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"And then I got to Rosings, and Darcy said something very odd about 'narrative compulsion' and 'gathering plot threads,' and then he laughed. Darcy laughed. At his own joke. Which no one else understood. And then I felt compelled to come to the parsonage, even though I don't know why!" Bingley was getting agitated. "Miss Elizabeth, am I going mad?"

"I don't think you're mad. Something like it happened when I first became aware."

"Aware of what?"

"Of the fact that we're characters in a novel."

Bingley stared at her. Then he laughed nervously. "That's... That's absurd."

"I thought so too. Then I found myself agreeing to things I had meant to refuse. It sounds rather like your journey."

"I..." Bingley faltered. "Coincidence?"

"Have you noticed rain beginning at very convenient moments? Darcy has a notebook full of it. I would show you, but he is particular about his columns. Have you seen anything of the sort yourself?"

"At Rosings just now, the sky cleared the instant he went indoors," Bingley said. "I thought it fortunate."

"It may have been fortunate. Even Darcy cannot hold every cloud accountable. But your carriage journey troubles me."

Bingley sank farther into his chair. "I have spent my life finding things agreeable. People, houses, plans I had no intention of making until somebody proposed them. Was any of that mine?"

Elizabeth had no answer ready. She looked at the man who had danced with every neglected partner at the assembly, and wondered how often his kindness had cost him something no one had bothered to notice.

"You need not agree with us now," she said.

"I do not. I mean, I believe you, but I object most strongly."

"That is permitted."

He moved his hat from one knee to the other. "I should like it recorded that I object. No chart is necessary; I merely wish someone to hear it."

"I hear you."

"Even my..." Bingley gestured helplessly. "My feelings for Miss Bennet? Those were written?"

"I don't know," Elizabeth admitted. "But does it matter? You feel them. They're real to you."

"But if someone wrote me to feel them⁠—"

"Forgive me. I have asked that question often enough to be cross with it, which is no excuse for being cross with you. I do not know the answer. You need not settle everything today. When you can speak to Jane, ask her. She ought to have a say in a conversation about her own affections."

Bingley blinked. "That's... actually quite practical."

"I've been spending too much time with Charlotte."

"I shall need a little time," Bingley said. "I am very often told that I shall soon be cheerful again. I should prefer not to be hurried."

Elizabeth drew the curtain partly across so that the light no longer fell directly in his eyes. "Then we shall sit here."

For a while they did. Bingley set his hat beside him, forgot it, and shifted onto its brim. Elizabeth decided that a squashed hat could wait until its owner felt less battered himself.

At that moment, Darcy appeared in the doorway, looking harried.

"Bingley, there you are! I've been searching—" He stopped, taking in Bingley's expression. "You've begun to explain?"

"He came here frightened. He had already noticed the compulsion."

"Darcy," Bingley said weakly. "Tell me she's joking."