Unfortunately today the radio station appeared to have fallen into the hands of a few students who were either more enterprising or perhaps enjoying the opportunity to play around with minimal faculty or editorial supervision. I quickly deduced that they’d been running around interviewing various people in town about the pranks, and then interspersing audio clips from the interviews with clips from the Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup. I couldn’t quite decide whether the juxtaposition made the interviewees sound a lot funnier or a lot less intelligent. Or both.

I finally punched the off button and tried to hum for the rest of the way home. And for some reason as soon as I spotted the first few sheep belonging to Seth Early, our neighbor across the road, I cheered up immensely and began singing aloud.

“Shepherds shake off your drowsy sleep, rise and leave your silly sheep.”

Although I hoped Seth wouldn’t hear me referring to his dignified Lincoln sheep as silly. And I had to admit there wasn’t anything silly about them, since he’d resisted Mother’s suggestion that he decorate them all for the holiday with big red bows.

At least twenty additional cars were parked up and down both sides of the road in front of our house. Several women with piecework totes or brown paper grocery bags were trotting down the path that ran along the left side of the house and led to the backyard where the library had its own entrance.

A real hostess would have gone and greeted the ladies, made sure they had enough light, offered them coffee and tea.

Instead, I scurried up the path and let myself into the house, looking over my shoulder, and managed to shut the door just as another car pulled up.

I took a deep breath. And then another. The house wasn’t quiet—soft instrumental carols were playing through the sound system Mother had set up. But it was peaceful. I inhaled the cinnamon, clove, and evergreen smells. I looked around. Mother had upped the ante on the decorations, all right. The foyer didn’t look like our foyer. It looked like a set for a movie. A movie set at Christmas, back in Victorian times. Maybe a new remake of A Christmas Carol. Any second a director would yell action and a flock of actors would walk in, the women in crinolines and the men in frock coats and—

“Meg?”

Rose Noire was standing in the hallway from the kitchen, holding the large coffee urn we used for parties and looking at me with a worried expression.

“Is something wrong?” she asked. “You were just standing there staring at the chandelier.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Long day already.”

“Yes,” she said. “And you need to be very, very careful over there.”

“Careful?” I said. “I’m only over at Trinity. It’s not exactly hazardous duty.”