"I must hold up my end." He smiled. "That is, not let the house and its content go on my watch."

"Yes," I said, nodding.

"Nor let the house and its content deplete the trust."

Odd, he had so much time to talk while London waited on hold.

"At any rate, the house must support itself; that much is certain." Randolph squinted in a thoughtful way that reminded me of Willis, a welcome contrast to his earlier jiggling knee. "And from the look of things, Literature Live can't begin to pay the bills."

Vera had not thought to cook the books. She had done a lot of maneuvering in preparation for Randolph's visit, but she had not, as far as I knew, played with the numbers. We were off the script again. "Well." I swallowed. "Perhaps you'll think differently after you read my plan."

Randolph nodded and looked at me carefully. He asked, "Is this the sort of thing you're interested in?" His arms gestured big and at first I thought he was referring to himself. Was I interested in him. But then he added, "Making a country house pay its way?"

I remembered my mother asking me, as a child, if I wanted a toy badly enough to spend my own money on it. Couched in those terms, my interest always faded. "Of course," I said. "I believe there is a market for escape vacations; a place where people can go to live in a novel. And the premise of my business plan is: tourists living in a Jane Austen novel." My Jane Austen would not be a good hostess. She'd hide the extra pillows and run out of coffee and then feign disappointment at early departures, "Leaving my novel already?" She'd install locks on all her books, like diaries, and hide all the keys.

"I must say I'm impressed with your ideas," he said. "I had no idea actresses were so resourceful." In one very smooth gesture he stepped forward and kissed me. A brief and efficient kiss—a husband kissing his wife as he left for the office, as if we'd become a married couple without the work of getting acquainted, without the terrifying exposure of being known. Perhaps he wanted an abridged, intimacy-free version of me: Lily for Dummies. It would be much easier that way. But I knew that would be cheating and My Jane Austen knew it, too.

I smiled and tucked my hair behind my ears. "It's all in the plan," I said. We'd been standing there talking long enough for the sky to grow completely dark.

"Let's look at it together," he said. "In fact, come with me. Do you have time?"

"Now?" I imagined Vera's rapture at the news.

"My sister's getting married and there's a party in their honor tonight."

A camera flash reflected off the silver hood like a flare of lightning, illuminating my expression for anyone who was paying attention. Texas Girl Horrified Outside English Manor. I wished I could replay his comment to make sure I'd heard correctly. Did he say the wedding was on? I wanted to ask Randolph if he'd spoken with Willis lately. Are you sure they're getting married? He watched me struggle to look normal as my cosmos shifted once again. Willis at society parties in his honor, something he'd never have had with me. Maybe he wanted society parties.

"Could you come to London?" he asked again.

"Yes," I said. Although I wasn't stupid; this dinner party didn't just come up.

"Excellent."

Color came back and the clock ticked once more.

*   *   *

Two hours later, my knees secretly weak, I entered a chic London apartment where people stood in small groups holding wineglasses. No one met us at the door. Randolph winked at me and we walked in, his hand guiding from the small of my back. I searched every face, seeking one person, afraid of finding him. Randolph steered me into the kitchen where we discovered his sister leaning against a granite counter, her wit animating the faces of three enchanted listeners. I felt Randolph's eyes on me, like a protective shield in this foreign place. A caterer shuffled large plates of leftovers into storage containers and a dark-skinned woman in a maid's uniform rinsed plates. Judging from the direction the food was headed and the stack of dirty dishes, we'd missed dinner.

Pippa stopped speaking when she saw me. She looked from me to Randolph and back. "Well, hullo." Her mouth spoke to Randolph but her eyes stuck on me. Her enchanted listeners broke Pippa's gravitational pull to shake Randolph's hand. Then all three peered at me as if I were an alien invader from dark space. I looked to see if I'd remembered to change out of my Regency gown. I had.

"She's agreed to run away with me," Randolph announced to the little group.

"Where are you running away to?" asked a man.

"Old novels," Randolph told him. "We'd like to live in one. Preferably Jane Austen."

"Ah," the person said. "Clever. No one would think of looking for you there."

"Although I'd prefer a racy French novel," he whispered to me as Pippa's moons resumed their orbits. "Austen's so tame," he said, "might get boring for a guy."

