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By the same author Books for Adults Austenland Midnight in Austenland The Actor and the Housewife Books for Young Readers The Goose Girl Enna Burning River Secrets Forest Born Princess Academy Princess Academy: Palace of Stone Princess Academy: The Forgotten Sisters Princess Academy: The Graphic Novel Rapunzel’s Revenge Calamity Jack Book of a Thousand Days Dangerous
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For Melissa, one of the wild girls, and for Tessa, Thatcher, and Bryant
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Christmas Eve
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o one was expecting Kestrel. In the nearly deserted airport, it would have been easy to spy a driver holding a sign with her name or a hired car waiting for her out front. Kestrel sighed, allowing herself the space of that sigh to feel disappointed. But, never one to sit around hoping to be remembered, she opened a rideshare app and was relieved to book a car that would take her to Pembrook Park in Kent, though it cost enough to make her stomach sink. Soon Kestrel was zooming through a picturesque English countryside, the hedge-bordered fields empty but for a dusting of powdered- sugar snow. Clouds were cotton thick and low in the sky, and the evening between the clouds and ground was an empty shade of blue. It was nearly Christmas in Austenland, and Kestrel was trembling like a wound- up toy ready to spring. Her hopes for this holiday were so high, even Kestrel was
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aware she was overshooting the moon. The oft-neglected rational part of her brain had begun sending gentle pings of caution: Maybe this one trip won’t actually make up for every terrible Christmas you’ve endured and solve all your problems and change everything? She shoved back the warnings, to make more space for the anticipation that’d been her constant companion since September. Three months ago, Kestrel had taken a bus from Boise to Los Angeles to spontaneously enter a dance marathon. She’d known only two things: 1) The prize had something to do with Christmas and Jane Austen, two of her favorite things, and 2) It wasn’t a contest of dance skill, just endurance. One thing Kestrel could do was keep moving. Twenty-two hours later, she’d been awarded the prize—a Christmas vacation at an immersive Austen-themed resort. By now, she’d read the brochure so many times she had it memorized. Pembrook Park, Kent, England.
Enter our doors as a houseguest, come to stay for the twelve days of Christmas, enjoying the country manners and hospitality— a tea visit, a dance or two, a turn in the park, an unexpected meeting with a handsome stranger, all culminating with a ball and perhaps something more . . . Here, the Prince Regent still rules a carefree England. No scripts. No written endings. A holiday no one else can offer you. The photos showed women like her, dressed in empire- waist gowns and bonnets, playacting their Regency-novel 2
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fantasies with booted and sideburned actors. How could it be anything less than life-changing? And there was nothing Kestrel yearned for more than a changed life, except, perhaps, a proper Christmas. To hype herself up for all that holly jolly, Kestrel listened to old-timey carols on her headphones. But it had been a long flight from Idaho, and as the cab drove deeper into frozen woodlands and rolling hills, her eyelids closed, ready to sleep in heavenly peace. When the car stopped short, she sat upright, suddenly alert. Outside her car window, night had fallen, the empty blue of evening replaced with solid black, sliced only by the car’s headlights. They were outside a closed iron gate. Beyond, the idea of a large house haunted the evening, more of a sense of greatness than a physical manifestation. If the edifice was outfitted with modern exterior lights, nobody had turned them on for Kestrel’s arrival. She’d had reason to expect more of a welcome. The brochure’s cover featured a photo of a guest arriving in a horse- drawn carriage, costumed servants standing at attention on the front steps, and handsome cast members awaiting her at the door. Kestrel had learned to muffle expectations, especially on Christmas. But here in Austenland, she’d hoped not to have to muffle anything— except her hands, to keep them warm. In a muff. Wasn’t that what those things were called? “This is it,” said the driver, peering out dubiously. “But I don’t see a call button.” “I’ll just walk in,” Kestrel said, grabbing her bags. The car sped away, spitting gravel out its back tires and leaving Kestrel in the dark. She reached into her suitcase, making sure she had her travel canister of bear spray, just in case. With 3
