The Nightingale Before Christmas by Donna Andrews Page A

said.
    â€œHorrible,” Violet said. She turned and fled—presumably across the hall, to her room.
    â€œI should go and see if she’s all right,” I said.
    Randall nodded. He was holding a box of trash bags. As I was turning to leave, I saw him pull one out and stoop down to start picking up some of the debris on the floor.
    I followed Violet. She was standing in her room, holding her head.
    â€œYou okay?” I asked.
    â€œI’ve got a bit of a headache,” she replied.
    Probably a monster headache, by the look of her. She was pale and hollow-eyed, and I noticed she was shading her eyes against the light.
    â€œWant me to help you with that?” I asked, pointing to the rolled-up rug.
    â€œPlease.”
    I tore the brown paper off the roll and set it down on the floor. I figured it would go where the damaged rug had gone, and Violet didn’t correct me. Then I unrolled it, revealing a very familiar-looking petit-point rug.
    â€œIs this a new rug or the one Clay damaged?” I asked.
    â€œThe damaged one.”
    â€œIt looks great!” I exclaimed.
    â€œIt’s Daphne’s doing,” she said. Daphne, the proprietor of the Caerphilly Cleaners, was well known as a miracle worker when it came to removing stains. In a less enlightened era, her competitors would probably have tried to have her burned at the stake. “I can still sort of tell where the paint was,” she added.
    â€œBut it might be your imagination,” I hurried to say. “And no one else would ever guess. It looks great. The whole room looks great.”
    I must have been able to say it with a straight face, because she beamed happily. Actually, I suppose if you liked pastel colors, glitter, ruffles, lace, and stuffed animals, it probably was great. It was certainly the most extreme example I’d ever seen of the whole uber-feminine girly girl style. If Mother had done up my room like this when I was ten or twelve, I’d have run screaming into the night and slept in the tool shed.
    Martha stuck her head in the door.
    â€œYou okay?” she asked. “You want more of that Alka-Seltzer?”
    â€œI’m fine,” Violet replied.
    â€œYou don’t look fine,” Martha said. “Here.” She handed Violet a bottle of water. “Keep hydrating. Best thing for you.”
    Violet nodded, opened the bottle, and sipped.
    Martha nodded and left. I was puzzled. I hadn’t noticed that the two of them were particularly close before.
    â€œShe’s a mother hen,” Violet said. “We sort of bonded over the whole horrible experience of having Clay ruin our rooms.”
    â€œI can understand that,” I said.
    â€œWe went out to dinner last night,” she said. “To vent about the whole thing. Isn’t that lucky?”
    â€œLucky? How so?”
    â€œWell, I had a couple of glasses of wine, which I shouldn’t have done, because even one glass puts me under the table.” She giggled girlishly. “Martha put me up in her guest room, and we stayed up past midnight gossiping.”
    I suddenly realized where she was going with this.
    â€œSo you’re alibied,” I said. “Congratulations!”
    It must have sounded as silly to her as it did to me, because we both burst out laughing. Or maybe it was the relief. She was happy to be in the clear. I was happy for her. She was one of the nice ones. Silly, but nice. And knowing that Martha had looked after her properly made me think better of her, too.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?” Martha had appeared in the doorway again.
    â€œWe were just—” Violet began. And then she paused and held her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. Mind if I use your bathroom for a sec?”
    â€œDon’t touch the walls,” Martha said. “Wet paint.”
    Martha stepped into the room. Violet scurried into the bathroom and closed the door.
    â€œNice of you to look after