village. They burst into the bakery to find a scene of devastation. The geese had knocked over displays, scattered flour everywhere, and Admiral Feathers was currently standing on the counter, eating what looked like an entire loaf of sourdough.
"Out! Out!" Marianne shouted, waving her apron at them.
The geese, unimpressed, continued their rampage. One of the lieutenants had discovered the mince pies and was distributing them to the troops with its beak.
"They're organized!" Thomas said with admiration. "Look, they're sharing!"
"They're destroying my bakery!"
"But in an organized way!"
Alaric grabbed a broom and tried to herd the geese toward the door, but Admiral Feathers saw this as a challenge and charged, wings spread in full intimidation display.
"Not again," Alaric muttered, dodging the snapping beak.
"Corner them!" Marianne shouted. "Don't let them get to the kitchen!"
What followed was perhaps the most ridiculous twenty minutes of Alaric's life, and considering the last two days, that was saying something.
The geese, displaying tactical brilliance that would have impressed military strategists, split into groups and executed what could only be described as guerrilla warfare.
Marianne and Alaric ended up cornering the last three geese, including Admiral Feathers, in the kitchen. The birds stood their ground, honking defiance.
"Now what?" Alaric asked, brandishing his broom like a weapon.
"Now we negotiate."
"Negotiate? With geese?"
"Watch and learn." Marianne reached into a bin and pulled out a handful of day-old bread. "Admiral Feathers, I propose a truce."
The large gander tilted his head, apparently considering.
"You take this bread and leave peacefully, or we call in Mr. Thompson with his net."
Admiral Feathers honked, but it sounded more contemplative than aggressive.
"That's right, the net. You remember the net from last year."
There was a moment of tense negotiation conducted entirely through honks and bread-waving, and then Admiral Feathers waddled forward, took the bread surprisingly gently from Marianne's hand, and led his troops out of the bakery with dignity intact.
Alaric stared after them. "Did you just successfully negotiate with waterfowl?"
"It's all about mutual respect."
"Mutual respect with geese."
"Don't jest. It works."
They stood in the destroyed bakery, covered in flour (again), feathers, and pine needles from their earlier adventure. Marianne surveyed the damage with a sigh.
"This will take hours to clean."
"I shall help."
She looked at him in surprise. "You don't have to. You've already done your list duties for the day."
"Actually, I haven't. There are seventeen more items, including the bronze turnip."
"You don't have to do all of them today."
"No, but I should help clean this. The geese were partly my fault."
"How were they your fault?"
"I challenged Admiral Feathers's authority in the forest. This was clearly retaliation."
"You think the geese followed us here for revenge?"
"Would it be the strangest thing that's happened today?"
Marianne considered this. "Not even top three."
They spent the next hour cleaning the bakery, sweeping up flour and feathers, salvaging what bread they could, and trying to restore order to the chaos. They worked well together, falling into an easy rhythm that felt oddly domestic.
"You know," Marianne said as she wiped down the counter, "for someone who hates Christmas, you're being remarkably helpful with our preparations."
"I don't hate Christmas."
"You called it collective hysteria."
"I'm revising my opinion. It's more like collective insanity with festive elements."
"That's progress, I suppose."
"Small steps."
"Your mother would be proud."
The comment, casual as it was, hit Alaric unexpectedly hard. Would his mother be proud? To see him here, in her beloved village, actually participating instead of standing apart with cold disdain?
"Perhaps," he said quietly.
Marianne seemed to sense she'd touched something deep and changed the subject. "We should probably tackle some of the other list items. Unless you're too exhausted from your battle with gravity and geese?"
"I'm perfectly capable of continuing."
"Even the bronze turnip?"
"Especially the bronze turnip. I'm curious to see this vegetable monument to survival."
The bronze turnip turned out to be even more ridiculous than Alaric had imagined. It sat on a pedestal, about the size of a real turnip but with an elaborate plaque describing the "Great Turnip Salvation of 1742" in flowery script.
"It's actually quite tarnished," the land steward said, producing polish and cloths. "Been neglected since Fletcher left."
"How does one properly polish a bronze turnip?" Alaric asked.
"With dignity and respect for history," the land steward replied seriously.
"Of course. Foolish of me to ask."
Polishing the turnip was oddly meditative, though Alaric couldn't shake the feeling that this was perhaps the most absurd thing he'd ever done.
"You're taking this very seriously," Marianne observed, watching him work.
"If one is going to polish a vegetable monument, one should do it properly."
"That's almost philosophical."
"Everything about this turnip is philosophical. It represents survival through absurdity."
"Is that what it represents?"
"What else could it represent?"
"Hope? Perseverance? The power of root vegetables?"
"All of those things are absurd."
"All of those things saved the village."
"Through turnips."
"Through turnips," she agreed solemnly, then ruined it by giggling.