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a hard push, the narrow pedestrian gate opened, emitting an agonizing squeak of metal. Maybe she should have come on the twenty-sixth, as the email had originally suggested. But when offered the chance to arrive on Christmas Eve instead, she’d jumped at it. Better to spend a holiday with strangers in a foreign country than alone in her apartment. Well, not alone-alone. A dog owner is never really alone. Mentally, she apologized to Karma, who was no doubt content with plenty of puppy friends in the doggie hotel. Kestrel had named her Karma so if people petted the mutt and said, “Good boy,” she could say, “Actually, Karma’s a bitch.” Not once had a conversation offered her the opportunity to use that line. Life can be cruel. Kestrel pulled her suitcase across the icy gravel and up the stone front steps, where she knocked on a large wooden door. Nobody answered. The wind picked up, jostling into her back and licking a chill across her neck. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a scarf? Kestrel knocked again and then tried the doorknob. It turned easily, so she walked inside. “Hello? Anyone home?” A single lamp lit the front entry, but she could make out a grand staircase, chandelier, tiled floors—everything just so spiffy she could die. “Hello?” she called again, shivering. Soft footsteps came from the back of the house, and another light switched on as a man appeared—thirties; fair-haired with long sideburns; outfitted in a cream-colored sweater, snug jeans, and rainbow socks. When he saw Kestrel, he said, “Hallo!” And then, shouting behind him: “You were right, love, there is someone here!” 4
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“I’m Kestrel.” “Good evening, Kestrel, you can call me Andrews,” he said in a posh British accent. “Helluva day to arrive, darling. You’ll be the new maid then.” Was she? Kestrel had assumed all the houseguests would be playing the parts of fancy people staying at the estate. But maybe since she’d won her spot here instead of paying her way, she was assigned a working character. “Is being a maid . . . fun?” she asked. “I don’t rightly know, pet,” said Andrews, “but if the work don’t get you, the sheep’s eyeballs will.” A second man strolled into the front hall, his black hair kept in a short Afro, his skin a deep brown. He also wore a sweater, his sporting a knit snowman with a huge grin and eyebrows raised suggestively. Seeing the two men side by side, Kestrel felt shocked by their combined handsomeness. It was rare in life to see two such outrageously gorgeous people so close together. “Sheep’s eyeballs are off the menu since Charming took over, praise be. Good evening, I’m Jerome,” the snowman- sweatered man said in a warm Caribbean accent. “That’s right, he really is Jerome,” said the blond man. “Andrews is my character’s last name, but I’ve worked here so long, I answer to Andrews on and off duty.” “He’s never off duty, are you, Andrews?” said Jerome. “Not if I can help it, duckie,” said Andrews, smoothing his perfectly coiffed medium-long hair. Andrews employed so much loving language, Kestrel wondered if perhaps he and Jerome were a couple. But then again, maybe he was just being culturally British. Either way, Kestrel was already enjoying this conversation tremendously. 5
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“Kestrel is the new maid,” Andrews said. “Helluva day to arrive.” “Come in and have a cuppa.” Jerome led her down a dark corridor and into a warm and bright kitchen. The stone walls and floors appeared to be period original, but the appliances included refrigerators, electric ovens, and a couple of dishwashers. In no time she was seated at the long, wood table, dipping crunchy cookies into a very fine cup of milk tea, and engaging in a spirited discussion of favorite Christmas movies. Jerome was anti–White Christmas because “I just can’t take any musical seriously.” “What?” she said. “Jerome . . . musicals are life !” Andrews put an arm around her. “Tell him, love. No invading army in history had more impact on the collective human experience than a chorus line tap- dancing in unison.” “Colonizers, the lot of you,” said Jerome. “So, what do you both do here?” asked Kestrel. “We’re gents,” said Andrews. “Our job is to romance the guests.” “And Andrews here is also chief— Whatsit?” “Chief Social and Entertainment Officer. And our Jerome is Chief Wooer.” “Unofficial Chief Wooer, but I am very good at it.” Jerome raised his dark brows in a perfect mimic of his sweater snowman’s expression. Kestrel leaned forward, intrigued. “Do you mind that? Having to pretend to fall in love with people you barely know?” “Love it,” said Jerome. “Adore,” said Andrews. “Our job is to live in this magnificent house, play dress-up, 6
