Was it possible to have a hangover from family drama? Because when the alarm on my phone went off at six a.m. and I swung my feet to the rug-covered floor, I was pretty sure that was happening to me. My head felt foggy, my eyes were puffy, and my energy levels were in the red.

The breakfast shift began at seven a.m. and I did not want to be late for Mrs. Buzzard. I knew today was her big prep day for tomorrow’s Christmas Eve party, which was her biggest event of the year. I prayed the rush delivery of the replacement pans didn’t get caught up in the Christmas postal rush. I’d been the recipient of enough stink-eyed looks as it was.

One quick shower and blow-dry later, my hair was up in a ponytail (no time to deal with the hella static) and I was in my khaki slacks and light blue oxford beneath the navy sweater. I was saving the red sweater for the party tomorrow.

I took an extra ten minutes to come up with Christmasy suggestions for Arthur and his aunt to do tonight—ice skating in Norman; going to see a revival of Miracle on 34th Street at the Avalon, which was a nearby converted opera house built in 1919; or maybe roasting those chestnuts—then texted them to him and still made it downstairs with five minutes to spare.

Upon arrival, I found I was already the fourth person in the kitchen, including Grandma Jo, Mrs. Buzzard, and Steve the Deliberately Homeless Elf, whose unmistakable car was operational so he was delivering party supplies from CK.

Ayisha had the day off, so there would be no chatting with her. I knew she would be in tomorrow so I resolved to wait until then.

And there was no opportunity for chatting with Grandma Jo, either. By the time I got downstairs, she was already in full Busy Boss Mode as she went over the party’s meal lists with Mrs. Buzzard and ducked in and out of her office, which was around the corner from the kitchen.

She seemed everywhere at once. Yet when Esha and Arthur came down for breakfast, I noticed she made a point to slow down and spend extra time at their table.

I also noticed Arthur didn’t look at me once.

In the kitchen, I snuck a glance at my phone to find he had responded to my text, but it was with a perfunctory I’ll ask my auntie. Then again, perfunctory actually was pretty much SOP for him.

However, a tingle of . . . concern? went up the back of my neck as I worked to help keep the dining area running smoothly (refresh the chafing dishes so the scrambled eggs weren’t rubberized, replace the canned heat, tidy up spills, make sure Mrs. Buzzard remembered the latest meal changes from the Yablonskis, etc.) while unsuccessfully attempting to catch his eye.