Claire was up to something. When she and Magda weren't engaged in covert phone conversations, Claire sat hunched over a stack of top secret papers. She clicked into her screen saver if I walked by, covered papers she was working on, and stopped me with her eyes if I got too close. I waited five minutes before visiting her desk to use her stapler. While there, I stealthily lifted the books obscuring her top secret papers.

She'd been working on a grant proposal. Looked like a grant proposal for Literature Live. What's so secret about that? Just to be sure, I dug deeper into the pile but found nothing of interest. Suddenly, I froze, sensing a shadow on my arms, an approach from behind. Looking down, I saw stealthy white satin slippers, the sort that move over wooden floors noiselessly. Turning, I stared into the needy eyes of Mrs. Russell, black curls escaping her mobcap.

"The ballroom is free on Wednesdays from four to six," she whispered.

"Good," I said. "Can each of your volunteers furnish four place settings and a teapot from their personal china?"

Mrs. Russell hesitated. Her face brightened. "How lovely," she said breathlessly. "A room full of china patterns." She looked at me. "Like a china shop."

"Will they do it?"

She considered. "Some will want to bring more than one pattern." Her eyes darted back and forth. "They'll have to take turns."

"We need scones, sandwiches, and cookies," I said.

"We've made assignments."

"Clotted cream, sugar, and lemon."

"That's all under control," Mrs. Russell said, raising her palm to stop me. "I'll handle the food if you handle the entertainment."

"What entertainment?" I asked.

"I don't know. That's your department."

"Yes, of course. I'll do the entertainment," I said.

*   *   *

After she left, I sat at my desk contemplating tea entertainment. Tea-theatre. When Nigel finally arrived, Archie came with him and they closed themselves in Nigel's office. With the door shut, I couldn't hear anything. When Nigel's door was open, I heard everything he said on the phone, in meetings, and in casual exchanges. By simple osmosis, as long as his door remained open, I was privy to the ins and outs of Nigel's concerns, my finger on the pulse of the festival. I learned who was making the keynote address at which important upcoming conference, which distinguished scholar would edit the next important volume of what British novel, and where Nigel stood on many issues. Things he could not endure: elegiac yearnings and transgressive assumptions. I regularly consulted the dictionary on my desk for unfamiliar words in Nigel's conversations, Elegiac: expression of sorrow for something now past. Thereafter, I watched the costumed Janeites, cutting roses or pouring tea, for signs of sorrow. If they were sad for something now past, I would be more sympathetic. The few times Nigel closed the door, I felt cut off, aware of missing something good.

When Archie left, I stepped into Nigel's office.

"The volunteers would like very much to have a tea in the ballroom," I said.

"They told you?" Nigel feigned surprise.

"Yes," I said, glad for his indulgent mood. "And I was wondering if they could do it, with my help, on Wednesday at four."

"I don't see why not," Nigel said, "especially if that will satisfy their ball cravings." Nigel looked past me and I turned to see Claire standing in the doorway. "You'll keep track of the details, I assume."

"Yes," I said. "Income and expenses, volunteer hours and all that."

"What is it, Claire?" Nigel asked, less indulgently.

Claire approached the desk tentatively, a book in her hands, willing me to exit with every step. But I held my ground, thrilled to be in the right place at the right time to learn why she'd been so anxious to speak with Nigel. Claire gave me one last dirty look before proceeding.

"I've discovered something very interesting," she said, handing Nigel her highlighted text, her eyes flashing stop in my direction. Nigel looked at the book and passed it to me, as if Claire had meant it for show-and-tell. In the acknowledgment section of Jane Austen's Letters edited by Deirdre Le Faye, Claire had highlighted, "There are a few letters still in private hands, with whose owners it has proved impossible to make contact."

"And your point?" Nigel waited as I returned the book.

Claire's expression dimmed at his failure to grasp the importance of unexamined letters written by Jane Austen. She looked as though she'd lost sleep on account of the highlighted words. "Why are these letters being held?" she asked. "Is someone keeping a secret from the world?"