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and keep the guests happy.” Jerome smiled warmly. “We make them feel seen, feel amazing, feel gorgeous.” “But do the guests ever try to kiss you? Have you had to kiss someone in play that you wouldn’t be attracted to in real life?” “Lords yes,” said Andrews. “I’m gay as a kite, but the majority of our clients are women. Mostly it’s dancing and declaring passionate regard, with the rare bit of chaste kissing. Even so, I avoid letting a lady kiss me unless I feel there’s a friendship in it, do you know what I mean? I want the kiss to be an act of kindness, not trickery.” “And I never kiss them at all.” Jerome raised a single eyebrow. “I don’t have to. I can woo them with a glance.” “I’m sure you can,” Kestrel said sincerely. “Jerome-pups, you are too much,” said Andrews. Kestrel loved them both immediately. She just kept herself from admitting that, as past experiences had shown how her immediate enthusiasm could chase people away. Jerome refilled Kestrel’s tea. “I can’t imagine why Mrs. Wattlesbrook had you come on Christmas Eve.” “Better than sitting at home alone, and that would have been better than most Christmases I’ve had.” She had meant it to be flippant and self-deprecating, but Andrews’s sympathetic look and worried Oh? confirmed that she had sounded pathetic. A first meeting was not the time to toss the conversation bomb of her weird and traumatic childhood. She flashed them a cheery smile. “But look at me now! I’m in England with excruciatingly handsome gents, eating cookies and being all cozy. What could be better?” Jerome gazed into the distance. “You have not lived till you 7
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have watched the Christmas-morning sun lift from the sea, while brunching on papaya, bush tea, and johnnycakes.” Andrews extended a hand and squeezed Jerome’s sympathetically. “Next year, love.” “The Caribbean?” Kestrel guessed. Jerome nodded sadly. “I was born in Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands, and every Christmas we return to visit family. For me, the winter holidays smell of pineapple, jasmine, and brine. It’s quality. But this year, Charming wanted to run a session during the twelve days of Christmas, and how could I say no to such a novel experience? Alas!” His shoulders drooped. “Jerome is plagued by a clinically severe case of FOMO,” explained Andrews. “If I’m here, then I’m missing a perfectly divine Tortola Christmas, but if I’m there, then no roasted chestnuts or figgy pudding!” Jerome gestured at the ceiling in frustration. “No matter what I choose, I suffer with homesickness.” Homesickness. What a lovely concept. To feel sick with longing for a place where one belonged. Kestrel had no home to miss, but once upon a time, she’d had a person, and they’d belonged to each other. Hank had been her kindred spirit, her soulmate, and every other gloriously optimistic cliché. Two Christmases ago, her perfect hope for a real family with Hank had shattered. Before the memories could overwhelm her, she swallowed them like stones and washed it all down with a gulp of tea. “Where do you come from, love?” Andrews asked as he poured her more. “All over,” said Kestrel. “Most recently I moved to Idaho to take care of my grandma. She died a year ago, and now I’m ready to figure out what’s next.” The whole truth was a lot messier than Kestrel wanted to 8
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slosh all over this cozy kitchen. The past autumn, Kestrel’s life had imploded. She’d had to sell Grandma’s house to pay the outstanding medical bills. Her friend group in Boise broke apart as individuals took jobs in other states. Kestrel was fired from her EMT position for “not filling out the correct paperwork,” which to Kestrel sounded exactly like “not driving hot nails through own toes.” And her current barista job didn’t earn enough to both pay rent and afford a car. For months, she’d been feeling that tick- tick-tick inside her, counting down to . . . something. Like Mary Poppins, she was watching for the wind to change so she would go on her way again. Whatever way that might be. “I’m sorry about your grandmother,” Jerome said, handing her another cookie. Kestrel’s only halfway decent Christmases had all been with Grandma. Despite the fact they had never really clicked, they’d still shared holiday traditions—popcorn strings on the dusty plastic tree, movie marathons, wrapped books on Christmas morning to read quietly for the rest of the day. Last Christmas, Grandma had been in hospice care. Spending this Christmas in Idaho without her had felt terrifyingly wrong. “Never mind,” said Kestrel. “It’s Christmas Eve! We should focus on bright and beautiful things.” The kitchen door opened and was filled with a dazzling, large-framed woman dressed in a pink robe and bunny slippers, her mass of blond hair twisted up and held in place with hair sticks. For a split second, Kestrel’s jet-lagged brain thought this woman was lost in the wrong holiday and cosplaying the Easter Bunny. “Right on cue!” said Andrews. “Here comes Charming, representing all things bright and beautiful.” 9
