*   *   *

Fanny Price: Sir Thomas, what can you tell us about the slave trade?

*   *   *

Whoa. I sat up straight. That's not in the book. I listened as Sir Thomas provided details he didn't get from Jane Austen concerning the income from his Antigua estate and the number of slaves in his employ. Not in the book. Magda must have written the slavery remarks herself, or made Omar write it. No wonder My Jane Austen walked out.

I watched the entire rehearsal. And then watched it again. The other actors were so good they didn't need to be coached, but Magda fed lines to Bets over and over. Whenever Magda interrupted, "Hey!" to stop the action, the actors sagged, the tension immediately drained from their bodies. Starting up again, their bodies sprang into action. They reminded me of professional outfielders between plays in baseball. By the time they finished, I knew everyone's lines.

When Magda finally indicated the reason for my attendance at the rehearsal, darkness had descended outdoors. "Don't let her out of your sight." She handed me another script. "Work on these lines until she has them down cold, all night if necessary."

"What about sleeping?"

"You don't want to know what I think about sleeping. Have her here at eight-thirty, in costume, ready to perform."

"Me?"

"You are here to help with the festival, no?" Magda stared back. "You are her roommate. The festival needs your help."

"The festival is welcome," I mumbled, walking away.

*   *   *

Later, in our room, Bets watched a British reality TV show where women in bikinis ate maggots.

"I thought you went to London this morning," I said.

"I never got away." Bets stuffed potato crisps into her mouth. "Magda caught me and made me sit in the Freezer all afternoon, repeating lines." She offered me some crisps.

"No thanks," I said. "Let's work on your lines."

"No thanks," she said.

"For your own good," I said, removing my shoes and setting them inside my closet, where her clothes lay on the floor. "Did you wear this?" I asked, holding up a pink and white striped T-shirt, thinking it clean, not meant for the dirty clothes hamper.

"Put it back on the floor," she said. "You're not my mother." She increased the TV volume, adding, "I want to go home."

When I returned from the bathroom, the prisoner remained on the premises; a wadded tissue lay on the floor near her bed. "Are you okay?" I asked.

"No," she said, her eyes red and her nose stuffy the way it gets from crying. "I'm allergic to literary festivals."

"Would you like to study lines now?" I asked. Perhaps I should offer her more understanding; even punked-out kleptomaniacs have feelings.

"No." She blew her nose.

She watched her TV and I read her script, working on the lines myself, although it hardly seemed worthwhile given the heightened security. The prisoner remained on the premises and I studied her lines until I fell asleep in the blue haze of the TV.

*   *   *

When I woke the next morning, it was still dark. I slowly surfaced, remembering where I was, placing myself in the day—opening day. And then it all came back to me: Bets. My prisoner. I looked over. Her bed was made. She wasn't in it. Cautiously hopeful she hadn't just gone to the bathroom, I walked down the hall. Not there, either. With great swelling hope and trepidation, I looked out the window. Her car was gone.

Yes.

Seven

Quickly, I opened the closet and counted Bets's gowns. All seven costumes hung there. All six Regency shoes waited on the floor. How much time did I have? I pulled the script out of my purse but threw it down; the first objective was to get permission from someone other than Magda. Vera. I must find Vera. My hands shook pulling my door shut behind me.

I ran down the still hallway, descended the stairs, and entered the common area of the dorm, strangely quiet after having been so highly charged with energy the last few days. The first scene of the season would begin in less than one hour and Vera sat at a little table talking with Claire, the staff person. I didn't have time for Claire, who was squinting with the effort of persuading Vera, emphasizing her words by chopping the side of her hand on the table.

"Yes, I see your point." Vera shook her head gently, then smiled at me. "But I'm not convinced of the strength of the connection. In experience and temperament they were quite unalike. Jane Austen was a satiric novelist; Mary Wollstonecraft was not." My Jane Austen listened thoughtfully.

"But," Claire said, "to get back to my original point, perhaps losing the lease on Newton Priors would be a good thing. With a new sponsor, Nigel would be freed from Lady Weston's brain-dead shackles and Literature Live could make a real go of things."

"Vera, could I speak with you?" I said.

