“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“The house. I cannot get it into the elevator,” he said.

Bucky made a disparaging noise. “If we all run over to help him, who’s going to get the hors d’oeuvres done on time?”

The clock was ticking. “Rafe,” I said, “can you get Agda to help put the appetizers together?” He nodded. Agda, having heard her name, stood up straight, apparently ready for whatever task I would assign. “Bucky,” I continued, “you’re doing fine there. Cyan will stay here, too.” I held up my splinted hand. “I’m off kitchen prep, so I’ll work with Marcel.”

More often than not, Marcel reacted first and thought things through later. I hoped that was the case now.

When I followed him into the hallway, I understood the problem. The gingerbread house was enormous. “Marcel,” I said, in awe, “this is incredible.”

Larger than last year’s gingerbread house by half, this year’s version was a meticulously perfect model of the current White House. We’d had a hard time getting the house in the elevator last year. I couldn’t imagine why Marcel had decided to up the scale. A quick glance at his distraught face convinced me not to ask.

The annual gingerbread house creation always fell under the purview of our executive pastry chef. The rest of us in the kitchen helped out where needed, of course, but Marcel enjoyed this project more than any other all year.

The house itself took more than two weeks to create. Last year’s version had weighed more than three hundred pounds, and this one was most definitely bigger. Marcel had designed this tiny mansion with staggering accuracy, creating individual baked gingerbread pieces in varying shapes and sizes and bringing them together with architectural precision.

This was no half-baked endeavor. Marcel had, in fact, made several duplicates of each section in anticipation of breakage. Every single piece was hand-crafted in proportion to the whole. The gingerbread, though edible-and delicious-was never consumed. Marcel carefully shaped individual pieces, then baked and set them aside until needed for the final construction in the China Room. I’d walked in on Marcel and his team a few times over the past couple weeks. They worked with the quiet intensity of adults, but maintained the wide-eyed optimism of school-children. Every little detail, from side walls to windowsills, was identified, numbered, and set aside for placement at exactly the right time.

Marcel had five assistants for this project. Three were SBA chefs, and two were permanent. Marcel usually made do with only one assistant, but Yi-im had proven so adept at the pastry tasks, Marcel had seized him for his own. Cross-training happened now and again in the White House, but it wasn’t the norm. Yi-im’s change of status from butler to assistant chef had caused a few raised eyebrows-particularly from the waitstaff. They weren’t happy at the prospect of having to fill another empty position.

When I finished my slow-circuit inspection of the house, I had to say it again. “This is incredible.”

“Merci,” he said, absentmindedly, his gaze flipping back and forth between the cookie house and the elevator doors. The giant structure sat on a massive piece of covered plywood, which itself sat atop one of our wheeled serving carts. The design took my breath away so completely that I nearly forgot the problem at hand-getting it up to the main floor.

Yi-im appeared from around the back of the gingerbread house. “I didn’t see you,” I said.

His cheekbones moved upward in a polite smile, but it came across more as an affectation than his being happy to see me. The dilemma of how to get this beautiful monstrosity to the Red Room was obviously weighing heavily on everyone.

“What are these?” I asked Marcel, pointing to the mansion’s edges. Small postlike structures were attached to the miniature-and I use the term loosely-White House’s corners. Like flagpoles, but without flying any banner, each inner and outer corner of the building had one of these, painted white with icing to make it less noticeable.

Marcel heaved a big sigh in front of the elevator. “I do not wish to disassemble my masterpiece,” he said with a forlorn expression. “I have just now put it together. It is exactly right. If I were to take it apart once again, it will never be so perfect.”

“Can’t we just carry it up?”

“Are you insane?” he asked. “Do you know how much this must weigh?” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “It would take the strength of six men to carry this up the stairs, and my assistants are not capable of such heavy lifting. Not only that, but if they were to tilt it to any extreme, the walls would crack and my masterpiece would be ruined.” He looked ready to cry. “Do you hear me? Ruined!”

I blew out a breath. Marcel had been executive pastry chef for a long time. I couldn’t imagine how he’d forgotten the limitations there were on transportation. Of course, when one is in the throes of creativity, sound reasoning often flies out the window. That’s probably what happened in this case. Scope creep. A little flourish here, a little detail there, and pretty soon you’ve created a big monster.

I took another look at the grand cookie White House. I had to admit again it was gorgeous. Every window had icy corners, as though Jack Frost had decorated the panes himself. The Truman Balcony was not only perfectly represented, but it was dressed with snow, miniature evergreen roping, and wreaths decked with red bows. I couldn’t see inside, but I knew Marcel had outfitted the piece with inner lights. I couldn’t wait to see it lit.

Marcel paced as Yi-im fiddled with different sections of the structure. I asked him about the poles at each of the corners. He shrugged and did that nonsmile thing again but said nothing.

There was no way this creation would fit in any of the elevators. Not even close. I shook my head as I pondered our next move.

“You agree it is hopeless, no?”

“Nothing is hopeless,” I said, walking slowly around it. Six men, Marcel had said. Personally, I thought it could be handled by four. “Who’s available to help us?”

Marcel gave me a wary look. “What do you have in mind?”

“If we can get four sturdy men to each take one corner of the plywood, and if they go up those stairs”-I pointed-“very, very carefully, I think there’s a good chance of moving this in one piece.”

Skeptical, Marcel pressed me for reasons why I believed a bunch of burly men wouldn’t be clumsy with his masterpiece. After a ten-minute discussion, he agreed to give it a try. “But if the men cannot lift this easily-immediately-we will call off the experiment,” he said, the corners of his mouth curling downward. “And I will return to my kitchen to take my beautiful building apart.”

“Don’t get defeated. We haven’t even attempted this yet,” I said.

Marcel nodded and spoke to Yi-im. “Can you find us several men to help?”

With a nod, he was off.

“What about the gingerbread men?” I asked, looking around the wheeled cart. “I don’t see them here.”

“They will come later,” Marcel answered, still a bit more distracted than he usually was. “Yi-im will arrange those when the house itself is in place.”

I glanced at my watch. Marcel noticed.

“I know. I know.” He paced the corridor. “What was I thinking? Why did I not ensure the house was in place yesterday?” Turning to face me, he continued his one-sided conversation. “I will tell you why. Because I have had nothing but trouble with my assistants. Do they not know how important it is that we have our work of art in place when it is to be unveiled? Does that not follow? Do they have no sense?”

I glanced in the direction his assistant had gone and I gestured for Marcel to lower his voice. “I thought you said Yi-im was working out very well.”

Marcel rolled bugged-out eyes. “He is, what you say… the harbor during the hurricane.”