I roll over. It’s stupid to roam around in What If world—it makes the real one look so much worse when I come back.

“Hall,” I whisper a while later. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah. What do you need?”

“Is Dracula in the public domain?”

He sighs. “Good night, Bettie.”

*

Chapter Seven

Countdown to Christmas:
7 Days

I STRAGGLE OUT OF bed at eleven in the morning, finding the room empty. Hall’s carefully made his bed, an outfit draped across it that I presume is for me: a gold sweater dangling with dozens of jingle bells, black leggings with a snowflake pattern, and a loud pair of socks. I mean that literally—every time I take a step, the socks start singing the song about hot chocolate from The Polar Express. I peel them right back off.

I open the door, ducking before paper snowflakes swinging inward on strings can bump me in the forehead. They’re strung all down the hallway, toward the staircase, where I can’t put my hands on the banister because it’s encased in half a forest’s worth of evergreen boughs with fake snow clinging to the needles. When I went to sleep last night, there were a few decorations here and there—a few sparkly baubles, a tastefully decorated tree in the living room, a wreath on the front door.

Now, there’s a Christmas tree in every single room. Garland borders the signed portraits of Hollywood legends Grandma looks up to—Anna May Wong, Humphrey Bogart, Audrey Hepburn, and dozens of others who’ve adorned the walls of this house for decades. There are giant, solid glass peppermint candies propped in corners. Model trains whizzing along the baseboard trim, passing through miniature winter villages. Bows and holly and candles and stockings. The couch that is bound to impregnate somebody has six different throws on it now, and so many decorative pillows that there isn’t room to conceive. The house smells powerfully of peppermint. When I sit down on the toilet to do my business, I’m met with the wide-eyed stare of a realistic North Pole elf mannequin, standing in the bathtub.

The family is in chaos.

“Who did this? What is the meaning of this?” Grandma cries, pointing at the fireplace. It used to be gas, but now it’s wood-burning, and the flames are cartoon-animated.

“Sorry, that was supposed to be live-action,” Hall mutters in my ear, sliding past. I whirl to watch him, and next thing I know, the hearth blazes with ordinary fire.

“Morning, Bettie!” my grandfather exclaims, curling an arm around my shoulders. “What a nice surprise! No wonder you slept in late. You were awake all night setting up this fantastical display for us.”

I try to shape my mouth into a smile. “Y—es. That’s. What I was doing.”

“Even the cups,” Kaia’s remarking from the kitchen, prompting me to wander along. Sure enough, every cup in the cabinet has been replaced with a hand-painted mug in the shape of a snowman, a nutcracker, or Santa Claus. My gaze falls on Hall, shifting his weight from one foot to the other along the wall and watching us all excitedly. When his eyes flit to mine, my pulse skips. I frown at myself and my strange pulse-skipping. I need to cut back on sugar.