“Sofia Wentworth.”
“I’m a big fan,” said Dave. He held out his hand. Sofia rolled her eyes and shook it.
Dave showed Sofia to the fourth floor. He ushered her into a small room with stacks of dusty shelves. “We have a whole witch section,” he said cheerfully. “We burned them like mad in the West Country.” He offered Sofia a book. It was bound in heavy black leather. “The Malleus Maleficarum, 1487. The seminal work on witches from the height of the craze. Written by a priest who was quite angry, it seems. This is your A1 guide to witches. How to spot ’em, how to arrest ’em, how to burn ’em.” He smiled brightly.
Sofia picked up the book. “Do you have anything more vocational?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “Vocational?”
She shrugged and spoke casually. “You know, from the witch’s perspective. Like how one might make a spell, for example.”
Dave smiled. “You mean a spell book? You want to cast a spell?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said with a laugh. She paused. “Actually, I want to reverse one. A real spell. Made by a real witch.”
“Does this witch have a name?” Dave said.
“She did, in fact. Her name was Mrs. Sinclair,” Sofia said. “What?”
“Oh gosh, sorry,” Dave replied with a laugh. “I thought you were joking.”
“I know you think me a fool. That I’m just some beautiful actress, chased into insanity by tragedy and scandal.” She adjusted her sunglasses.
“I don’t think you’re a fool. What’s the spell for?”
“If you must know, Jane Austen is living in my house.” She cleared her throat.
He stared at her and seemed to stifle a smile. “Jane Austen.”
Sofia nodded. “Witty writer lady. She’s living here, in my house—my brother’s house, actually; I don’t buy ones that small. She cast a spell and was magicked through time and ended up here. Now she needs to reverse said spell to travel back to her own time. Yes, I understand how loopy I sound. No, I don’t expect you to believe me. See, I told you, bookman. It’s better if you leave me in peace. Thank you for your help, but now I have work to do.” She gathered up her enormous tote bag and shawl.
“Hey. Don’t go,” said Dave. “I’m sorry.” She ignored him and made her way out of the stacks. “At least leave a number where I can reach you,” he called after her.
She paused and turned. “What for?”
He shrugged. “In case I find anything.”
She scoffed. “You won’t.” But she walked back to him and wrote a number on a slip of paper. “Here. Happy? Can I go now?” She handed him the paper, cursed herself for coming there, and walked to the elevator. It opened and she stepped inside.
“Wait, stay,” Dave followed and called after her. But she pressed the button and the doors had already closed.
THAT AFTERNOON, SOFIA rejoiced in her first dress rehearsal with Courtney Smith. Derek once again fashioned her face to flawless perfection with his no-makeup makeup, but his finest efforts were rendered pointless when Courtney again stepped into the truck.
“All right, missus?” she said in a reasonably decent Yorkshire accent. Sofia ran her mind back over the inflection and was disappointed to find it accurate. She bristled with jealousy.
“Sorry about that. I’ve been chatting with Mick the grip? He’s from a town up north. Thought I’d try some British, to get me into the mood. Show me your costume, then,” Courtney said.
Sofia turned around and smiled. This at least she could be proud of. Her agent had spoken to the producers. Sofia now wore a very pretty, slim, cream silk gown, demure and elegant. She resembled a lovely, sparkly Greek column. Her fans—and Jack—would love her in this gown.
“I’m not sure,” Courtney said, pointing to the dress.
“I beg your pardon?” Sofia said with a laugh. “What is the matter?”
Courtney shrugged. “I could be wrong, but maybe that dress isn’t right for this picture?”
“How? It’s exactly the style of the period.”
“I know, but it’s wrong for your character. Mrs. Allen is a humorous person, not a sex symbol. She’s supposed to make people laugh.”
Sofia grimaced. Even if Courtney was right, who was she, an actress, to be commenting on another actress’s costume?
“I’ll be back,” Courtney said. Sofia and Derek looked at each other and shrugged. Courtney soon returned with a wardrobe person who looked worried. The woman carried another dress on a hanger. “Try this on,” Courtney said, and offered the dress to Sofia.
She studied the dress and gasped. “I will not.”
“It’s just a rehearsal. Try it on. If it doesn’t work, you can take it off again.”
Sofia rolled her eyes and ducked behind the curtain to change. She reemerged and stood in front of them. Derek snickered.
“What is it, Derek?”
“It’s hysterical,” he said, his face falling as he saw Sofia’s expression. “Oh. Is it not meant to be?” Sofia ran to the mirror and surveyed her reflection. Lime-green velvet composed the dress’s main features. A giant purple bow, also in velvet, festooned the bosoms. The accompanying headpiece had actual fruit in it. If she had looked like a peacock before, she resembled a frog now.
“It’s perfect,” Courtney declared.
“What? No, you must be joking,” Sofia said.
“You look hilarious,” Courtney said with a nod. “It’s a brilliant costume. The audience will howl with laughter.”
“Too bad,” Sofia said with an outraged laugh. “I already had a dress. I’m going to change back into it.”
“What’s wrong? Leave it on,” Courtney said. “It’s what Jack wants.”
Jack. Oh God. “It most certainly is not.”
“Let’s ask him. Go get Jack,” Courtney said to the wardrobe person, who scurried away with a look of fear.
“Don’t bring Jack into this! Oh, hi,” Sofia said as Jack appeared.
“Whoa,” he said as he stepped into the truck. He stared at Sofia.
“Exactly,” Sofia said. “Thank you.” She felt a mixture of two things: relief that he did not like the dress, and embarrassment that he was seeing her