Nigel sighed. "What do you hope to discover, correspondence concerning Jane Austen's secret marriage?"

"Of course not," Claire said. "I just wondered if you knew of any attempts to force those letters into the public domain," she asked. "Don't we have a right to read them?"

"The letters are not being kept secret; they are simply private property of people who don't wish to share. They will become public someday," Nigel added, straightening a sheaf of papers. "The owners will die and the heirs will cash in."

Claire pressed her lips together and looked at her book. "But what if those letters explain what she meant when she wrote the novels."

Nigel paused and I hoped he might suggest she check her twenty-first-century filters at the door, or launch into Jane Austen's opinion of women whose imaginations overcome their reason. But he said, "Jane Austen reveals us to ourselves in many ways in her novels, revelations that require neither act of law nor detective to access."

All the same, I couldn't wait to tell Mrs. Russell about the missing letters, fairly certain Literature Live owned another copy of Le Faye's book. Claire gave up and I didn't shadow her further because I spent the rest of the morning planning my tea-theatre.

*   *   *

Omar explained Claire's squirrelly behavior over lunch. "Magda is plotting a coup," he said.

"What?" The pub was noisy.

"And Claire is helping her." He swallowed. "Magda's seeking permanent funding for Literature Live and promoting a year-round format, and she's dumping the typing and copying on Claire."

I remembered Randolph's request at the orientation meeting for ideas but never considered someone else—particularly Magda—would hear that call and beat me to the business plan. A year-round operation would be great if you could pay for it. "How will she do it?" I asked.

"She's soliciting her Michigan contacts, seeking university affiliation for the festival."

Why hadn't I thought of that? A year-round format would solve a lot of problems, including my employment status. But who was I kidding? There would be no place for me in Magda's plan for the future. "Do you think the Westons would allow Americans to fund their British project? Wouldn't that pose a problem?"

"The problem is Magda would be in charge." Omar pointed his spoon. "The problem is Magda is a bitch."

I agreed.

"Fifteen minutes of Magda, and Lady Weston would throw us out of her house, the actors would quit, and the tourists would go home," he said, running his spoon across his plate and licking. "Who wants to be bossed around on their vacation?"

Magda would surely sneer at me when she learned of the tea-theatre. I told Omar about the plan. "Will you write a script? I was thinking we might perform a condensed version of Lovers' Vows," I said, the same play the Mansfield Park Bertrams produce in their father's absence. "And we'll cast it with all amateur actors. Amateur tea-theatre."

Omar looked over his shoulder into the room.

"Will you take a part?" I asked.

"No. I can't act," Omar said.

"Oh please. I'll teach you."

"No."

"Will you write the script?"

"Only on the understanding that I will not act in it."

"Deal," I said, crossing my fingers under the table.

"I wonder if I could get any more of this applesauce."

As Omar approached the bar for more applesauce, I looked at my watch. It had been fifty hours. "Do you know Willis Somerford?" I asked when Omar returned with a small bowl.

"No," he said. "Why?"

"Just wondering." I folded my napkin, resting it on the table, pleased to have exceeded the forty-eight hours I'd calculated as the maximum effective attic abstention period.

*   *   *

Standing outside the door to the attic, I checked the hall to make sure no one watched me disappear myself into the attic stairwell. What if he wasn't up there? What if he was up there?

"Hello, Willis," I called. "It's me, Lily." I hoped my name would ring a bell. I clutched the copy of Shakespeare's comedies, as if the gift were a casual afterthought, as if I hadn't agonized all morning over which edition of the many falling off our shelf he'd like best, nor nursed a mild obsession since our last moment together, waking up in a world that held him, looking for him in every room, most thoughts related to resuming our conversation under his sensual gaze.

"Lily," he called back. "Come up."

The musty, damp smell, the choking dust, the table, and the orange cord all welcomed me back.

"You've brought your book," he said, closing his laptop. "Shall we have our own literary festival?"

"Actually," I said, handing him the book, "I brought this for you."

"Thank you." As he took the book, his face fell ever so slightly and it seemed he flipped the pages to avoid looking at me.