"That was the plan." I smiled. "But we had to let him go before he fainted on stage."

Willis straightened. "I was surprised to see Sixby."

*   *   *

The next time I went to the attic, ratty green cushions had been stuffed into the window seat for my comfort. We met almost every day except Wednesday afternoons. Attic time operated on a different basis than the lower floors of the manor house, a phenomenon I assumed would transfer to any venue where I experienced intense pleasure. Whoever controlled time had decreed that if I were allowed to be happy, I would be allotted half the normal time in which to be so. Each day I anticipated Willis's casual greeting, hunched over his keyboard in the afternoon light when I arrived—the comfort of being expected, as if we were a married couple living in an attic. When he got to a stopping point, he would hand me the laptop and sit back to listen while I read what he'd written. My Jane Austen seemed equally content, sitting beneath some cobwebs in a shadowy corner compiling an alphabetical list of all the male heroes of her books—she'd gotten as far as Edmund Bertram.

"You'll have to dedicate your book to Lady Weston," I said, "in gratitude for her attic."

*   *   *

I wrote to Karen, telling her of the tea-theatre's success. After selling out the first event, we added more tables at the second tea, and cut the scones smaller to feed more people, easily seating sixty. Magda threw a fit when tea patrons lined up in the hall and made noise before her scene was over. In fact, the tea-theatre attracted more people than her professionals-only scene. I told Karen about Willis, leaving out the parts about meeting in the attic and the vampire novel. The only thing bugging me was that I really didn't know what Willis was deciding about. I assumed it had to do with his ordination, but he'd never come right out and said so. I'd replayed the conversation many times in my head, unsure what he meant, afraid to bring it up again for fear of provoking a decision that might go against me. I told Karen I was in love. She replied in bold letters: BE CAREFUL.

*   *   *

"What exactly is the decision you have to make?" I asked him one afternoon.

My Jane Austen fell violently off the stack of boxes she occupied nearby, sending a cloud of attic dust into our midst. His face fell as if I'd broken his laptop and I instantly regretted my impulsive question. If only I could rewind the conversation back to a comfortable subject, like my childhood in Texas and his at boarding school, me being chosen last for the softball team and Willis claiming speed reading as a sport. His gaze left me as he focused inward to form a response. Willis rose from his desk and joined me on the window seat, another sign that something bad was coming. Why hadn't I left things alone, happily learning of his master's in theology at St. Stephen's House, Oxford, and how he'd written only two pages of his thesis, now displaced by the vampire novel? This was starting to feel like the time my dad apologized for missing my high school graduation. I didn't want pity. "I'm afraid I haven't been fair to you," he said.

My blood froze. Dust particles paused on their inbound sunbeam. This was about me.

"I haven't been thinking clearly," he said.

I shivered. My future as Elizabeth Bennet, assured twenty seconds ago, vanished. "What is going on?" I whispered, searching his face.

"There is someone else," he said.

Someone Else. The room spun as his words reverberated and pain spiraled downward in awful glory. I stared at the cushion; its particular shade of lime green seemed so unfair, then folded my arms and held myself. "I can't believe it," I said.

"You must understand, my situation is complicated." He gestured. "I've known her for years; I've known you for weeks."

I didn't know what to say. At first he looked past me, out the window. When I didn't speak, he stood as if he might leave. "I don't want you to go," I said. The news was too difficult to accept, it circled around me, retreating as denial prevailed and then reappearing for another punch in my gut. "I'm so confused," I said, shaking my head as he stood at his desk, packing his things. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He faced me, his hands in his pockets. "I think that's obvious."

"Does she know about me?"

"No." He shook his head. I imagined her asking why he seemed so distant and Willis reassuring her everything was fine as he silently resolved to stop the attic meetings before things got even more difficult. Only he didn't stop the attic meetings.

