And just like that, my spirits plummeted back to earth. “I don’t need that many.” One would be plenty.
But Addie was already halfway down the stairs, singing under her breath. At least one of us was happy.
That night, I was staring at the cracks in my bedroom ceiling when someone scratched at my door. “Yes?”
“I can hear you moaning from across the hall,” Jasper informed me, shutting the door behind him.
I rubbed the end of my nose. “I must be coming down with something.”
“Sure you are.” Crossing to my desk, he availed himself of the room’s only chair, turning it to face me.
“How’s Bo?” I asked, guessing at the purpose behind this unexpected visit.
“Since your very special get-me-to-a-nunnery speech?” He shrugged. “He’ll survive. But I didn’t come here to talk about Bo.”
“Is there something botheringyou?” I asked hopefully.
Jasper ignored my diversionary tactic. “Listen, Mary. You’re my sister.” I nodded; thus far we were on the same page. “I can’t watch you drowning and not throw you a rope.” He fixed me with a serious look. “What I’m about to say stays between the two of us. No ratting me out to Mom and Dad.”
“As long as it’s not dangerous. To peopleorproperty.” Many years’ experience had taught me to lay out the fine print before agreeing to one of Jasper’s propositions.
He straightened his shoulders, exhaling in a determined way. “Okay, here it is. W-W-J-A-D.”
I waited for illumination to strike, to no avail. “Huh?”
“What. Would. Jane. Austen. Do.” He sketched a question mark in the air.
I pushed myself up to a sitting position. “Jane AustenJane Austen?TheJane Austen?”
“Yes.” He waved at me to lower my voice. “Obviously.”
“How is it obvious?” For years he’d been flaunting his lack of literacy, particularly where the classics were concerned. And it didn’t get much more classic than Austen.
“Because maybe I’ve read one or two of her books.”
I continued to regard him skeptically.
“Fine. I’ve read all of them.” He picked at a loose thread on his pajama bottoms. “IncludingSanditon.”
“Sanditon? Seriously?” Even mega fans often eschewed the partial manuscript Austen had left unfinished at her death. It was the equivalent of reading Brontë juvenilia.
“What I read is my business. Let’s not get distracted from the main issue.”
“If.”
“Huh?”
“Ifyou read. Because according to the line you’ve been feeding Mom, you’d rather poke yourself in the eye with a sharp stick.”
“Low expectations can be a blessing. But that’s not the point. The important thing—”
“Besides you being a closet Janeite?”
“Whatever,Emma.”
“I’m not an Emma!”
“Really, back-seat driver?” He looked me up and down. “No puppet-master tendencies? Trying to run other people’s lives?”
