"Ready, Lily?" Sixby asked, my dearest, oldest friend. I wished to fall into his embrace and be carried far away, skip the performance, blow off my plan to address Willis.

"I love your dress, my dear," Sixby whispered, his eyes on the bodice of Bets's spotted muslin.

"Thank you," I said, kissing the air.

"I'm going to change now." He winked. "I'll meet you backstage in a tick." He adjusted the sleeve of my dress downward, revealing a bit more shoulder. I posed for him, naughtiness fueled by too much wine and outrage. As he left, touching my cheek affectionately, I caught Magda watching us; she never missed a thing. I bent low to retrieve my plate from the floor, hoping to escape, but Magda crooked her long finger, beckoning me to the dessert table.

As I drew near, she glanced sideways and whispered, "Have you read Mansfield Park?" Her question was the greatest insult anyone could inflict on a fellow at this place. She touched my arm. "Do the words amateur theatricals mean anything to you?" she asked. "Sixby is a professional actor. You need to be careful." She took the plate from my hand just as she took everything as her due, even a plate lacquered with dog spit. She shook her head. "I'm warning you, as a sister."

"Magda," I said, as she moved closer to the fruit salad, "have you read Mansfield Park?" I'd drunk too much wine to bother with inhibitions.

She spooned a serving of fruit onto the plate. "What is your point?" she asked, the berry juices instantly reactivating dried dog saliva.

"I find your ideas about slavery traduce the text." I'd looked up the word Nigel used in conversation, meaning: to expose to shame or blame by means of misrepresentation. Still, I hoped my assertion was coherent, wished I'd had an opportunity to run it by Willis.

Magda frowned, exasperated, as she speared a pineapple chunk, slogging it through the juice. "Lily, you haven't been paying attention this summer."

Disarmed, I'd fired my only bullet.

She popped the dog spit fruit into her mouth and spoke while chewing. "The text skillfully reveals not only the complicity of Austen's society with the slave trade, but equates slavery with the status of genteel women: 'I cannot get out, as the starling said.'" Magda spoke in slow motion for the learning impaired.

"I don't think that's what Austen meant," I said, slurring.

Magda swept a melon slice through the juices, scraping the last stubborn dog germs. "She meant," Magda said, "to demonstrate that women were sold like mere chattel on the marriage market."

"When are you leaving?" I asked.

*   *   *

I watched the famous-looking man with abundant gray hair play his ukulele through a crack in the door. He sang "Dear Jane," an original composition sung in sincere falsetto to great amusement at Vera's end of the table. Another time I would have found him highly amusing but not this evening. Sixby appeared behind me as Nikki took the stage to begin our skit.

Willis and Pippa were seated front and center, eyes on Nikki. This performance might be my last opportunity to speak frankly to Willis; as a captive audience. Sixby squeezed my hand. I didn't want to be alone when this ended.

"The Fanny Wars have raged since 1814 when Mansfield Park was first published," Nikki said in her glorious stage voice. "After two hundred years of fighting over whether Fanny is insipid or merely dull, we offer a format whereby you, the readers, have an opportunity to end the battle. We present two Fanny Prices. Each Fanny will answer a series of questions. By your applause, you will choose which Fanny stays in the novel. First," she said, "please welcome Traditional Fanny, straight from the stacks, just the way she was written."

I entered the stage, smiling shyly, my character as loath to participate in the follies as to consider amateur theatricals in her uncle's absence. Willis sat directly in my sight, underlit by candlelight, free to stare if he so desired. He clapped and smiled as if he'd forgotten every wrong thing at the moment. Then Pippa reached over and took his hand, and envy plunged me deep into pain.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen"—Nikki spoke with greater enthusiasm—"the Fanny you've been craving these two hundred years. The Future Fanny of Mansfield Park, as Jane Austen really meant to write her, please welcome Forward Fanny." Applause and laughter exploded as the audience realized Forward Fanny was none other than Sixby in drag. Wigged and flat-chested, he air-kissed the audience, his arms and shoulders clearly straining the jumbo gown, a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Nikki cleared her throat but people were still laughing and Sixby milked the moment. "For our first question," Nikki said, waiting for quiet.

