“And somebody’s got to figure out a schedule that works everything in, and then manage it,” Minerva said.

“And you’re so good at that sort of thing,” Mother said.

I cringed. It sounded like a tedious, time-consuming task, one that would probably require every bit of diplomacy and negotiating skill I possessed. The last thing I needed to take on in the busy holiday season. And from what I could see, Robyn was very good at organizing herself.

Of course, this was already Robyn’s busiest season, and I’d already begun to worry about her. She was looking tired. Not just tired, but frayed around the edges. And Caerphilly College’s winter break had begun, which meant that Michael would be not only free to take care of the boys as much as needed but eager to spend more time with them.

Most important of all, the organizing tasks would probably last at least as long as the cleanup operation and give me a perfect excuse not to go back into the New Life choir loft.

“I’ll do it,” I said. “Provided Robyn can get everyone to send me their calendars.”

“She’s already working on that,” Mother said. “And she has a room you can use as a small temporary office over at Trinity.”

An office? I wasn’t sure why I would need an office at the church—surely this was something that could be solved in a few hours with a telephone and a computer, or even just a good supply of paper and ink. But Trinity was several miles from the stench of the choir loft, so although the office was clearly overkill, I didn’t mind the idea.

“Can you give us a ride over there?” Minerva asked.

“We’re going to start getting things ready for tonight’s concert,” Mother added.

“Which is the one nonnegotiable item on that schedule of yours,” Minerva said. “The first concert will go on at eight o’clock tonight at Trinity Episcopal.”

“Your carriage awaits.” I opened the front and rear passenger doors of my car and Mother and Minerva climbed in.

Chapter 7

“It’s small, but I think it will work,” Robyn said as she opened the door to my new temporary office.

The room itself wasn’t actually that small—it might have been a little larger than her own comfortable study. But it was filled almost literally to the ceiling with boxes and pieces of furniture, all of them either old, broken, shabby, ugly, or all of the above.

“Unfortunately, we’re using it right now as a kind of storage room,” Robyn said as she showed me in. “For stuff that doesn’t fit into the undercroft.”

It took me a moment to remember that what Robyn—and Mother—referred to as the church’s undercroft was what plebian souls like me called the basement.