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“Is it a slumber party?” Charming asked in an American Southern accent. “I love me a slumber party.” “Join us, my treasure,” said Andrews. “I saved you a biscuit.” Charming took a chair beside Andrews and let him feed her a cookie. There was a sibling- like familiarity in the action, though apart from the blond hair they didn’t look related, and Charming was his senior by at least two decades. Char ming leaned closer to Andrews and whispered anxiously, “Y’all weren’t going to leave me out of the slumber party, were you?” “Of course not, Charming,” said Andrews. “There was no slumber party, though what a brilliant idea. No, we were just welcoming the new maid to our crew.” Jerome introduced Charming as one of the bosses, and she extended her hand to Kestrel, smiling with huge, glossy, plumped-up lips. “How do you do? I’m Miss Elizabeth Charming.” She turned to Andrews. “I mean, that’s not lying, right? I basically am Miss Elizabeth Charming, even when I’m not in costume? Just like how you always go by Andrews?” “Absolutely, my love.” “I started as a guest, you see,” said Charming, “and then I bought fifty- one percent of this outfit so they couldn’t kick me out. Also, FYI, I’m twenty-eight years old.” “Okay,” said Kestrel. Charming was fifty at bare minimum, but hey, maybe she was so rich she could declare her age at will. “Nice to have another American,” said Charming. “Though when guests are around, I’m British, pip-pip, r ight-o!” “How long were you a guest?” asked Kestrel. “Well, after my first session, I just stayed on,” Charming 10
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said, stirring sugar into her tea, “except during the holidays. They used to close down, and I had nowhere else to go.” “You could go anywhere in the world, darling,” said Andrews. “You’re richer than Father Christmas. But you wanted to be here.” “That’s true as tits.” Kestrel caught at something unsaid, a tension under Charming’s words. Was this where she truly wanted to be? Kestrel could imagine a person being so afraid of making choices that she just stayed where she could be someone else entirely. “I hope we get a real snowfall,” Charming was saying. “I love a white Christmas.” “It’s a career riskier than horse racing, predicting winter weather in England,” said Andrews. “If I could make a Christmas wish, it would be for your snow,” said Kestrel. “Thank you,” Charming said solemnly, as if she had great faith in Christmas wishes. “I have oodles of plans for the guests, and at least one requires a foot of snowfall.” “No worries, my pet,” said Andrews. “We have contingency plans.” “What are they?” asked Kestrel. “Pretending that there’s snow?” Andrews looked at her severely. “You think I couldn’t do it?” He bent to the kitchen floor with a scooping hand, mimed patting a snowball, and flung the nothing at her head. Kestrel gasped. “How dare you?” She mimed gathering snow from the kitchen floor and hurled another invisible ball at Andrews. “I say, that’s unladylike. Jerome, to me!” 11
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Soon Kestrel and Charming were crouched behind the table lobbing ghost snowballs at the two gents while they took the hits like soldiers, dying an agonizing death on the stone floor. The ladies joined them there, bringing a chocolate blackberry traybake left over from Christmas Eve dinner. They ate spoonfuls from the pan and traded stories about their worst Christmases. Kestrel kept hers back. She’d already won the dance marathon. She didn’t need to win everything. As soon as Jerome yawned and left for bed, Kestrel leaned in to Andrews and whispered, “Are you and Jerome together?” “No, Jerome isn’t interested in men— or in anyone romantically. But we’re best mates.” Andrews sighed, and there was no regret in it. A sigh of pure joy. “And Charming?” “She’s my other best mate, isn’t she?” he said, laying his head on Charming’s knee. Charming idly played with Andrews’s hair. “Was ever a bloke so lucky?” “With two best friends and half a pan of cake?” said Kestrel. “You’re the luckiest guy alive.” When Charming began to yawn, Andrews popped to his feet and offered to carry Kestrel’s luggage upstairs. He hesitated in the second-floor hallway. “Er, where is Kestrel sleeping? The staff is off for Christmas, and I don’t know which room they set aside for the new maid.” “I have a ginormous bed,” said Charming. She thrust her fists into the air and declared, “Slumber party!” Charming took Kestrel’s hand and pulled her and her luggage down the dark hall and into a bedroom that looked struck by a friendly indoor hurricane. “Don’t mind the mess,” Charming said, kicking her way in. Clothes and items were stacked and hung over all the furniture 12
