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"Miss Bennet!" Lady Catherine's voice cut through Elizabeth's thoughts. "Are you attending? I asked what you think of my chimney-pieces."

Elizabeth jerked her attention back. "They are... very fine, your ladyship."

"Very fine? Very fine? These are the finest chimney-pieces in all of Kent! Designed by the most fashionable architect! The marble was imported from Italy!"

"My apologies. They are extremely fine. Perhaps the finest chimney-pieces I have ever encountered."

Lady Catherine looked slightly mollified. "That is better. Young people today have no appreciation for superior craftsmanship."

Darcy caught her eye again. She raised her glass in the smallest possible salute. He drank his water, and Lady Catherine continued describing the marble, unaware that she had narrowly escaped a rebellion conducted entirely through a jug.

When they finally escaped (after a forty-five-minute speech about the proper management of shrubbery) Elizabeth found Darcy walking alongside her on the path back to the parsonage. The moment they were out of earshot, he sagged visibly.

"She talked about curtains for an hour yesterday," he said. "I learned the merits of three fabrics and was not permitted to look out of the window at any point in the lesson."

"You tried?"

"My feet would not take me to it. I thought the appearance of an interesting bird might save me."

"Did a bird appear?"

"I couldn't get near enough. I was detained for a seventh account of the dinner service. If a plate goes missing, I can describe it to the magistrate."

"Did you try telling her you'd heard it before?"

"My mouth wouldn't let me. Apparently contradicting unaware aristocratic relatives is beyond my agency level."

"Have you gained any more freedom?"

"Six overall. Five for anything beyond dialogue. Stuck there for weeks." Darcy ran a hand through his hair, destroying its careful arrangement. "You?"

"Seven for small choices. Four for major scenes. It varies wildly. Perhaps it is because I am the protagonist."

"Or perhaps your circumstances offer different opportunities. We have not found a fair comparison."

They walked in silence until Darcy glanced back at Rosings and lowered his voice.

"We need to talk. Tonight. Somewhere private. I've discovered something about the narrative structure—something important."

The voice supplied another instruction: "Her breath caught."

"The Hunsford grove just outside the eastern boundary of Rosings?" she suggested. "Sunset?"

"Perfect. The narrative will probably force a rainstorm, but at least we'll have privacy."

"Should I bring an umbrella?"

"Please do. I should like to see whether the weather knows how to deal with one." He glanced back toward the house. "I shall explain tonight. I've a theory about why we are aware. It may be another handsome theory, but I should like your opinion."

Before she could respond, Charlotte called her back. They parted with formal bows, but Elizabeth's mind was racing.

A theory. She hoped this one would find more evidence than their first, which still bore the word unproved.

Before Elizabeth went out that evening, a fold of Charlotte's supper cloth caught beneath her chair as she rose. She stopped to free it, saving a dish of preserves from an undignified end. Charlotte thanked her with the quick, distracted smile of a woman who had begun to know precisely which accidents would take half an hour to put right.

Charlotte nudged the sticking drawer shut with her hip and reached for the cups. Elizabeth took half of them. She had a great many questions about the universe, none of which would help her friend clear the table.

CHAPTER 12