Mrs. Russell stepped in, waving folded programs. "Lily, we're waiting for you."

*   *   *

"Amelia, you have a brother," the baron spoke the same line I'd heard many times, but today it resonated.

"I have just heard so, my lord," I said, thinking of all the years I'd felt something was wrong with me, when in fact my father had split his attention between two families, building half of his life with people I didn't know.

"What return can I make to you for the loss of half your fortune?" the baron asked.

"My brother's love will be ample recompense," I said. Sue could finally have the husband she'd been denied all those years.

The baron and Anhalt delivered their lines, after which the baron handed me over to Anhalt to be his wife. It felt good to lean on Sixby. "Oh my dear father," I said. "What blessings have you bestowed on me in one day." If this discovery was such a relief, why did I feel so sick? The wave that had brought a bounty of truth to my life began to recede, taking as much as it brought. As if in delivering a half sister, it demanded my own self in exchange.

When the skit ended I did not stay to autograph programs for the children in the audience. Temporarily willing to disregard the entire issue of Pippa, I ran to the attic, desperate to see Willis.

*   *   *

"Hello," I called up the stairwell. All the years I'd spent pondering my affliction, searching for what was lacking in me, and it wasn't me at all. The half sister filled in so many blanks. Like the missing letter in a game of hangman, when finally inserted, suggests words, and those words associate instantly, causing an entire phrase to fall effortlessly into place. The absent father, the wistful mother, and the proprietary appearance of the mysterious woman: I didn't have a zillion unrelated problems; I had one.

"Hello," I called up the stairs. But the attic was silent; no clicking of the keyboard. "Hello," I called again, running up the stairs to the landing where I'd first met Willis. His chair was gone and his table lay bare, pushed against some boxes. My green cushions sat in the window but they'd been turned on their sides as if someone had checked beneath them for stray belongings. The books were gone. Every last volume of theology as well as 1000 Places to Visit Before You Die and all its lighthearted friends. Only my half-read copy of Anna Karenina remained.

Pushing the cushions back into place, I sat in the window seat, inhaling the musty attic air, feeling the damp chill. Willis hadn't been avoiding me. He'd moved out. My Jane Austen sat in a dark corner making a list of her heroines and I felt grateful for her company, although I'd never make it onto her list. There was something wrong with me. A freak of nature, destined to be alone forever because of something deep down wrong with me that made me unlovable. No man ever stayed in my life for long.

Nineteen

On the evening of the follies, workers adjusted the stand-up microphones arranged on the stage, "testing one, two," followed by a squawk. I entered the ballroom dressed as Fanny Price for the evening's follies, wearing period attire from Bets's closet, including Bets's unused elaborate undergarments handmade by a seamstress who reenacted Regency romances on weekends. If Father Kitt, the vampire priest in Willis's novel, could see me now, he would be unable to resist the pillows of flesh bulging just south of my jugular. Claire inspected the name tags I'd arranged in alphabetical order. She expected a big turnout this year based on her assessment of the fragile state of affairs. Vera said, "Nonsense. The Founder's Dinner is always highly anticipated. Everyone always comes."

Everyone except Willis.

"Oh, there you are," Claire said to me. "Would you make another name tag? Your handwriting is so much better than mine." She handed me the nearly dead calligraphy marker I'd been chewing all week.

"What name?" I asked, pen poised over the white square.

Claire called to the sound person, "It's not centered on the stage." She gestured, scooting air to the left.

"Claire," I said, straightening. "Whose name?"

"Oh." She looked past me, blinking, struggling to recall. "Somerford. Willis Somerford."

We would meet again. The room shifted and the stage, tables, even the workers looked different, now that Willis was coming. I wrote the familiar letters of his name and placed the name tag between Sadonek and Stewart, my mind racing to organize the things I wanted to say to Willis. How to speak to him in a ballroom filled with people? How to be alone with his fiancee present?