"Just a minute, Lily." Vera faced Claire, speaking quietly. "Nigel must have complete control of the organization if we are to preserve the relationship with Lady Weston." Claire began to speak but Vera cut her off. "Save political interpretations for your next job. Nigel will run Literature Live without readings from Mary Wollstonecraft. If you want to help, be quiet and let Nigel work. Lady Weston's happiness is extremely important to the future of this organization. We cannot afford a misstep." Vera looked at her watch. "Speaking of go, it's time," she said, and then glanced at me. "What is it, Lily?"

*   *   *

As soon as Claire was out of range I told Vera about my wish to take Bets's part.

"You'll have to act quickly," Vera said as we hurried to my room. "Believe it or not," she said, "Magda is on the roof of Newton Priors at the moment."

"The roof?"

"John Owen has persuaded everyone the chimney is on the verge of collapse and Magda is meeting the building inspector on the roof, asking him not to shut down the house before the opening. Your best chance is to get permission from Archie while Magda is still on the roof."

Vera helped me slip one of Bets's dresses over my head, our hands running into each other and catching in folds, my pulse racing.

"What was all that about Mary Wollstonecraft?" I asked, standing as Vera zipped.

"Nothing more than Claire demonstrating she's read her latest assignment in Lit 403. She's taking classes, you know. Wants to be Magda when she grows up."

Still, I wondered what the point had been; perhaps I should read Claire's assignments.

"Ah," Vera said, "it fits you perfectly." She fluffed the sleeves. I skipped on the Regency underwear, opting for my own, and grabbed a pair of knee-high stockings out of Bets's drawer, remembering her generous offer to help myself to anything of hers—her opening day acting assignment, for example. The Banks Family Grant must have been colossal.

"Where's your bonnet?" Vera asked, finishing my sash.

We grabbed Bets's bonnet and flew down the hall and out the door, the dress rustling between my legs. "The script," I said, as Vera handed it through the window of the carriage, the old horses attracting flies. Too late to walk, I would have to pay the carriage, a private local business operated separately from Literature Live, to transport me to Newton Priors.

"When you get there, sit in the Freezer and calm yourself," Vera said, handing the driver my fare. "You'll be fine, don't worry."

"Aren't you coming?" I asked, afraid to go without her.

"I'll be over in a bit—with Nigel."

A surprisingly long line of patrons waiting in line with tickets watched me rush off, fingers pointing, speaking to each other in French and Japanese. I looked out the window; this was my first journey into a novel, as my carriage traveled through space and time. I looked at my eighteenth-century shoes peeking from beneath my muslin hem, and tried to believe. I looked at the trees and sky framed by my carriage window and tried to believe. I remembered how it felt to read Mansfield Park and I tried to feel myself traveling among characters in Jane Austen's world. But something gnawed at the edges that I never thought about when I pictured this moment. The trees and the sky and my shoes refused to stop being real; they wouldn't transform. Everything about me was the same as always, and I couldn't feel any different, too worried to leave my worldly concerns. I didn't know the blocking. Where was I supposed to stand on the stage? Indeed, I feared failure and pain today. Just like real life.

*   *   *

"Have you seen Archie?" I asked an actor in the Freezer.

"Probably in his smoking jacket," Alex said, without looking up from his crossword puzzle. "Look behind the Carriage House."

I ran, but a family of five blocked my path: a blond Texas Hair woman holding a map, followed by a man and three rambunctious children, progressed in a tangle of limbs and barks like naughty puppies.

"Excuse me," the hair woman flagged me down.

I turned my upper body to answer her question, still speed-walking, imagining Magda had sent her to keep me from talking to Archie in her absence, hired them to load me into their monster SUV and take me back to my gray cubicle world of colossal freeway billboards and Nike swoosh sensibilities; a place where My Jane Austen would not thrive.

"Can you tell me where to find the candle-making demonstration?" she asked.

Patrons detoured around us, camera bags slung over their shoulders, maps and guidebooks open in their hands. A Muslim woman wearing a severely modest black outfit, pants and an overdress, strutted—not a bit oppressed—alongside her man in Western dress. I must focus or Archie would disappear before I could find him. I didn't have a chance if he was with Magda. Shading my eyes, I looked up and saw the group still huddled around the chimney, but who knew how much longer they'd stay up there?