Editor's Note: Anonymity is generally discouraged here on the Guild, and I hope that I am not encouraging it by putting this story up.--Ann

4:30. She can't wait to get home.

Images of her favorite Austen characters float through her mind, images which she has since 8:00 that morning forced from her mind, in order to concentrate on her work. Now, though, she's free to imagine.

The preparation of supper is spent bustling back and forth from the kitchen to the computer and back again, trying to catch up on her reading. After supper, and when all the stories are read, she is finally able to settle down to put her imaginings to work.

She sits down in front of the glowing screen, and a smile comes over her face. Too bad I don't get paid for this, she thinks. She opens up one of her own stories, one which is in-process, reads quickly through it, and sets fingers to keys . . . but, for some reason, they do not move.

She reads the last paragraph again. And again. And again.

. . . Charlotte turned, facing him squarely.

No, no, no . . .

. . . Trying to hide a smile, Jane said, " . . . " What? Jane said what? WHAT, for pity's sake?!

She heaves a heavy sigh, and sits back, smacking the backspace key.

Mr. Collins gave a mousy smile, turning to his cousin.

She stares at the sentence a while, at the incessant blinking of the cursor. She listens a while to the news show, which is playing in the other room for her husband, and continues to stare at the screen.

She deletes the sentence.

And stares.

And stares.

And stares again.

She rubs her eyes, getting up from her chair. She wanders to the kitchen and dries a few dishes. She thanks her husband for washing them, rewarding him with a kiss, and sits down with a soda to watch, uninterested, the science fiction show which has since invaded the television.

Bored again, she gets up, heads for the computer, sits down, and stares.

She spots a bottle of clear nail polish and does a little touch-up on her fingertips. Blowing the wet polish dry, she stares at the screen.

She gets up, moves to the bedroom, folds some clothes, and returns again to stare at the screen. By now, the frustration has almost gotten the better of her, and she reaches for the mouse to shut down, but her eye catches the little porcelain piano on the knickknack shelf above the desk.

Mr. Collins continued. "She is musically talented, and does almost as well as Miss DeBourgh at the pianoforte."

She smiles and sits back, and her fingers become fluid on the keys, the words coming easily again.