Sixby and I turned to Nikki.

"We'll start with you, Traditional Fanny."

I stepped forward, taking care to balance myself.

Nikki read from a card. "Please tell the audience what you would say if Mary Crawford rode your horse—without asking. You have ten seconds to respond."

"I would say"—I cleared my throat—"I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay home." This was straight from the book. "I would not wish to appear rude or impatient or create suspicion of either emotion, but," and here I was improvising, "I would concede my horse, confident that Edmund would recognize the slight and privately offer me his reassurance." I stepped back and then added, "I would wait in my attic garret for such private reassurance." I did not dare look at Willis.

Nikki's eyebrows rose and the audience smiled. "Forward Fanny, same question. Take your time responding."

"I would say," Sixby said, jutting his lower jaw and bobbing his head like a tough girl, "Bitch. Off my horse." His delivery was perfect.

The audience laughed and then applauded.

"Thank you, Forward Fanny," Nikki said, smiling in spite of herself. As Nikki read the next question, I watched in horror as Philippa, charmed by the skit, gave Willis a little kiss on his cheek. I spoke my line and the skit moved on but it was all a blur as I struggled to recover basic faculties.

"Traditional Fanny," Nikki said, "is there any chance you would marry Henry Crawford?"

"No. How wretched and how unpardonable, how hopeless and how wicked it is to marry without affection," I said. Take that, Willis.

"Forward Fanny, would you marry Henry Crawford?"

"Interesting question," Sixby reflected. "I've been imprisoned in this manor house, living off the wages of sin for so long, I don't even know if I like men!"

Laughter and applause.

"Last question," Nikki said. "Are you in or out?" Nikki looked at me. "Traditional Fanny, you're first, two seconds."

"If you refer to my social status, I was presented at a ball given by my uncle to honor my brother William and me. Otherwise, I am in love with a would-be clergyman, out of my mind with jealousy of the competition, increasingly lonely in my attic room, and outraged at the discovery of a new half sister in the colonies." Now he knew everything.

Nikki grimaced and the audience laughed politely, as if they got it.

"Forward Fanny?"

It was the way he said it. "I'm in and out." Sixby extended his arms, caressed the words, and the audience loved him. "I like Edmund and Mary. They hooted. "Even better"—Sixby played them along—"I can play Anhalt and Amelia. And back to your earlier question, there's room for both of us on that horse."

Under cover of Sixby's performance, I dared peek at Willis. He was smiling.

"And now"—Nikki's voice projected above the crowd—"each of the Fannys will present their closing remarks. By toss of the coin"—we paused while Nikki threw a coin over her shoulder, announcing, "Traditional Fanny goes first. Keep it short."

I took a deep cleansing breath and launched myself. "I am Fanny Price," I said, "no more and no less than the character Jane Austen lovingly drew to play the protagonist in Mansfield Park. I will never change. Adaptation and reinterpretation are futile protests against prose consigned to posterity. Long after you have sung your last alleluias, I will be cutting roses in the hot afternoon and walking to the parsonage in the rain. And even though I am shy and Mary Crawford is witty, Edmund will choose to love me for as long as readers engage the text. The novel is mine. I win. I stay."

The audience applauded. I dreaded the end of the skit. They would leave together and I would be alone in a way I hadn't been since meeting Willis.

Nikki sighed. "Closing remarks, Forward Fanny?"

Sixby drew closer to me, his male sweat and his stubble dead giveaways if anyone had doubts. "I concede," he said, taking my hand. "I concede Mansfield Park to this Fanny Price." As he raised my hand in victory, I saw a way not to be alone, a way out of my pain. "And I think I'm in love," he added. Sixby lifted me off the ground and kissed me; the unrehearsed spectacle of the two Fannys embracing created a fitting end of hostilities for the Fanny Wars. The audience hooted and whistled; there was more laughter and applause. Sixby and I left the stage together, holding hands as if we both knew what came next. I could lose myself in him, numb the pain at least for a while.

We passed through the butler pantry and into the main hallway where My Jane Austen waited, pacing nervously. People lingered, stepping outside to smoke. But as Sixby ducked into the Freezer to drop off his dress, Willis approached from the ballroom door, walking straight to me.