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and piled on the floor like knee-high stalagmites. “The rest of this house feels like a museum. I tell the maids to leave my room alone. I need one place where I can just relax.” Charming tore off her robe, tossed it onto the floor, and, in her satin nightgown, dove headfirst onto a king-sized bed topped by a massive pink canopy. “Hop in,” she said, her face muffled in a pillow. “And don’t worry, I sleep like a toad buried in mud.” Too tired to worry or brush her teeth, Kestrel shrugged off her travel clothes, pulled on a nightshirt, and cozied under the covers. Charming clapped her hands twice, and the lights turned off. “Nifty,” said Kestrel into the darkness. “Thanks for putting me up.” Charming’s muffled voice said, “I don’t like sleeping alone, even though it’s all I do anymore.” “Bad breakup?” Kestrel guessed. “The worst. Bobby and I had been together since high school, got married at eighteen. By the time I figured out he was cheating on me, he’d been doing it for years.” “That sort of breakup feels like a piece of you got torn off, and you’re bleeding out while having to pretend that you’re fine.” “I’m glad someone gets it,” said Charming. “How pathetic is it that I still miss him? I’m like a drunk raccoon trying to make out with a fire hydrant.” “Have you done much therapy?” “Red-light therapy? Loads. I have the collagen of a woman half my age.” “So . . . half of twenty-eight . . . A woman of fourteen?” “Abso-frickin-lutely.” 13
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“I meant mental-health therapy.” Charming spoke through a long yawn. “Headshrinks are not for me.” “Yeah, they say you have to find the right one, and I guess I never have either,” said Kestrel. “I know I should keep trying, but I lost my health insurance recently, and it’s just—” From the darkness beside her came a genteel snore. “Good night, Miss Charming,” Kestrel whispered. “Merry Christmas.” As she lay in the quiet (apart from Charming’s occasional musical inhales), Kestrel began to fret that this situation was too weird even for her standards. She’d won a competition for a vacation that was during Christmas, in a foreign country where she was expected to work as a maid, and her accommodations were the co-owner’s bed. Was this her usual fare of the zany and unexpected—or was it potentially dangerous? Kestrel rolled over, hugged a pillow, and decided to press pause on the worries till morning. Somewhere from deep inside the house, a clock struck twelve, and a thrill passed down Kestrel’s spine, tingling into the tips of her toes. It was officially Christmas in Austenland. There was sure to be new friends, old traditions, good food, unexpected gifts, songs, dances, intrigues, merriment, and maybe even some Christmas magic. And she rashly assumed she was ready for all of it.
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The First Day of Christmas
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estrel slept like a jet- lagged toad in nineteenth- century mud. When she woke again, the room was filled with the peachy light of late morning, and Charming was coming out of the adjoining bathroom, rubbing her eyes. Kestrel felt a jolt of excitement and followed the feeling to a thought: It’s Christmas morning! She’d largely spent the first decade of adulthood chasing the wonders of childhood that she’d missed out on, but thus far, the sparkle of Christmas magic had eluded her. Charming was frowning. “Why do you look like a squirrel chewing on a light socket?” Kestrel squealed. If she pretended to herself that she felt the magic, maybe she really would. “Should we see if Santa came?” Charming’s eyes popped open, wide-awake at once. “Lands, yes!” She grabbed her robe off the floor and slipped on her
