She cried for hours on end, soft weeps on the floor in her room and angry wailings by tree trunks in the forest. Items slipped from her mind. She forgot Fred’s breath. She misplaced the bend of his fingers. A pain in her chest refused to go. In the darkness, while the house slept, Jane stared at the ceiling and thought of him. The enormity of what she had done gripped her.
What business did her inexperienced heart have mixing itself up in love for another human? Before she knew Fred, she existed on a tolerable plane. She was lonely, but it was paradise compared to this. The love she had read about was all summer’s days, crackling fires, and honeyed almonds. Now that she had experienced it for herself, she knew this to be a falsehood, written by men to sell volumes of poetry. Love was not spring buds and fluffy meadows. Love was laudanum. The first dram of it flooded into the blood and took away a pain one never knew one had. Then it exited and left a hole deeper than the one it had been sent in to fill.
She walked to the Black Prince to buy a ticket to London. She would visit Mrs. Sinclair once more. She would procure a new spell, then hold him again.
“Return to London, please,” she told the driver.
“Six shillings,” he said and held out his hand. “Welcome back, miss.”
“I beg your pardon?” Jane said. She eyed him curiously.
“You have been in my carriage before,” he explained.
Jane stepped back and wiped her eyes. She asked the driver for a moment and never went back. Instead, she walked to the Pump Room and stood outside. She stared at the honey-colored facade and returned to the night Fred had taken her there. She sat down on a stone bench and cried until her eyes formed two red welts. People passed her and no one inquired of her well-being. A woman weeping in front of the Pump Room surprised no one.
When her eyes ran dry of tears, she picked herself up and walked to the house. She climbed into bed and went to sleep.
When she woke at three A.M., the blackness returned. She did not run this time. She rose out of bed and sat at her desk. She picked up her quill. She gripped its spine until her knuckles turned white and began a new story.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Sofia burst into Fred’s bedroom and kicked him in the foot.
“Ouch,” Fred said. He was lying on the floor, the duvet covering his head.
“It smells like a brewery in here,” Sofia said. She kicked an empty beer bottle along the floorboards.
“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.
This is how he had been when their mother died. Sofia knew how it went. He collapsed in a heap, then took years to recover.
“Why did you give Jane your blood?” Sofia kicked him again.
“Ow. I don’t know.” He pulled the duvet away from his face.
“You could have refused and kept her here. She’d be okay, too. Relieved, even. But you sent her back. Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because you knew she could only be happy doing the thing she loved. You loved her so much you gave her up.”
Fred shrugged. “Whatever.”
“This is not what Jane wanted.”
“Shush,” Fred grumbled.
“Okay, so she’s gone. I miss her, too. You can drink yourself to death—I can see the appeal. I could give you pointers on how to do it. You could pick up a hobby to pass the time, like trolling or collecting your fingernails in a jar, and you could rant about how Jane Austen did you wrong. Living like half a person. Not living—just breathing. A great option. Do you choose it?”
Fred rolled his eyes. “No.”
“Okay, good. We won’t shut the door on that option, we’ll shelve it for now. There is a second option.”
“What’s that?” Fred muttered.
Sofia sat on the windowsill. “It’s sappy and gross and mushy. You don’t want to hear it.”
Fred groaned. “I do want to hear it,” he said in an unwilling tone.
She cleared her throat. “Okay, here goes. You could honor her.”
Fred met eyes with his sister.
“Say, ‘I saw the sun once and it was beautiful,’” Sofia said. “‘But it’s gone now and that’s sad, but some people go their whole lives never seeing such a thing. I’m going to thank the universe for showing me that and do the same service to myself I did to her. I’m going to stop scowling that she’s gone and smile that she was here at all.’” Sofia grimaced. “Mushy, huh?”
“Disgusting,” Fred replied.
“So those are your two options. Sad, drunken hobo, or smiling and living. Which option will you go for?”
“Probably the second,” he mumbled.
“Good choice.” Sofia gave him a thumbs-up.
“It hurts,” he said then, in a soft voice.
Sofia frowned. She sat down on the floor next to him. “It’s going to hurt tomorrow,” she said. “And the next day. Then one morning, you’ll wake up, and it will hurt less than it did the day before. Hang on for that day.”
Fred nodded. He got up off the floor and walked to the door.
“Where are you going?” said Sofia.
“To do option two,” he replied.
“Are you going to give me a hug? After that epic speech?” Sofia said.
Fred rolled his eyes and embraced his sister. “Thank you, Sofe.”
“You did a noble thing letting her go,” she whispered into his ear.
THE FIRST DAY of shooting arrived. Northanger Abbey returned to the production listings, with no one the wiser except Sofia. She stepped into the makeup truck and greeted her old friend. “No makeup today, Derek,” Sofia announced as she hugged him hello. “Put away the concealers. Jettison the potions and unguents. Today I shall be wearing my own face.”
“Ms. Wentworth, do you feel okay?” Derek asked.
“I am well, Derek.”
“Are you sure I can’t give the crow’s-feet a touch-up?”
“Leave them be, Derek. Strip down the plaster. Let’s show the ruined castle within.”
Derek grimaced. “But the no-makeup makeup,” he whispered
