“I’ll never see my brothers or Papa again. Even Mama,” she replied, looking forlorn.
Sofia dabbed the woman’s brow with her sleeve and played along. “There, there. I will help you. Hush now, Sofia is here,” she cooed.
Jane looked up at her. “The woman who gave me the . . . well, spell—shall I call it a ‘spell’?”
“Sure, why not?” Sofia replied.
“It seems a silly word. I still struggle to believe she had any power at all, let alone magic. She was barely a matchmaker.”
“‘Spell’ sounds great,” Sofia said, nodding. “The audience will love it.” Talk of mystical things always added darkness and romance to a storyline.
“Who?” Jane asked. “The audience?”
“Never mind.” Sofia rolled her eyes. Amateurs. “So . . . the spell?”
“Yes. Well, Mrs. Sinclair—the woman who gave it to me—told me it was reversible.”
“Excellent.”
“Except she did not mention how to reverse it. I found the encounter rather ludicrous, you see. I now wish I had listened more.”
“Okay.” Sofia shrugged. She had neglected this part of the improvisation. “Remind me, who is Sinclair?”
“The matchmaker. In London. When I met her, she said to me, ‘There always has been, and always will be, someone like me in this place.’ I found it ridiculous at the time, so did not pay it much heed. Now I begin to think it possessed some significance.”
Sofia remembered now. The collapsing house, the cabbages. This was difficult terrain to keep interesting for an audience. People were bored by hearing of action that took place off-screen. Still, she did her best to keep the flow going and suggested some forward movement. “So, maybe go check it out? Go back there.”
“Back where?” Jane asked.
“Go back to London.”
SOFIA SHOWED JANE to a guest bedroom in her brother’s house. Night had fallen, and no one had come to tell her what to do next. No person had jumped out of the shrubbery and yelled “Gotcha!” No production runner had called her offering to reimburse her for the Jane Austen Experience tickets (she kept the receipt anyway). The producers seemed determined to keep the farce going and Sofia felt happy to oblige. Sofia had tried suggesting to the Jane Austen actress that they call it a day once it began to get dark and gently tried to get her to leave, but the woman looked about, forlorn, like she might cry.
“I have nowhere to go,” she said. “What if the constabulary arrest me?”
Sofia was unsure about the exact nature of the crime the Jane actress had committed that seemed to make her fear arrest now, but Sofia couldn’t risk the whole thing falling through if the actress left town—they had come this far. She decided the safest option was to let her stay in the house. After providing her with a bowl of canned soup she found in the cupboard—which Sofia felt quite pleased with herself for heating up without destroying the microwave—she showed Jane to the guest room. “You can sleep in here,” she said to Jane. Sofia walked into the room and switched on the light on the bedside table.
“What is that?” Jane asked, transfixed. She pointed at the light.
“That’s a desk lamp,” Sofia said.
“Desk lamp,” Jane said. She clicked the switch at the base of the lamp, mimicking Sofia’s action. The lamp switched off and threw the room into darkness. She clicked the switch once more and the lamp flicked back on. She repeated the motion again. The room was light, then dark, then light, then dark.
Sofia grabbed her hand. “Best just leave it on, methinks.”
Jane shook her head. “Extraordinary,” she whispered, in a tone of wonder.
“You can wear this to bed,” Sofia said. She offered Jane a pink silk nightgown.
Jane studied the dress. “You sew far better than I do,” she said. “Though that is no difficult feat.”
“Save your compliments for Donatella Versace,” Sofia said, and sat down on the bed. “I have a six A.M. call time. Do they want you on set tomorrow?”
“Who is ‘they’ and what is ‘set’?” Jane asked.
Sofia exhaled, feeling exhausted by the continuous state of confusion the actress seemed determined to maintain. “You can break character, you know.” She leaned in. “This is private property. The production wouldn’t dare put cameras inside here.”
“Madam, once more, I have little idea of your meaning,” Jane replied.
Sofia sighed. “A method actor, hey? I dig. Okay, I’ll respect your process.” She would have to continue the farce for a little longer, it seemed.
“I should go to London as soon as possible,” Jane said. “To search for information regarding Mrs. Sinclair. If I can locate her house, perhaps I will find clues to reverse the spell.”
“Sure. Do whatever you like,” Sofia said. She was unsure of the point of this discussion. The hidden camera crew was not going to follow this sweet little extra all the way to London. They were interested in Sofia Wentworth, movie star. Still, she indulged the actress, keen not to ruin another thespian’s improvisations. “My brother sometimes goes to London,” she said. “Ask him in the morning. Perhaps he’ll take you.”
“Splendid. Though, is that not improper? Travelling with a man who is no relative, to whom I am not engaged?”
“You could travel to London in a bikini and no one would care.”
The actress appeared confused by this. “The address is for 8 Russia Row, Cheapside. Do you know of it?” she asked.
“Cheapside? That’s EC2,” Sofia replied. “Give me your paper. I’ll write it down.”
Jane handed Sofia another paper prop she had been cradling, which contained an address for London written in old-fashioned, fountain-pen handwriting. Sofia took it and wrote down the postcode for Cheapside.
“What is that?” Jane whispered. She pointed at Sofia’s hand.
“This? It’s a pen.”
“May I?” she said reverently. Sofia nodded and handed Jane the pen. Jane put the pen to the corner of the paper and scribbled. She gasped. “Where is the ink?” She drew the pen to her face and studied it.
“Inside the barrel,” Sofia said. “It’s more