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bunny slippers, and whisper-giggling, they held hands and went running down stairs covered in a Christmas-red carpet that spilled them into the grand foyer. Laughing, they hurried across marble tiles and through several ground-floor saloons— a drawing room, a morning room, a conservatory, a library, and a large empty space that had the appearance of a ballroom- in- waiting. Each chamber seemed ideal for Santa visits, boasting fireplaces and stocking- ready mantels, but the pair found not a single wrapped gift. “No Santa?” said Char ming, sounding genuinely disappointed. “Well . . .” Kestrel wasn’t sure if she was kidding. “I mean, Santa doesn’t”—was it possible Charming believed?—“usually leave gifts for adults?” “I do know Santa isn’t a thing, but it’s just . . . When you asked, I thought maybe you knew something I didn’t, and I let myself get excited for a sec.” “Well, we could play Santa for Jerome and Andrews . . .” So it happened that when the two men entered the drawing room, Kestrel and Charming were standing by the fireplace stuffing Charming’s long, woolen socks with matchboxes, silverware, sleeves of cookies, and bags of sweets they’d scavenged from the kitchen. “What are you up to?” Jerome asked. Kestrel and Charming shoved the socks atop the mantel and turned around, arms out in presentation mode. A rogue fork dropped onto the marble hearth with a tink-clink. “Look!” said Kestrel. “Santa Claus came! And left you stuff!” “Because you were such good boys!” said Charming. Soon the four of them were doing their best to lounge on the fancy, extremely un- loungable sofas, drinking tea and 16
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eating sock treats. Kestrel mused on how she was good at these parts of companionship—the early parts. She’d always made a friend on the first day of class. She could walk out of a bar with a reasonably nice guy who was reasonably attracted to her. What she could never seem to do was make anything last. Hank had lasted the longest. They hadn’t just crashed at each other’s places— they’d created a home together. Shopped the online classifieds till they found just the right couch. Painted the bedroom terra-cotta and the bathroom lime. Had a Sunday morning tradition of eggs and fried Spam over games of Boggle. Loved each other in that way that felt to Kestrel as kind and comfortable as loving her own bones. After a loss like that, Kestrel couldn’t imagine a second chance. “When is the first day of Christmas?” Kestrel asked. “Today, of course!” said Andrews. “Why is it that Yankees never know? The twelve days of Christmas starts on Christmas Day, setting off a string of festivities that ends on January fifth, also known as Epiphany Eve or Twelfth Night.” “Like Shakespeare’s play?” “That’s the one,” said Jerome. “And in Austenland, on Twelfth Night—” “We’ll have our ball!” said Charming. “The ball is always the best part. You’ll see. The music, the gowns, the dancing, the loooove. And this year will be the best one yet.” “You say that every ball,” said Jerome. “I do. I keep hoping.” Charming swayed, eyes closed, humming to herself as if held by an imagined dance partner. Kestrel wondered what her duties would be at the ball. Perhaps she could carry a tray of drinks to the dancers and so get to spend time in the ballroom with the music. Andrews was about to eat the last chocolate-covered 17
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pistachio when Jerome nabbed it out of his fingers and popped it into his own mouth. Andrews gasped. “You shameless hussy!” “Takes one to know one.” Andrews looked even more mock-shocked. “How dare you, you pistachio-stealing chuffer.” “You roadkill garden gnome,” Jerome said. “You half-rate, webbed-toed, unemployed mall Santa!” returned Andrews. Char ming pointed at Jerome and yelled, “You’re a murderer!” “Wait . . . What?” Andrews said, mildly alarmed. “MURDERER!” Charming said even louder. Andrews blinked rapidly. “Hm. Now, why are you saying that, my pet?” “I thought we were insulting Jerome,” Charming explained in a small, uncertain voice, “and there’s nothing worse than being a murderer, so . . .” “Ah-ha.” Andrews nodded, his eyes widening with understanding. Then he turned to Jerome and shouted, “Murderer!” Kestrel laughed. She was still disappointed that her grand- prize vacation was glorified maid- temp service, but at least she had this to look forward to—hanging out with the crew after hours, hearing the guest gossip, and just feeling part of it all. An older woman in full Regency attire, including a white cap over her salt-and-pepper bun, entered the room. “Happy Christmas, Mrs. Wattlesbrook!” Jerome said amiably. Mrs. Wattlesbrook looked around. Inhaled sharply. And screamed. 18
