“Stop that,” I said, pretending to slap her hand gently. “Bald would not be a good look for you. Where’s the rug, anyway?”

“In the garage, with fans drying it out,” she said. “Is that okay?”

“It’s fine,” I said. “If you need a nicer space, you can always spread it out in the master bedroom. Clay’s not around to complain.”

“Is he out for good, or just for the day?” she asked.

“Up to the committee,” I said. “I know how I’d vote, and if they ask me I’ll tell them.”

She smiled a little at that.

“You’re sure it’s okay for Tomás and Mateo to work on my room?” she asked. “I know there must be a lot to do in Clay’s room.”

“Yours comes first,” I said. “And Randall’s sending reinforcements. If you need anything, just ask.”

“Just keep the reporter away for a while,” she said. “Neither I nor my room are ready for our close-ups.”

“Oh, my God,” I said. “The reporter. Where has she gone?”

Sarah shook her head and went back to work—inspecting every inch of the red-velvet chairs to make sure they’d taken no damage. I went in search of Jessica.

I found her in the third bedroom, the one being decorated by Goth Girl. Whose real name was Vermillion, although come to think of it, I wasn’t sure that actually counted as a real name. I was pretty sure she hadn’t been born with it, and heaven knows where she’d left her last name.

Jessica was sitting on the very edge of a black-and-red sofa shaped like an open coffin, and she and Vermillion were sipping tea out of black Wedgwood cups. At least I hoped it was tea. A black Wedgwood plate containing black cookies with red sprinkles on them sat on the coffee table, which had been formed by placing a thick rectangle of black glass on the wing tips of two black-painted faux stone gargoyles. Vermillion had added a few small touches to meet the requirement that the designers decorate their rooms for Christmas—but the sprigs of holly around the windows had been painted glossy black, to match the walls, and her Christmas wreath was made of thorns.

Jessica and Vermillion weren’t actually having much of a conversation. Vermillion was staring over her teacup at Jessica, who was gazing around the room with a deep frown on her face, as if daring the various bats, spiders, and gargoyles to come alive and attack her.

“There you are,” I said. “Ready to continue the tour?”

Jessica leaped up without a word, slammed her teacup down on the coffee table, and ran out of the room.

I winced at the clink of delicate china on glass.

“Sorry,” I said to Vermillion. “She didn’t break anything, did she?”

“No.” Vermillion was holding the teacup close to her eyes to inspect it. “But I don’t think she likes my room much.”

Obviously the proper response was to reassure her that Jessica was nuts and the room was beautiful, but I didn’t think I could sell that one. And I wasn’t sure if she’d be pleased with Michael’s comment that if he ever directed a production of Dracula at the college he’d ask her to design the set.

“I think people are either going to love it or hate it,” I said finally. “I guess we know where Jessica stands.”

Vermillion smiled slightly at that, so I guess it must have been the right thing to say. And come to think of it, maybe shocking non-Goths was partly what she was after. She was only in her twenties. Ten or fifteen years ago I’d done much the same thing. Not turning Goth, of course, but doing things just to shock my more conservative relatives and neighbors. Some of my choices in wardrobe and boyfriends still came back to haunt me when we pulled out the family photo albums at reunions, but at least one of my rebellious decisions had turned out pretty well if you asked me: the decision to apprentice myself to a blacksmith instead of going to grad school as expected.

I went back into the hall and found Jessica gripping the railing that divided the upper hallway from Mother’s great room below.

“Horrible,” she was muttering. “My—oh, my God. That room. That poor room. Look what she’s doing to it.”

She was almost in tears.

“What’s wrong with it?” I glanced down at Mother’s room as if pretending to think Jessica was talking about that. Mother had gone in for a cozy, homey Victorian style, with overstuffed tufted red-velvet sofas and chairs, a lot of dark carved wood, and blue-and-white china. It wasn’t my taste, but it was handsome.

“Not the living room,” she said. “That’s okay. Rather nice really. But the bedroom—Morticia or Elvira or whoever she is has painted the walls glossy black. It’s hideous.”

“We’ll be painting them a normal color when the show’s over,” I said. “Along with the blood-red walls in the master bedroom.”

“It was a perfectly nice, normal bedroom,” she said. “And now it’s like something out of a horror movie.”

“Not my taste, I have to admit,” I said. “But apparently some people are very keen on her work.”

Although the only person I’d ever heard of hiring her was an aging heavy metal drummer who’d bought a farm outside town and built a honking big mansion whose thirty or forty rooms were all decorated by Vermillion.

“Sorry,” Jessica said, shaking herself as if to throw off some residual effects of being in the Goth bedroom. “But that room just creeps me out.”

“You’re probably not alone,” I said. “I don’t think Vermillion’s room will be a front-runner for the prize.”

“Prize? I thought you said the designers were donating all this.”

“They are,” I said. “Half the profits go to the Caerphilly Historical Society. And each decorator has designated a charity. On the twenty-third, the members of the County Board will go through the house and decide which room they like the best. The winning designer’s charity gets the other half of the proceeds.”

“I guess that’s why they’re all so keyed up and snapping at each other,” Jessica said.

I winced, and hoped the image of designers snapping at each other didn’t make it into her article. And I wondered, not for the first time, if it really had been a good idea making the County Board members the judges. Most of them were male, all were over fifty, and I suspected there wasn’t a one in the bunch who could define “passementerie.” I doubted Vermillion’s room would stand a chance with them. But would Clay’s?

I glanced down at Mother’s room. Which was definitely going to be a contender. She was supervising several helper bees who were decorating the two-story Christmas tree that filled one corner of the room.

Wait a minute. The helper bees seemed to be undecorating the tree.

“I think you’ve got that backwards,” I called down. “Shouldn’t the ornaments be going onto the tree?”

“I’m rearranging things,” Mother said. “Having the tree here spoils the look of the fireplace. I’m going to put it there—in the archway to the dining room.”

Where it would completely block any possible view of what Our Lady of Chintz was doing to the dining room. I could understand why she was doing it. And it wasn’t as if we needed the archway for traffic flow.

“Fine,” I said. “Carry on.”

“Meg?” Our Lady of Chintz appeared behind us. “May I talk to you for a moment?”

Perhaps she wasn’t completely thrilled with Mother’s plan to block off the archway between their rooms with tinsel and spruce.

“Señora?” Tomás was also waiting to talk with me. Or, more probably, pantomime with me, since his English was about as good as my Spanish.

“Meg?” Princess Violet was standing behind Tomás, clutching her purse with both hands and looking anxious.

“Look, you’re busy,” Jessica said. “May I just wander around? Talk to the designers, take pictures?”

“Wander all you like,” I said. “Just don’t bother the designers if they tell you they’re busy, and always ask permission before taking pictures of their work. Some of them are fussy about work-in-progress shots.”