“Not at all,” I said.

The murmurs in the other room grew, perhaps in response to one of the First Lady’s comments. Maryann Blanchard shot a nervous glance back to the Blue Room. “My husband didn’t want us to come today,” she said, with a guilty smile, “but I couldn’t bear to miss this opportunity.” She shifted little Leah in her arms and spoke to the children. “Do you see?” she asked them. “Look!”

Pointing with her free hand, she indicated the three gingerbread men. “You made those, and now the president of the United States is using them to decorate his house for Christmas.” The woman positively glowed. “Isn’t that great?”

John, the middle child, stepped back to see better. “Can’t we take them home to our house?”

Maryann Blanchard shook her head. “We made these as gifts. It’s like giving your country a Christmas present.”

John looked unimpressed. Leah sucked her thumb and rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. Only the oldest, Trey, had anything to say. “I wish I would’ve worked harder on it.”

She patted him on the head. “You did a wonderful job.”

From the sounds of things, the tree in the Blue Room was about to be lit. “Come on,” Maryann Blanchard said to her brood, “we don’t want to miss this.”

I smiled after them. The three kids were nowhere near as impressed with the White House as their mother was, but I supposed someday they could tell their own kids about being featured. Of course, if their father had any say in the matter, after the next election, they’d be living here themselves.

I would have loved to watch the tree-lighting ceremony, but it was my duty to stay put, to be ready for my turn to talk to the country about the small part I played in bringing the holidays to the president’s home.

The next room quieted, and someone lowered the room’s lights. A hush settled over the onlookers and even the reporters assigned to this room craned their necks to see.

I tried peering over the tops of the guests’ heads but had no luck.

After a prolonged silence, the room next door lit up, and everyone broke into spontaneous applause.

My heart pounded. Both because it was our turn next and because I was so proud of all we’d accomplished. Not just Marcel and I, not just the crew in the kitchen, but all of us. The country had been under siege-both from terrorists and economically-for an extended period of time. Those on the right side of the Senate aisle and their counterparts on the left could not agree on even the simplest matters, and pundits were having a field day.

These few weeks in the White House gave us all a respite. A time when we could just be together as citizens of this great country. A time for all of us to take a moment and reflect on the goodness that we all share. Whether we celebrated Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa-all of them, or none of them-we were doing so together.

Bindy appeared at the doorway to the Red Room, her hair blown back from her face, and her cheeks bright red, looking as though she’d run all the way from the East Appointment Gate. She scanned the room, one hand gripping the door frame, as though it was difficult to hold herself up. When she saw me, her expression changed. I would have characterized it as panicked. “Ollie, where are they?”

I had no doubt who she meant. I pointed. “In the Blue-”

She didn’t wait for me to finish. Bolting away, she spied little John Blanchard and grabbed him by the arm. He protested loudly.

Maryann Blanchard turned, as though to admonish her son, then saw Bindy standing there. “What are you-?”

“We have to go,” Bindy said.

I’d left my position next to the gingerbread house to follow. “What’s going on?”

Bindy ignored me.

Mrs. Blanchard shook her head and answered the assistant. “The tour isn’t over yet.” She tugged John closer.

“Your husband wants you home,” Bindy said. “Now.”

That got Maryann Blanchard’s back up. I watched fire light her eyes. “Oh really? Well, you can tell him that no matter what his quarrel is with the White House, I am not giving up the chance to have my children photographed at this event.”

Bindy shook her head, and pulled Mrs. Blanchard’s elbow. She spoke softly. “You don’t understand,” she said, her nervous giggle making its appearance. This time it sounded almost like a hiccup. “It’s an emergency.”

Mrs. Blanchard’s eyes clouded. “What happened?”

“Come with me. Please.”

“Mommy, I don’t want to go,” Trey said. “We haven’t got our pictures taken yet.”

Bindy’s gaze floated toward the three gingerbread men, then back to Mrs. Blanchard. “We have to go. Now.” She squeezed John’s arm and he cried out. “I’m not kidding. You’ve got to listen to me.”

The crowd around Mrs. Blanchard had begun to notice the minor fracas, and Mrs. Blanchard noticed them. Reluctantly gathering her children and shushing their complaints, she followed Bindy out the door. As soon as they were gone, the onlookers returned their attention to the question-and-answer session going on under the Blue Room’s spotlights.

I returned to my post, and tried to process what just happened.

“What was that all about?” Bucky asked.

Marcel snorted. “Who can understand such females as these? You remember how Bindy behaved when she worked here. Always too impressionable.”

Marcel was right. She’d been an unpredictable and often unstable staffer. I’d harbored hope that this new position, working for the senator, would have settled her down.

Senator Blanchard was apparently still angry enough at Mrs. Campbell that the very idea of his family being here appalled him. I didn’t for one minute buy Bindy’s excuse of an emergency. I’d seen the lie flit across her face as she grasped for a reason to persuade Mrs. Blanchard to leave the premises.

Bindy had been manic in her demeanor. Frantic, actually.

I looked up when Gav appeared in the doorway. Keeping one eye on the festivities next door, he sauntered over and spoke softly, close to my ear.

“This is not for public distribution,” he said.

He waited till I leaned back and met his eyes. “Okay.”

Bucky was close enough to listen in. At Gav’s glare, he stepped a few feet away.

Gav whispered, “Sean Baxter didn’t commit suicide.”

I jerked away from him, looking again into his face. Although in my gut I’d known that to be true, it was far different to hear someone in authority say the words. “Who killed him?” I asked.

He shook his head. “We don’t know yet.”

“But they know for sure it wasn’t suicide?”

He nodded. “And I checked that other rumor you asked me about.”

“About Nick Volkov?”

“He didn’t kill Mr. Sinclair,” he said. “But someone has gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like he did.”

“What does that mean?”

Gav gave a slight headshake. “Tell you more later. For now, just be aware.”

Like a ghost, he slid away.

Be aware? Of what? I wondered.

Bucky moved to stand next to me again just as the group began to filter into the Red Room. This was it: my time to shine. But I couldn’t feel the joy. Something was holding me back. A tight, annoying prickle told me something wasn’t quite right.

Cameras were set up and the First Lady was led to her spot just in front of the gingerbread house. It was then I realized that I was standing next to the switch. Mrs. Campbell would have to get in close to me in order to turn it on. Which meant I would have to move when the time came. A perfect photo opportunity, with the pastry chef on one side and the First Lady on the other. Whoever had plotted this out had vision.

Too bad poor Yi-im had gone home sick. If he’d been standing right here, he’d have been in the picture, too.

A feeling prickled the back of my arms and creeped across my shoulder blades.

I stole a look at the three gingerbread men the Blanchard family had insisted we place prominently in this room. The three men that, according to Agda, Yi-im had supposedly been “fixing” late last night.