Chapter 16 #2
The meeting continued for another hour, but the atmosphere had shifted. The tension had been broken by that exchange, and people seemed more willing to believe that this new version of their duke might actually be worth trusting.
As the meeting ended and people began to file out, Alaric noticed Marianne trying to slip away unnoticed. He caught up with her at the door.
"Mrs. Whitby..."
"I said I'll pay for the materials."
"That's not what I wanted to discuss."
"Then what?"
"I wanted to ask if you need help with the repairs. I could..."
"You could what? Climb on my roof? You can barely climb a ladder without falling."
"I've been practicing."
"Practicing ladder climbing?"
"Among other things."
"Such as?"
"Basic carpentry. Roof repair. General maintenance skills that a proper neighbour should have."
She looked at him skeptically. "You've been learning maintenance skills?"
"Thomas's been teaching me. He's surprisingly knowledgeable for a twelve-year-old."
"Thomas's been teaching you?"
"Well, teaching might be generous. He's been pointing and laughing while I figure things out through trial and error."
"That sounds more accurate." She almost smiled, then caught herself. "I don't need help."
"But will you accept it anyway?"
"Why would I do that?"
"Because your roof needs fixing, I need to prove I can be useful for something other than pretty speeches, and Thomas has a bet going about whether I can successfully complete a manual labor task without injuring myself."
"What are the odds?"
"Depressingly against me."
This time she did smile, just slightly. "Fine. You can help. But if you fall off my roof and break your neck, I'm not explaining it to the Queen."
"I don't think the Queen would care particularly."
"You'd be surprised. She and your mother were friends, you know."
"They were?"
"They corresponded regularly.”
“Well, she would be happy to know that I'm trying to be better about facing things directly now."
"Such as?"
"Such as the fact that you're still angry with me and I don't know how to fix it."
The almost-playful atmosphere evaporated. Marianne's expression closed off, and she stepped back.
"Some things can't be fixed with manual labor and good intentions."
"Then what would fix it?"
"Time. Maybe. Or maybe nothing. I haven't decided yet."
She left before he could respond, and Alaric stood in the doorway of his ancestral hall watching her walk away through the snow that had begun falling again.
"That went well," Thomas said, appearing at his elbow with his usual talent for materialization.
"That was a disaster."
"No, a disaster would be her throwing something at you. She just walked away. That's progress."
"Your optimism is disturbing."
"Someone has to be optimistic. You're too busy being brooding and she's too busy being stubborn."
"She has every right to be stubborn."
"Oh, I know. But it's still annoying to watch. Like watching two people dance but stepping on each other's feet on purpose."
"That's a terrible metaphor."
"I'm twelve. My metaphors are still developing."
That afternoon, true to his word, Alaric arrived at the bakery with roofing materials and tools, accompanied by Thomas and several other villagers who'd volunteered to help. Marianne watched from the doorway, arms crossed, as they unloaded tiles and tar and other mysterious roofing supplies.
"You actually came," she said.
"I said I would."
"People say a lot of things."
"I'm trying to be better about following through."
"Trying isn't the same as doing."
"Which is why I'm here, doing."
"You're here. Whether you're doing remains to be seen."
"Your faith in me is overwhelming."
"You want faith? Earn it."
"That's what I'm attempting to do."
"With roofing materials?"
"It's a start."
"Everything with you is 'a start.'"
"Because everything with us keeps starting over. I'd prefer to move forward, but you keep resetting us to the beginning."
"Because you keep giving me reasons to doubt."
"Name one thing I've done in the last five days that's given you reason to doubt."
She opened her mouth, then closed it, frowning. "It's the principle of the thing."
"The principle of not trusting me even when I'm being trustworthy?"
"The principle of being cautious with someone who's already proven himself capable of significant deception."
"Fair point."
"I know it is."
They stood there glaring at each other while Thomas and the other helpers watched with undisguised interest.
"Should we start on the roof?" Thomas suggested. "Only it's getting colder and my mum says I have to be home before dark."
"Yes," Marianne said, still looking at Alaric. "Let's see what His Grace actually knows about roof repair."
The work that followed was not the genteel sort a duke might boast of over port, but four unvarnished hours of labor that bit bone and pride alike.
Alaric had, to his credit, practiced with Thomas upon a leaning shed behind the Ironwells' barn; yet a shed in fair weather was a different creature from a bakery roof in a knife-edged wind, with December light paling toward afternoon and Marianne Whitby standing below with her arms folded and her expression set to skeptical.
Slate rang beneath his hammer. Once, the head glanced and found his thumb instead.
Twice, the gusts shouldered him so hard his boot scraped perilously along the eaves.
And once his foot disappeared between two joists and had to be coaxed free by Thomas, Mr. Ironwell, and a length of rope that would later become a village story told with improvements. Still he went on, awkward but stubborn.
His hands, soft from a lifetime of paper, pen, and the sort of reins one held only on a fine afternoon, began to betray him.
Skin lifted. Blisters pearled, then broke.
The hammer’s haft grew slick. Each time he drew breath, cold crept under his coat and set up house along his spine; each time he set a tile, the wind inquired whether he meant to keep it there.
"You're going to hurt yourself," Marianne called up at last, after the third involuntary flinch had crossed his face like a cloud over sun.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
"Only a little."
"Bleeding is bleeding. Come down."
"The roof's not finished."
"The roof can wait."
"Can it? Because you have buckets catching drips and it's supposed to snow again tonight."
"That's my problem, not yours."
"I'm making it my problem."
"Why?"
"Because that's what neighbours do."
"We're not neighbours."
"Your bakery is in my village on what was until very recently my property. That makes us neighbours."
"That makes us... I don't know what that makes us."
"Complicated?"
"That's one word for it."
He kept working as the sun set and the other helpers gradually departed for their own dinners. Thomas was the last to leave, his mother arriving to collect him with stern words about the foolishness of working in the dark.
"You should go too," Marianne told Alaric. "The roof's mostly done."
"Mostly isn't completely."
"It's good enough."
"Good enough isn't good enough. Not for you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you deserve better than good enough. You deserve properly done, completely finished, no buckets required."
"It's just a roof."
"Nothing with you is just anything."
They were alone now, him on the roof, her standing in her doorway, the village settling into evening around them. Snow had begun falling again, light flakes that caught the lamplight from the windows.
"Come down," she said softly. "You've done enough."
"Have I?"
"For today."
He climbed down carefully, his hands stiff with cold and blood from the blisters. When he reached the ground, Marianne was waiting with a bucket of water and clean cloths.
"Let me see," she said, taking his hands without asking.
Her touch was gentle but clinical as she examined the damage. "You're a fool."
"Specifically, or generally?"
"Both. These need proper treatment or they'll get infected."
"They're just blisters."
"On a duke's hands that have never done proper work. Your skin is like paper."
"Thank you for that flattering assessment."
"Come inside. I have salve that will help."
"I don't need..."
"Get inside before I change my mind about helping you."