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It was a scream of surprise mixed with disgust rather than a scream of horror, but it was still shocking in its pitch and volume and general un-lounge-y-ness. “The fireplace!” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, pointing at the hearth with a trembling finger. Kestrel swirled around, a tiny part of her expecting a monster to come lumbering out of the fireplace. Or maybe Santa after all. Or a monster Santa. “The fireplace is empty!” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said. “You were supposed to light the Yule log on Christmas Eve!” Jerome and Andrews looked at each other and then fled the room. “You haven’t even lit the Yule candle to bless and protect the guests from harm,” she yelled after them. “And where are the evergreen boughs? It doesn’t look Christmassy! IT MUST LOOK CHRISTMASSY!” Charming, still sitting on the rug, held up an Oreo. “Biscuit?” “We will have a true Regency Chr istmas, by god!” Mrs. Wattlesbrook was yelling. “This is still my house, and I will not permit bunny slippers on the Persian rug!” “Oh, calm down, missus,” said Charming. “These bunnies don’t poop.” “Are they up to date on their shots?” Kestrel asked. “Shots? Of tequila?” Charming seemed confused. “I don’t think it’s good for bunnies to drink.” Now it was Kestrel’s turn to be confused. Mrs. Wattlesbrook ignored them both as she bustled around replacing fallen sofa cushions. “We agreed, Miss Charming, that if we were to host guests for Christmas, then you would take it seriously—” 19
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“Yeah, I know, I will. But the best parts of Christmas are the slow parts,” Charming drawled, lying back down. “Slow parts?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, as if the words tasted bitter. “You know, sitting around, drinking and gabbing, opening a present or two, eating, and forgetting there are more presents, so when you discover them later it’s like— surprise! A whole second Christmas!” “Christmas is about tradition.” “Sure, right, tradition. And pie.” “And games?” Kestrel added. Because she liked games. Mrs. Wattlesbrook turned to Kestrel with a questioning look, but whatever she was about to ask was cut short as Jerome and Andrews staggered in, gripping an absolutely enormous chunk of a halved log between them. Groaning pitifully, they managed to roll it onto the hearth. “It’s massive, Mrs. Wattlesbrook,” Andrews said breathlessly. “It must be. The Yule log is supposed to burn for all twelve days of Christmas. Go ahead and light it.” Kestrel watched, mouth agape, as Jerome held a lighter to the tip of the log as if expecting it to just take up the flame. “It won’t . . . You have to . . . It’s too . . .” Kestrel offered before just taking over. She found sticks in a kindling bucket and used them to start a small fire around the log. “Look at you!” said Andrews. “Camp counselor,” said Kestrel. “Seven summers.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook sniffed. “Yes, well done, er . . . Who are you?” “I’m Kestrel.” “Kestrel is the new maid,” Jerome offered. “She’s quality.” “I must say, helluva day to make someone start work,” said 20
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Andrews. “She had to shack up with Charming last night. Hardly seems fair, pet.” “I was unaware.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook cast a disapproving look toward Charming, who was sipping a Bloody Mary out of a teacup. “My new business partner is sometimes negligent in keeping me informed of her decisions.” “Lend me a hand, Kes,” said Jerome, carrying a stack of boxes. “The halls have no intention of decking themselves.” Thrilled to already have earned a pet name from Jerome, Kestrel opened a box of nativity pieces and started to set them up on a side table. “I still don’t understand why we can’t have a Christmas tree,” Charming was saying. “Because they didn’t become an English custom until Queen Victoria’s reign,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook. The manger was empty. Kestrel rechecked the box and said, “I can’t find Jesus!” From across the room, Andrews called out, “Have you looked in your heart?” There was laughter, but Mrs. Wattlesbrook shushed them. Jerome stood beside her, arranging boughs around the nativity. Kestrel whispered, “Wattlesbrook takes Christmas very seriously.” “I have yet to see her take anything any other way,” Jerome whispered back. “She’s a force of nature. I don’t know anyone else who could keep this place running with all its many challenges. I believe she and Charming will make excellent partners, but they are still transitioning. Wattlesbrook is trying to maintain her vision of Austenland while allowing for Charming’s perspective and ideas, so she’s . . . struggling.” 21
