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Fargo, North Dakota. What she did there was unclear, but Jane liked to imagine that she worked some dreary minimum-wage job simply in order to afford the books about which she wrote. As an ear piercer in a mall, perhaps, or a gift shop clerk at the Roger Maris Museum.
    This was unkind of her, Jane knew, but it allowed her to not dislike Wen Bao as much as she might otherwise. She
had
disliked her upon first encountering the blog. That was only natural given her maternal feelings toward
Constance
. But after a few days (or perhaps it was weeks, or months) she had been able to read the post with a little more objectivity, and when she did so she was able to see that what Wen Bao had so succinctly stated were the very fears she herself had about her novel.
    No, not fears. Truths. For she knew—had always known—that this novel was different from her others. But that was because she herself was changed. She had written
Constance
in a fever brought on by her infatuation with Byron. Their correspondence had awakened things in her, and these feelings found their way into her pen.
Constance
was, after all, her love letter to him. It was only natural that some of his infamous melancholy should color it.
    And then there was what happened at Lake Geneva.
    “They can hardly expect me to remain myself,” Jane told Jasper. “Not after that. And yet they don’t want me to change.They like me the way I am. Was. Not that they even know that I’m me. Still, it hardly seems fair to expect a woman to stand absolutely still for two hundred years. I’m
not
Jane Austen any longer, at least not
their
Jane Austen.”
    She’d seen this before. She remembered when Amy Heckerling had borrowed liberally from
Emma
in creating her movie
Clueless
. A certain segment of Jane’s readership had cried foul, going so far as to say that Jane would be scandalized by what had been done to her novel.
    “But I rather liked it,” said Jane as Jasper got up and padded out of the room. “How are they to know what I would and would not like, anyway? It’s not as if they
know
me. Really, knowing a writer through that writer’s books is about as likely as understanding the inner workings of a clock by listening to its chime.”
    Still, she had fooled a great number of people. More than one critic had compared
Constance
favorably to her previous books.
But not Wen Bao
, Jane thought.
She saw through me
.
    It occurred to her now—and she was positively astonished that it hadn’t already—that perhaps the change in tone of
Constance
was what had caused the novel to be rejected so many times. Her earlier novels had brought into popularity a certain kind of story, one that
Constance
was not. Well, not completely, but enough that it was troubling to editors.
At least for the first twenty or so years
, Jane thought.
I can only assume that later editors simply hated it. Until Kelly
.
    The phone rang. Jane, glancing at the clock, saw that it was after eleven.
Who’s calling at this hour?
she wondered as she picked up.
    “I hope it’s not too late.” Kelly said.
    “No,” said Jane, suddenly seized with a panic that he was calling to ask about the undelivered manuscript. She tapped her fingers on the keyboard loudly. “I’m just writing.”
    “Good,” Kelly replied. “Because that’s why I’m calling.”
    Jane’s anxiety doubled. “It’s coming along
very
well now,” she said. “I’ve had a breakthrough. I think I can have it to you before Labor—”
    “I’m not checking up on you,” interrupted Kelly.
    Jane hesitated. “You’re not?” she asked.
    “Do you really think I’d call you this late to see how the book is coming along?” Kelly said.
    “Well …” Jane said slowly. “You
did
say you were calling about the book.”
    “I did,” Kelly agreed. “But it’s not about when it will be finished. That will be up to your new editor to worry about.”
    Jane breathed a sigh of relief. Then Kelly’s words sank in. “My new editor?”