They’re framed collections. Coins on beds of red velvet. Vintage stamps. Signed baseball cards in mint condition. I take a step forward, studying them. Holy crap.

“Maybell!”

I jump, spinning, almost running face-first into the wall. “What?” He’s upstairs. He can’t hear me. “What?” I call, louder.

No response. This is one of Wesley’s signature moves: he’ll call my name when he needs something, but when I yell back What? he goes radio silent, forcing me to go to him to see what he wants. Or I don’t have to go to him, I suppose, but I do anyway. One of these days I’m going to yell and make him come to me instead.

I pull open the door, but my head is full of coins and baseball cards, so I open the wrong one. It’s Victor’s closet. I gasp out a breathless “Ooooohhhhh.”

Bzzz, bzzz.

My phone’s vibrating. I send it to voicemail, then receive a text. This is Wesley.

I’m still staring at my phone in surprise when the number flashes across my screen again, buzzing in my hand. I answer it. “Hey, come up here,” Wesley says into my ear.

“How’d you get my number?”

“Why do you have a picture of me on your phone?” he shoots back.

Ugh, not this again. Cherish the past, Wesley, because the grace period for treating your feelings with kid gloves has expired and you’re not getting away with throwing that picture in my face to avoid answering questions you don’t like.

“Why did you have a picture of me in the attic? Hand-drawn, which is even more questionable than a real photograph taken from your brother’s public Facebook page.”

His mutterings fade; he’s lowered his phone, probably making a face at the ceiling.

“I can’t go upstairs because I just made the most magnificent discovery,” I continue airily, confident that our stalemate has divested him of that particular weapon. “Come down here and take a look.”

“My discovery is better.”

“Sincerely doubt it. I found a Christmas tree.”

Five seconds pass. “. . . So?”

“So, it’s one of those fancy ones! With fake snow! It’s got to be like ten feet tall. I found it in Uncle Victor’s closet.”

“I don’t see what’s special about finding a Christmas tree.”

This man has no soul. I begin heaving the tree out of the closet. The branches have been smoothed down so that it takes up less space in storage, but it still scratches the frame up as I ease it out. And it’s unexpectedly heavy. Fake snow showers my hair and shirt. “My uncle Garrett was right. I did grow up to be a tree-hugger.”

“That’s great. Come upstairs, you’ve gotta take a look at something.”

“Can’t. I’m putting the tree in the ballroom.”

“Right now?”

“Yes!”

“It’s April. Actually, no, it’s technically May now.”

“Christmas is a state of mind, Wesley.”

“Why do you sound so terrifying when you say that?”

This thing weighs about as much as a real tree. I grunt as I drag it down the hall, careful not to bang into any chandeliers. There’s a medieval iron one in the kitchen that’s my favorite, with candlesticks going around the circular rim. “I . . . just . . . want . . . to . . . see,” I bite out. Pine needles jab my hands.

“In May.”

“I’ll put it right back.” I’ve reached the ballroom. It’s in a state of chaos because whenever I find something cool, I bring it in here. It’s going to be my favorite part of the house after I’m finished making it magnificent and less like the set of The Nanny. So far I’ve got a hodgepodge of candlesticks, clocks (all kinds: grandfather, cuckoo, carriage), old books, sculptures, wall hangings, fancy pillboxes, a barrel I might try to convert into a table, and a tangled heap of silk wisteria. I don’t know what I’m going to do with everything, but somehow I will cram it all in here and make it fabulous.

I was right; the tree looks amazing in the ballroom. I plug it in and voilà—soft white lights glow to life, casting a small golden halo onto raised plaster roses on the rococo-style ceiling.

My high-pitched “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, I love it!” earns me three thumps of a broomstick rapping from above.

“Your problem is that you love everything,” Wesley complains.

“My one flaw.”

“I’ve seen the furniture you’re trying to repurpose for your hotel. None of it matches.”

“The beauty of themed rooms,” I reply. “I’ll never get bored, because every room will be different.”

“Are you coming now?”

“Patience. I think I saw a tree skirt in the closet . . .” I rummage in Victor’s closet, which looks like a snow globe from all the white fluff. I find the tree skirt, along with a large silver box that makes me squeal with delight.

“Oh, no. What is it now?”

“Nothing! I’ll be there in a minute. Ten minutes, tops.”

He sighs.

“It’s an emergency.”

His voice goes low, suspicious. “You found ornaments.”

“I did! They’re wonderful. Wesley, come look at these ornaments. Ohh, here’s a little drummer boy. Ohh, here’s Rudolph. Ohh, it’s the whole set from Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town! Ahhhh!”

“Please. My ears.”

I grab a chair from where I’ve got it positioned by the wall, next to Wesley’s tub of paints and my three-quarters-finished mural. My attention’s temporarily waylaid by a new development in the waterfall-lagoon world, thrashing on stormy waves. “You painted a pirate ship.” Thick, sinewy tentacles, pearlescent as abalone shells, lunge out of the water to grip the Felled Star’s stern, ready to devour.