By the time they'd finished the turnip, which did, admittedly, gleam impressively, helped mediate the pudding dispute, Marianne suggested they make two puddings, one with six ingredients and one with thirteen, and let people choose, and supervised the hanging of the high street garlands, it was late afternoon.
They ended up in Marianne's kitchen again, both exhausted and covered in the detritus of the day's adventures. Marianne made tea while Alaric collapsed in a chair, trying to catalog his various aches and pains.
"I hurt in places I didn't know existed," he admitted.
"That's what happens when you fight geese and gravity in the same day."
"Not to mention dancing on structurally unsound platforms."
"You were actually quite good at the dancing. Once you stopped thinking."
"I'm always thinking."
"I noticed. It must be exhausting."
"It's safer than feeling."
The words came out before he could stop them, too honest for the light conversation they'd been having. Marianne turned from the stove, studying him with those dangerous eyes.
"Is it really safer?"
"Yes."
"But is it better?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "I used to think so."
"And now?"
"Now I'm sitting in a provincial bakery, covered in pine needles and goose feathers, having spent my day polishing vegetables and dancing on broken platforms, and somehow I'm... content."
"Content?"
"Happy might be too strong a word."
"But you're smiling."
Was he? He touched his face as if he could feel the expression. "Am I?"
"You have been all day. Even when you were falling out of the tree."
"That was grimacing."
"That was definitely smiling. I think you might be enjoying yourself despite your best efforts not to."
"That's a disturbing possibility."
"Or a wonderful one, depending on your perspective."
"My perspective is currently affected by the probable head injury from this morning's fall."
"You don't have a head injury."
"How do you know?"
"Your eyes are tracking properly, your speech is coherent, and you successfully polished a turnip. Those are all good signs."
"You have medical training?"
"I have a twelve-year-old village boy named Thomas in my life. I've become an expert on head injuries."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, drinking tea and watching through the window as the village prepared for evening. The sun was setting, painting everything in shades of gold and pink that made even the ridiculous decorations look magical.
"Three more days," Marianne said quietly.
"For what?"
"Until you leave. The fair is in two days, but you'll stay for it, won't you? Even if you've finished reviewing the ledgers?"
The question hung between them, loaded with more meaning than its simple words suggested.
"I should finish the list," Alaric said, which wasn't really an answer.
"Of course there is the pie contest to judge."
"Am I judging that?"
"You are now. You survived the poisoned pies this morning, so you're qualified."
"Those weren't poisoned."
"The ones you made were questionable."
"They were abstract."
"They were dangerous."
"Thomas ate one and survived."
"Thomas has an iron constitution. He once ate an entire jar of pickled onions on a dare."
"Why?"
"Because someone dared him. That's all the reason Thomas needs."
"I was never that adventurous as a child."
"No? What were you like?"
Alaric thought about it. "Serious. Watchful. My tutors called me grave."
"That's sad."
"It was accurate."
"It's sad that it was accurate. Children shouldn't be grave."
"Some children don't have a choice."
Marianne reached across the table and touched his hand lightly. "Well, you have a choice now."
"Do I?"
"You could choose to enjoy the next three days instead of enduring them."
"I don't know how to do that."
"You seemed to manage it today."
"Today was a deviation."
"Or today was practice."
Before he could respond, Thomas burst through the door, covered in snow and excitement.
"Mrs. Whitby! Mr. Fletcher! You have to come see! Mrs. Martin's Christmas cathedral collapsed and buried Mr. Martin! He's calling for last rites!"
They rushed outside to find that Mrs. Martin's ambitious architectural project had indeed collapsed, though Mr. Martin was more embarrassed than injured, sitting in a pile of garland and broken timber while his wife alternated between fussing over him and berating his clumsiness.
"I told you not to lean on it!" she was saying.
"You said it was structurally sound!"
"For looking at, not for leaning on!"
"What's the point of a structure you can't lean on?"
"It's art!"
"It's a disaster!"
"It's both," Marianne murmured to Alaric. "The true Hollingford way."
As they helped extract Mr. Martin from the wreckage, Alaric found himself actually laughing at the absurdity of it all. The whole village gathered to offer helpful advice, most of which contradicted the other advice, while Mrs. Martin tried to salvage what she could of her vision.
"You're smiling again," Marianne noted.
"It's becoming a terrible habit."
"Terrible?"
"Definitely. Next I'll be enjoying Christmas carols and developing opinions about garland density."
"Fate worse than death."
"Exactly."
But he was still smiling as he said it, and when Marianne laughed, he realized that maybe, just maybe, three more days in Hollingford wouldn't be the ordeal he'd expected.
It might be something else entirely.
Something that felt dangerously close to magical.
Not that he believed in magic, of course.
But standing there in the village square, surrounded by chaos and Christmas decorations and Marianne's laughter, he could almost understand why other people did.