"I'm not getting it."

"Physically."

"A cheesy love scene?" Willis looked at me. "You don't want them to have sex in my book, do you?"

"Well," I said slowly, "why don't you let him hold her hand and see where it goes from there."

He looked back at his screen and I resumed reading. I hadn't finished another page when Willis turned to me again, "Don't you think there's a metaphor in there for marriage? Doesn't everyone have to make a decision to take the bite? Plunge into the unknown abyss with one person, or be lonely forever?"

"Willis." I laughed. "That's such a pessimistic view for a priest."

He smiled. "I suppose you prefer happy endings." Willis turned back to his computer.

I closed The Monk and sat up to look out the window. Three stories below, all was quiet. Far down the lawn a young couple posed for a photo, the abyss of the pond in their background, swans slinking in and out of the picture. Willis hadn't noticed I'd stopped reading, so I sighed aloud.

"Everything okay over there?" he asked without turning.

"No," I said, wanting more than anything to drag him to my window seat and replay the black blouse incident once more with feeling.

Willis stopped typing and turned to face me. "Something the matter?"

"Are you sure you want to be a priest?" I asked.

His face changed and he smiled to himself as if I'd stumbled on an inside joke. "You don't waste time on small talk, do you?"

I shrugged. "I'm just curious." I was intensely aware of the texture of the foam cushion under my fingers, the sensation of my feet touching the dirty floor. My stomach clutched in nervous anticipation.

"Just curious," he repeated playfully, rising from his desk, taking the four steps to join me on my cushion, my stomach fluttering with each step. "Just probing a man's deepest thoughts and fears is all."

"You've dropped a few clues." I faced him, my head tilted back, presenting an extended view of my neck and cleavage.

"Such as," he said, stretching.

"Well, there is the vampire novel for one." He was so close I could smell him, soap mingled with perspiration.

"Yes." He smiled.

"And the consideration of impending doom and the business of the abyss."

"You've got me there."

"So, I just thought perhaps there's some discontent generating these ideas." I struck the pose that always made Martin kiss me, but Willis looked out the window. Inching closer, I looked out the window with him so that our faces were perfectly positioned to touch when we turned back. But he moved away so it didn't happen.

I left early that day.

*   *   *

On Monday, I thought about not going to the attic. I dressed slowly and took my time reading a story written by one of Omar's workshop participants. The festival was closed that day, Newton Priors deserted when I arrived in the attic much later than usual. Willis met me at the stairs as if he'd been waiting.

"Did he bite her yet?" I asked.

Willis almost took my hand. "No," he said. "But he's giving it serious consideration."

"That's progress." I touched his arm as he moved away.

"I want to show you something." Willis led me between boxes to a place halfway down the room where he pulled a rope hanging from the ceiling.

"Are we going to escape from this attic?" I sighed.

He smiled as a wooden ladder unfolded, not unlike my attic stairs at home. "They forgot to lock it the other day." Climbing, he lifted the heavy trap door in the ceiling, exposing us to the wan light of the outdoors, and then reached down for my hand.

"How wonderful," I said, climbing the rickety steps behind him. "No one's ever shown me a rooftop before." Emerging, I sat on the roof and swung my legs up. Willis held on to me as I steadied myself; but once standing, he let go. All around me were the tops of trees, leaves rustling in the chilly breeze. Holding the hair out of my face, I walked across the flat roof, tar mixed with rough bits of stone. The wind felt much stronger at this altitude. The entire perimeter, crowned by a stone balustrade, itself broken in places, patched with concrete where the blocks joined, lay covered with dusty gray lichen. Dry leaves accumulated at the balustrade's base. Three stories high, we had a good view of St. James's roof and the stained glass window; two people walking on the lawn looked like little dolls playing in an architect's model, and the herb garden revealed its careful blend of textures and patterns.

"I thought you would like it," he said, gazing toward the pond where the grass appeared weed-free and the trees spaced themselves precisely. My Jane Austen paced the perimeter nervously. "Being up here reminds me of you," Willis said.

I couldn't have predicted that remark. "I remind you of a roof? What does that mean?" I asked. My Jane Austen stopped pacing and held her breath.

