Page 41 of A Guardian for Christmas

I still can’t believe I’ve been letting someone treat me with a bunch of bullshit vitamins and whatnot—someone who isn’t even authorized to do anything.

“You say your mother was diagnosed with the same heart condition? He likely saw that she had the side effects and simply decided to use them to his advantage. Sadly, or fortunately, shedied shortly after that, before he could get his hands on what he wanted.”

Sagan says, “He never had time to weasel his way into becoming her power of attorney, so he set his sights on you.”

This is horrible news. “I feel so stupid.”

“Don’t start that shit now. You’re not stupid,” Sagan says, his voice tight.

Tears sting my eyes. There’s still so much I don’t understand.

“What do I do now?”

“Do? You don’t have to do anything except tell me when your next appointment is.”

I nod calmly. “Monday, 3 p.m. Christmas Eve.”

“Perfect,” Dr. Allen says. “I’d like to have a word with this so-called doctor.”

“You don’t have to do that for me on Christmas Eve,” I say.

Dr. Allen looks at me incredulously. “Are you kidding? And miss a chance to see Bryant Estate? How else can I weasel an invitation?”

I have to laugh despite everything. I like Dr. Allen. And I sometimes forget the mystique that Bryant Estate holds in this region.

“This is going to sound forward. But would you like to bring your whole family for Christmas Eve dinner?”

“I assume you mean after I get watch that quack escorted out in handcuffs? My Christmas just gets better and better.”

The doctor smiles at me, and I do believe I’ve made a friend.

Sagan rests a hand on my back.

“Call for a meeting with the building contractor at the same time,” Sagan says.

“You’ll come with me?” I look up into Sagan’s eyes and already know the answer.

“You don’t even have to ask. You’re stuck with me.”

Christmas Eve comes, and so does Dr. Allen.

At the same time, Sagan is distracting the building contractor, Mr. Cowen, by going down the list of things I’m supposed to sign off on.

“Who are you?” Dr. White asks.

“I’m Dr. Daisy Allen. Pleasure to meet you. I’m Ms. Bryant’s new physician. And you are?”

“I’m Rufus White,” he says, puffing himself up. “And I believe you are mistaken.”

Dr. Allen explains coolly as we gather in the library, making sure Dr. White’s back is to the door. We wouldn’t want him making a sudden escape.

Frye hovers outside. Because we’ve let him in on what’s been happening, he’s frantically pacing the hallway, pretending to dust and barking at the house staff.

“Here’s the thing. I searched for you online and never found any registered doctor by that name,” Dr. Allen says.

“Preposterous.”

“Is it? No medical school has any record of you. Neither does anyone have any record of your residency.”

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