I faux frowned. "Well, maybe Forster," I said, lifting a warm glass of champagne off a parked tray, feeling surreal. Randolph's friends made the trek to the kitchen to say hullo, most of whom observed me suspiciously after Randolph tried to pass me off as his evil twin, recently convicted of misshelving books in a Texas library. He told a persistent guest that I wasn't "out" (in society) yet, keeping one hand on my back as I disregarded his conversations to search faces. The open kitchen allowed a view of the room beyond but Willis was not present in the room beyond. How many rooms were there and where was the guest of honor?

"How did he propose?" a woman behind us asked Pippa as Randolph turned to shake another hand.

"You mean the first time?" Pippa asked. "We were sixteen and he chased me into the girls' bathroom at our school." Pippa sighed. "It was so long ago, but I do remember reading some gothic novel at the time, or maybe it was The Thorn Birds, and agreeing to marry him if he would swear to be a priest when he grew up."

I disengaged Rand's hand and ventured into the next room. A window wall turned out to be a sliding glass door revealing guests on a balcony. A woman stepping into the room from the balcony tossed a remark to the people behind her and I saw Willis, big as life, his head rearing back to laugh at whatever she'd said. How odd to see Willis so exuberant. My Willis brooded over his laptop in melancholy confinement on the third floor. As I approached the sliding glass door, the panorama opened up, glamorous London at night. Willis saw me. I stepped onto the balcony, closing the door behind, and my time began elapsing. "Still seeking rooftop perspectives?" I asked.

"What a surprise," he said. "Lily." He extended a hand and I prayed he wouldn't squander our private seconds sorting out my presence at the party.

"No small talk," I said quickly, touching the cross around my neck.

"Never, with you," he said, his face still lit from the last round of levity. My Attic Willis was make-believe; this Society Willis was real.

"How are you?" I asked, meaning the big picture.

He reached for a more serious expression, unable finally to engage either a smile or a frown. "Well, since you asked, I'll tell you." He lifted his glass from the low table, avoiding my eyes. "I've decided to leave my degree program."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm not seeking the priesthood." He sipped his wine, relieved, as if he'd finished the thesis and won an award, rather than abandoned his life plan.

"Congratulations," I said. "You've struggled with this. And how is your fiancée taking the decision?"

"It's still new to her." He watched a blinking light make its way across the dark sky.

"So what will you do?" I asked.

"That"—he laughed—"is a more difficult question." He opened his mouth to speak. Certainly his lips formed the word you but the unbidden grind of the door, sliding open along its metal track, admitted party chatter onto the balcony and ended our privacy. We'd been a fairy tale with a beginning, middle, and end, and we'd reached the last page sometime in July. Tonight felt more like an epilogue.

"They're looking for you," Randolph said to Willis. "Time for the toasts," he added, offering me a champagne glass, extending a hand to Willis.

"Ah, duty calls," Willis said. "Excuse me." And passing me, he left without a good-bye.

I started to follow Willis back into the noisy room, not sure I could bear to hear tributes to the lovely couple, when Randolph gently tugged my hand. "Let's stay out here," he whispered, nodding at the sparkling skyline, taking my glass and setting it on the rail. Willis had forgotten to take the stars and the moon when he left. Rand's arm found my waist and I gratefully leaned my head on his shoulder.

"So, it's Forster for us," he said.

*   *   *

Four days later in my library, I reached up to touch the spines of the old books on the shelves, a light touch, the way Randolph touched my back or my hand. I thought about decoding the shapes of ink, the alphabet blooming into people and places in my mind, regardless of book or page number. But mildewed pages were out of character for an aristocrat's dinner date. Rather, I should brush up on foxhunting and afternoon tea. While staring at the shelves, halfheartedly seeking a book on peerage laws, my cell phone went off, igniting my pulse. But it was Vera again.

"Has he called?" she asked.

"No," I reported once again as I pulled an old encyclopedia off the shelf. "The Eleventh Baron of Weston has priorities and we have to wait." I'd fed Vera's frenzy, sharing Randolph's comments about my interest in making a country house pay its way and the talk about running away in Forster. "Do you think he's really interested?" I asked, purposely imprecise, allowing her to address either question: his interest in keeping Literature Live in his house or his interest in Lily. I faced the bookshelf so my voice wouldn't carry into the room, deceiving myself that My Jane Austen wouldn't hear the question. I knew which way Vera would go, which made me think she also understood, at least subconsciously, that Literature Live was doomed.