*   *   *

He was gone for two agonizing days. On the third day, I ran into him, as if by accident, as I entered Newton Priors. "Will you be up later?" he asked. I went as soon as I could and every day after that, holding my questions and staying on safe topics in his company. We never spoke of the Someone Else but she was present, looming in the background, raising the stakes. My Jane Austen sat frozen in her corner, observing my cautious behavior, flinching when she thought I might fall off my wagon. He behaved like a monk; his reserve over the past weeks made sense now. We talked about his vampire novel and my tea-theatre, and we never touched. But the longer we carried on in this "trial basis" manner, the closer I felt to him emotionally, the more I began to think he might ditch the Someone Else. If Willis wanted to be with her, why was he with me? I spent every minute of my workdays calculating when I could go to him. Precarious life flourished in the attic. Fed a diet of forbidden fruit, everything around Willis grew, from the story under his fingertips to the organic matter thriving beneath the damp boxes and rotting wood, to me.

"Doesn't this place remind you of Anne Frank's attic?" I asked. "Nobody knows we're up here." When we got hungry I snuck into the music room where the volunteers kept leftover tea refreshments, filling napkins with scones and cookies to eat in the attic. I helped myself to bottled water kept in reserve for festival speakers. I borrowed a lamp from one of the parlors and set it on an upturned box we used as a table. Willis brought a green plastic chair for me so that we could both sit with our feet on the bench and look out the window. "Why is there a window seat in this attic?" I asked.

"So the imprisoned heroine can look out the window and see her lover approaching." A smile played around Willis's mouth and we shared The Look. But I was thinking: My prince is always in the attic. Had I imagined that kiss so long ago? Our interaction was so restrained that any light touch of his hand, the contact of our fingers when we passed the laptop, or lingering glance when I looked up to find him watching me at the end of a chapter, carried a force far greater than its own weight. I cherished each subtle gesture, hoping they would eventually accumulate into something tangible again. I didn't push. I proceeded with cautious optimism based on the fact that Willis felt like my best friend and he no longer left town. The regular absences to London stopped occurring. I didn't ask why, just allowed myself to hope.

*   *   *

Until one Sunday, as Newton Priors buzzed with festival activities, everyone seemed mildly peeved. Patrons lining up for tickets stomped away mad when they learned the tea-theatre had sold out a week in advance. Nigel expressed irritation that someone had put Mrs. Russell onto the mystery of "several letters still in private hands." Claire said a thief was helping herself to water bottles, and Bets complained of nasty perfume on her favorite black blouse. I didn't tell Bets that the nasty perfume came from her own cosmetics bin. Finally, Mrs. Russell barged into the office complaining that the lines in the scene had been changed and someone needed to do something about it—Fanny Price and Sir Thomas were explicitly discussing slavery. I escaped to the attic.

Opening the door triggered the conversion from one world to the next. Once past the door, I inhaled the musty damp brick-and wood-scented air. I heard the tick-tack of his keyboard—confirming Willis's presence—as I ran up the steps, each stair creaking under my footfall.

"Did Father Kitt bite her yet?" I asked routinely.

"No." He put a hand out to touch me as I passed, the casual gesture I'd come to love and anticipate. I could pretend nonchalance at the contact of our fingers, but goose bumps on my bare arms gave me away. I sank into my window seat, opened my copy of The Monk, and read while Willis bent over his keyboard. I'd had no idea when Omar gave me The Monk, saying I couldn't possibly understand Ann Radcliffe's novels without reading it, that it would be so racy—an abbot seduced by a woman disguised as a monk. Taking care to hold my book so My Jane Austen couldn't read over my shoulder:

The woman reigns in my bosom, and I am become prey to the wildest of passions. Away with friendship! 'tis a cold unfeeling word. My bosom burns with love, with unutterable love, and love must be its return.

Willis spoke and I jumped, caught reading a racy novel. "Do you think Luna is a convincing female?" he asked. He turned in his chair to face me and I put The Monk facedown on my bosom, my heart pounding, while I focused on his question.

"Luna?" I took a deep breath and stretched my arms languorously, the way that had always distracted Martin from ESPN. "You might make her a bit more affected by Father Kitt."

Willis nodded, encouraging me to elaborate. "What do you mean?"

"Luna's passion is not convincing because it's all intellectual; she's not engaged enough." I paused, hoping I wouldn't have to spell it out for him.