Regulars began to arrive; several participants from Omar's writing workshop claimed a table. Magda held court. Her affair officially over, she'd announced plans to return to Michigan to hammer out the details of her seminar. Her announcement came the same day Archie let us know he would be staying close to home for the rest of the summer, offering gratitude for his child's survival. Although I disliked Magda, losing both Archie and Magda seemed a sorry blow for the festival. Like Mansfield Park losing Aunt Norris and Henry Crawford. The summer had been a riotous expansion. But now things around me were contracting, matters settling, people returning to their regular orbits. I'd soon be back in Texas.

Mrs. Russell followed Nigel around the room, wearing her Anne Elliot dress for mature heroines only. Vera kept signaling "go ahead" to Nigel from the head table where she sat next to the old woman who always brought her dog. But Mrs. Russell stalled, waiting until all the VIPs were present before she officially welcomed festival alumni and guests, inviting all to proceed to the buffet. I fixed my eyes on the door Willis would use for his entrance; my pulse surged at the arrival of every tall man.

Philippa stood near the bar. She lifted a single cracker from the basket and broke it into tiny pieces, placing crumbs in her mouth one at a time. It might take her an hour to eat one cracker. No wonder she was so thin. And her skin was so white the veins were visible to the naked eye. Father Kitt could drain her so easily. She waved as Willis arrived, then touched a napkin to the corners of her mouth. I looked away so I wouldn't have to witness the kiss.

Mrs. Russell's microphone squawked and Pippa led Willis to their place at the head table. I walked from table to table, unaware of my actions, lighting candles in little glass jars, my hand shaking, wondering if Willis had seen me yet. The earth kept shifting under my feet, rearranging my world again before I could adjust to the last shift. I poured myself a large glass of wine.

"You look awful," Omar said. "You want to go outside?" He grabbed a wine bottle and I followed him.

In the herb garden, where light from the ballroom illuminated St. Francis, who was blatantly eavesdropping, I told Omar about Willis. Once I finished my story, we sat quietly, listening to the hum of the party. When Omar spoke, it wasn't about the things I'd said.

"You did a great job with the tea-theatre."

"Thank you," I said, clinking glasses with him.

"It was just the kick in the butt this festival needed."

"Thanks to the volunteers. But once they tire of baking, our profit margins will shrink."

"Have you ever acted before?" Omar asked.

"Small parts in high school. No one is more surprised at my acting than me." I shifted on the bench. "I don't want to talk about business," I said. "I want to obsess over Willis." I rested my hand on my forehead. "Do you think I'm needy?" I asked.

Omar choked on his wine and coughed. I handed him a napkin. "Lily"—he locked eyes with me and touched my hand—"if you have to ask..."

*   *   *

I made sure to refill my wineglass and Omar brought me a plate of food before Nigel began his talk. Claire had led me to expect "Nigel's Last Words on Jane Austen." She made it sound as if Nigel would reveal the answer to the great mystery of Jane Austen's undying appeal—that aspect of Austen's work which provoked, not only Magda's activism, but Mrs. Russell's wardrobe expansion and my possessive friendship with someone dead two hundred years. Even though I refused to believe Nigel was retiring, I would listen to every word, just in case. But Nigel's talk was not long enough or serious enough to be his swan song. Not a funeral, just the Founder's Night talk that he gave every year and surely believed he would give next year. He reviewed the story "The Janeites," by Rudyard Kipling. You take it from me, Brethren, there's no one to touch Jane when you're in a tight place.

When Nigel's talk ended, the follies began. I looked at the plate of food Omar had brought me while listening to a man read a screenplay of his Northanger Abbey adaptation that went on way too long. Even the little dog got restless and wandered the room. Feeling sick, I put my plate on the floor and the dog wandered over, first sniffing, then gently biting into the chunks of lamb. He ate while, at the podium, Henry Tilney reminded Catherine Morland of the similarities between marriage and dancing. The dog licked the plate until it looked perfectly clean.

Next up for the follies, Sabrina played Jane Austen hosting a talk show, interviewing Patricia Rozema, director of a film adaptation of Mansfield Park. "What were you thinking, girlfriend?" Sabrina said; a joke that would never connect outside of this crowd.

Sixby arrived somewhere between the end of my second glass of wine and the middle of my third, wine establishing a military dictatorship in my head, dispatching directives to my extremities, my reason completely overthrown.