Ancient and frayed, the cellophane cover disintegrating, the book fell open and stayed flat in my hand, no resistance left in its binding. A previous reader had underlined the soft yellowed pages in pencil, and its smell reminded me of my lost childhood books. "Isn't it funny," I said, "how old books smell the same?"

Sixby took the book and sniffed. "A rose by any other name."

"It doesn't matter what library they come from," I said. "They all smell the same."

"Lily, you may be on to something." Sixby handed the book back. "But after you finish smelling it, give this book a proper read."

Gripping the book in both hands, I looked Sixby square in the eye. "Sixby," I said carefully, "will you play the lead in my production?" His expression lost all trace of theatrics; my request obviously triggered stress. At last, the real Sixby stood before me.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he said, squinting. "Magda and all."

"Yeah." I nodded, slipping the book under my arm. "I guess you're right."

"But I'll be there for your opening. When is it?"

"Next Wednesday at four. I hope," I said.

"Fantastic," he said, much brighter. "And don't forget we have an act to plan for the follies."

"The follies." I hugged the book.

"We need a good idea," he said. "So think of something: music, dancing, a little Shakespeare."

"Parting is such sweet sorrow," I said, deadpan. "That's all the Shakespeare I know."

"O, speak again, bright angel!" Sixby's rich voice captivated me, just as it had at the orientation meeting. He stepped toward me and took my arms as if his messy bedroom were a stage and I his leading lady. "For thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven." The artful way he said thou and glorious lifted me out of myself. "Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes," he said as I felt myself airborne, soaring on the beauty of his modulation. "Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him when he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds and sails upon the bosom of the air." I closed my eyes and imagined exercising my diaphragm to respond in kind. The words spun in my head, reverberating, sound falling on me like dazzling snowflakes as I raised my arms and touched fingers with Sixby, the power of his delivery endowing me with the belief that if I opened my mouth, words would come out to match his in depth and timbre. I was Juliet. I felt the emotion; if I knew the lines I could speak. But then Sixby's lips touched mine. I opened my eyes; footsteps approached in the hall. Before I could move my mouth away from Sixby's, Omar stood at the door with an armload of paper.

"From Magda," he said, handing the stack to Sixby.

Sixby groaned.

"Do you have time for lunch?" Omar asked me.

*   *   *

"What's up with you and Sixby?" Omar asked, sitting across from me, waiting for our sandwiches, the pub especially noisy, thanks to a group of men drinking their lunch.

"He's helping me," I said, the acting book tucked in my JASNA bag.

"Helping himself." Omar laughed. "Must be smitten with your inexperience."

"Acting lessons," I said, wondering if Omar might be jealous. I'd caught him watching Sixby at odd moments.

"Acting Lesson Number One." Omar's index finger stabbed the air. "Teach Only Naive American Girls."

"That would be me," I said, over the din of laughter from the men at the next table.

"Acting Lesson Number Two," Omar said. "The Importance of Rehearsing Love Scenes."

"Not in Austen," I pointed out. "No danger there."

"Well," he said, "revisionism is rampant at Literature Live. Just be careful." Omar pulled a folder from his satchel. "Here's your script," he said.

"Thank you, Omar. That was quick." I opened the folder and scanned the first page. Lovers' Vows, Condensed for Lily's Tea-Theatre. Seven characters: two women and five men. "Where will I ever find five men to play these roles?" I looked up at Omar, who was watching the table of noisy men. "Omar."

"No."

"Please?"

"I cannot act."

"That doesn't matter. I'll teach you."

"No." Omar stood. "I'm going to get our sandwiches now."

"You can have the smallest part. Oh please. If you say no, I'll have to beg Sixby and who knows what will come of that."

Omar laughed. "You'll be good as Agatha."

"I'm Amelia or nothing. I'm in charge, remember? You can play Anhalt." I took his hand and pressed it to my cheek. "Please?"

Omar rolled his eyes. "Maintain your dignity." He took his hand back. "I'll do it—only if—you can't find anyone else."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!"

As Omar brought our sandwiches from the bar, I brought up the subject of Magda's funding initiative. "It seems that Nigel's in denial."