He turned to face me, not joking at all. "You offer me a new perspective."

I waited.

He looked out to the view and then back at me. "Would you mind terribly if I wasn't a priest?" he asked.

"No," I answered too eagerly, thrilled he had asked for my opinion on a matter of such importance to his future and what this meant about us.

He shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets as he turned away from me. After a silence, as if reconsidering, he spoke to the sky. "You'll be gone soon." The wind rustled the leaves warning me to hush, and My Jane Austen stopped breathing again.

"Willis," I whispered, "how long must we know each other?"

He looked at me, surprised. A single green plastic chair sat vacant in the garden. St. Francis stood frozen in concrete, watching naked birds bathe. I'd gone too far. Backtrack, I told myself. Think of something. But I couldn't stand it anymore. I refused to spend another day imprisoned in the attic.

"You're not working today?" he said, choosing to ignore my question and push past the awkwardness.

"No," I said.

Willis hesitated while a bird hopped on one pediment and then another.

"I'm hungry." I frowned at him.

"So am I." He frowned back.

"And I'm going down to get a cookie," I said. "If you don't come with me, I'm going back to my room. You'll starve up here by yourself." He said nothing but followed me down the folding ladder, past his desk, and down the attic stairs to the second floor landing where anything could emerge from the closed doors without notice. We descended the stairs leading to civilization, although, being Monday, Newton Priors was deserted. As a precaution, we tiptoed down the last steps, passed the front door where tourists got in, and the Freezer where Magda fired people. Willis was still with me when we passed the ballroom where adaptations of her prose daily tortured My Jane Austen, and the butler pantry where Mrs. Russell played footsie with Stephen Jervis. I pulled Willis into the music room and shut the door.

"This," I whispered, "is where the volunteers hide the tea cookies." As I bent to open a cupboard, Willis turned away. When I looked up, he stood at the door with a hand on the knob. "Oh, don't go," I said, disappointed, extending a hand offering a cookie, "I haven't played my song for you."

Willis turned the bolt. Then, without looking at me, he walked purposefully to the other door and turned its bolt, as if he were in charge of festival security. Willis took the cookie from my hand and laid it on a low table. His face bore a hint of shy amusement I'd never seen before, as if he acknowledged the force of resistance he'd put up for so many weeks as well as the act of removing that obstacle between us. Part of me wanted to shake him and demand an explanation for his arbitrary behavior. But that impulse was overcome by the wonder of a breakthrough and the idea of exploring mysterious new territory.

He straightened to look at me. "I'm starving, too," he said, a slight tremor in the word too.

The eye contact, the step toward me, and the hand reaching out offered tangible signs that I hadn't been delusional all those days in the attic. I had been waiting for this. My affection was returned. Willis felt what I felt: the anticipation of receiving intimacy. Never had being me granted such possibility of joy, a room such comfort, a person such completion. Not just because of his appealing physical chemistry and his subtle, intelligent manner, but the way he thought about things; his seriousness of purpose. As Willis kissed me, I experienced the sensation of falling into the right place. No other place existed. He walked me to the ratty sofa, my arms around his neck, and we fell on it together. But then Willis hesitated, raising himself on his elbow and looking into my face. He gently touched my hair as his eyes formed a question, utter fulfillment of The Look. He would not use words, nor would he proceed lightly.

"Yes," I said. "Yes, yes, yes." I pulled him to me, trusting him with my happiness; ready for what would come next because I believed whatever happened with him would be good and carry the same meaning for him that it carried for me. As we lay together I experienced the kind of happiness I never believed would be mine—not complete enough to be chosen for this. The cosmos fit together perfectly, everything related to something else and everything belonged, especially me. I felt utterly connected, a part of the deep unknowable universe.

"You are lovely." He kissed me.

We lay together for a long while, my head on his shoulder, listening to his pulse, smelling his sweat, feeling the hair on his skin, and I kept moving; every new touch or slight shift of position satisfied a craving to get closer and renew the sensation of his physical presence. He brushed the hair out of my eyes and ran his hand lightly over my back and down my thigh. And I remember thinking he was more wonderful than a really good book, or music.