On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates. On the comic, Tom Bertram, not quite alone, because it was evident that Mary Crawford’s wishes inclined the same way. They wanted a piece containing very few characters, but every character first-rate, and three principal women. All the best plays were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor Othello, etc. No piece could be proposed that did not supply somebody with a difficulty. All resulted in complaints: “Oh no, that will never do!” or “Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end.”

Fanny looked on and listened, amused to observe the selfishness which, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them all, and wondering how it would end. For her own gratification she could have wished that something might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but everything of higher consequence was against it.

Lord Eastwind, ever present and nigh invisible to everyone, seemed to be able to read Fanny’s mind upon this occasion also.

“They are amusing in this pursuit of a means to act upon their hidden desires. Each role undertaken has, behind it, a hidden motive.”

“It is what I am afraid of,” said Fanny. “Especially where it concerns my cousin Maria.”

“You cannot stop a butterfly of the night from flinging itself into an open flame,” he replied. “I have seen them perish by the hundreds thus, oh so long ago, in the darkest sweetest nights. The more vibrant their wings, the brighter the flames burn, while the pale smoke rises unto heaven.”

With her mind alone, Fanny felt a stirring of warm darkness, as though somewhere in the distance a hot wind was rising in an ancient desert. “Poor ancient butterfly . . .” she whispered.

“Is there not a part that you might want to play, Miss Price? Given the ideal role, and unblemished circumstances beyond anyone’s reproach, what would you take upon yourself?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “I would never act in a play, for it is a vehicle for untruth.”

“It does not have to be. Untruth’s fairer sister is illusion. And illusion can be radiant. Hence, I don’t believe you,” he persisted.

Fanny raised her gaze. “Why do you speak to me of such things, Lord Eastwind? Indeed, I am rather surprised you speak to me at all.”

And for the first time, she saw the raven-haired gentleman smile. His dark weathered skin creased at the corners of his lips in a surprisingly appealing curvature.

“I speak to you only—and always, Miss Price.”

And saying this, he was up and gone.

“This will never do,” said Tom Bertram at last. “We are wasting time most abominably. Something must be fixed on. No matter what. We must not be so nice. From this moment I take any part you chuse to give me. Let it but be comic, I condition for nothing more.”