"Yes, Nigel is in denial on many fronts."

"What do you mean?" I asked, speaking over the din.

Omar looked at his watch. "How much time do you have; I'm not sure where to start."

"Approach it alphabetically."

Omar ticked off on his fingers. "A," he said. "Austen's global, Actors are expensive, Attention spans are shorter."

"Okay, okay."

"Banks family bails out, Cash flow dries up, Death claims Nigel."

"Death?" I asked. The table behind Omar shouted a toast.

Omar put his hands down. "Surely you know he's sick."

"No." They clinked glasses and drank.

"HIV positive as long as I've known him. And he's going downhill this summer."

My hand flew to my mouth. How could I not know this?

"I'm surprised Vera didn't tell you."

"No, she didn't." But now I knew what she carefully sorted and lovingly dropped into his days of the week, hunched over the pillbox, the desk littered with prescription bottles. How sick was he and how much time did he have? One of the men at the next table slammed his empty mug.

*   *   *

At my request, John Owen, the conservationist in charge of maintenance, accompanied Mrs. Russell and me to the kitchen for the purpose of turning on the water. According to my calculations, we needed twenty gallons of tea, and none of our volunteers would haul that much water into the house dressed as Regency ladies. We had no servants, other than me, and I had pressing responsibilities elsewhere. "We need to fire up the stove as well," I said to John Owen, who crouched below the surface, grimacing as he applied his wrench.

"Blow us all up, won't you?" he said.

"Oh no." Mrs. Russell clutched her fringed shawl, she hadn't figured on explosions. She lowered tools to John Owen and his helper, a shirtless grad student by the name of Stephen Jervis, Caribbean judging by his caramel skin and Rastafarian plaits lining his scalp. Perhaps he had roots in Antigua. Stephen and Mrs. Russell, who carried the wrench, went outside; we could see and hear them through the big hole in the wall. Mrs. Russell giggled from a place deep in her chest right before Stephen gave the go ahead to turn the faucet. Globs of water spit and spurt into the sink before easing into a smooth rush.

"Hooray!" I said. "Can you try the stove now?"

*   *   *

While my helpers continued working, I ran back and forth between kitchen and office. Sorting through files, I found the expired agreement. A napkin-quality document, I marveled they'd kept it. While they tested the gas, I typed up a new version using the same casual language but adding the title "Lease Extension" and a line for Lord Weston's signature. No telling how much longer Nigel would be around to use his IBM Selectric. Desperate to beat both Magda's grant applications and Nigel's terminal illness, I rushed around, filling the copier, hunting paper clips, the thought of Willis in the attic beeping like a private snooze alarm.

Mrs. Russell was standing outside the kitchen looking tense when I returned. "Don't go in there," she said in an unfamiliar chest voice. "We have leaks. Stephen has gone for new pipe."

Stephen. I covered my nose.

"What's that smell?" I turned to find Magda bearing down on me. "We can't have this horrid smell. The next scene starts in thirty minutes."

"We have everything under control," I said calmly, glancing about to make sure all the windows were open. "Don't worry."

"Are you responsible for the water coming out of the second floor bathroom?" Magda asked me. "I don't want it raining in here."

"Not a problem," I said. When Magda was out of earshot I asked Mrs. Russell, "Do you know how to turn off the water?"

*   *   *

I didn't have enough information to complete the lease. Nor did I have enough ideas to start a business plan. What university would give me funding for the festival? And in spite of my compelling concern for Nigel and his festival, I kept one eye on the clock, my adrenal glands dumping on several false alarms when tall people in dark shirts walked by. By the time we got the water and gas turned off again, Mrs. Russell had recruited Stephen Jervis to join our theatre. I decided that a short attic break would send me back to my projects with renewed energy.

*   *   *

"What happened to you last night?" I asked. Willis sat at his desk. The laptop closed, he'd been reading Living Abroad in Belize.

"Nice to see you, too." He smiled.

I walked to the window and sat on the plank bench, feeling my bones on the hard surface. "You vanished."

Willis turned his chair to face me and I felt his eyes, studying me. "Life is too short for bad writing," he said.