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“Since the core staff is gathered,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, “let’s take care of some business.” Charming groaned. “Aw, it’s Christmas.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook continued without a blink. “I will start with Windy Nook. Our first guest this session is Amelia Heartwright. She is a repeat client and so devoted to immersion, so I trust her to keep things proper over there while I am headquartered here.” “Heartwright is back, is she?” asked Jerome. “That’s a sure sign that she’s souring on her new husband. I thought this one might be rich enough to keep her happy.” Andrews snorted, and Mrs. Wattlesbrook shot them both a disapproving look. “Gentlemen, please, no gossip about the guests’ real lives!” Kestrel raised her hand. Something about Mrs. Wattlesbrook made her feel like a high school student. “Um, what’s Windy Nook?” “That’s Pembrook Park’s sister estate, love,” said Andrews. “Half the guests live at Windy Nook, half here, and we’ll get them all together for parties and outings to make them feel even more festive.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook was reading her file. “The second guest chose to keep her given name— Mrs. Gloria Martinez. She is a teacher of some sort. I doubt a teacher’s salary could afford us, so her partner must be rather well-off. I think Mrs. Martinez shall do very well with Lady Heartwright at Windy Nook. “Here at Pembrook Park, we will host our other two guests. Per your request, Miss Charming”—Mrs. Wattlesbrook shot her a disgruntled look—“each lady will be assigned two gentlemen suitors. Our Pembrook gentlemen will be Adani and Culpepper, along with the two of you.” 22
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“Just let me know which lady is mine,” said Jerome. “There isn’t a body I can’t woo, in or out of Austenland.” “Jerome, I have asked you not to call us that! We are not an amusement park.” “But there are two estates,” complained Charming, “and it takes too long to say ‘Here at Pembrook Park and Windy Nook.’ ” Mrs. Wattlesbrook shook her head disapprovingly and opened a new folder. “Our first Pembrook lady has chosen the name Augusta Chen. Thirty-five, unmarried, a California native, currently resides in Atlanta, where she is the only female partner in a prominent law firm. She is a true Austen aficionado, and I think will do quite well. The second lady is not our traditional type of client—” “By traditional she means wealthy,” Jerome whispered to Kestrel. Mrs. Wattlesbrook frowned at her papers. “She is . . . most unusual. She won a contest Miss Charming devised—” “Contest?” Kestrel said, raising her hand again. “Um, Mrs. Wattlesbrook?” “Do not interrupt me, please! I have much to get through. She is unlikely to be a repeat client, so I do not think she will need as much attention. Andrews, I will assign you to her, since you will be busy with your Social and Entertainment Officer assignments and your other, er, matter—” Kestrel raised her hand higher. “Um . . .” She began to wave it urgently. “What is it?” snapped Mrs. Wattlesbrook. “I thought you should know,” said Kestrel, “that I won a contest to be here.” The room went so quiet the lazy snapping of the firewood 23
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sounded deafening. Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s eyes were slowly widening. She looked at Kestrel, at the gents, at Charming’s bunny slippers. She looked down at a paper in her hands, silently mouthing some words. And then, Mrs. Wattlesbrook screamed. This time, a genuine, horrified scream. Kestrel startled. Charming covered her ears. Andrews was staring, completely mystified. “I say, missus, you are full-throated this morning.” “Wait . . .” Charming said, her eyes narrowing. “Kestrel, you don’t mean my contest, do you?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s eyes were wide open as if staring at a ghost. Her voice shook. She held up her paper and pointed to some text. “Sarah Klein. Sarah Kestrel Klein. I did not recall hiring a maid by the name of Kestrel. Because she isn’t a maid. She is a guest.” Andrews and Jerome bolted to their feet. “A guest! I beg your pardon.” “I do apologize, miss, we didn’t realize—” “Look at us, standing before her in our loungewear, what a lot of—” “Mrs. Wattlesbrook, you must believe that we had no inkling—” “We mucked this up good—” “Stop, stop!” Kestrel smiled, delighted and surprised by their effusions. Mrs. Wattlesbrook briefly shut her eyes. And then she ran right out of the room. “Oh!” said Charming, her face brightening. “You are my contest winner! I think I remember that you decided to come on Christmas Eve, but I’ve been running plumb ragged getting ready for the new session.” 24
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The gentlemen were still standing, eyes panicked, limbs stiff, as if afraid to move or speak or make any more mistakes. “So, I’m not a maid?” asked Kestrel. “No, no, no,” everyone started to say at once. “You’re a guest, my love,” said Andrews. “You are the belle of the ball, the queen of Sheba. You will be wined and dined and awed and wooed and . . . and adored.” Andrews gave her a gentlemanly bow. Jerome took her hand and kissed the knuckle. Charming stared at her, eyes shining. Kestrel laughed because she didn’t know what else to do. A sensation was overwhelming her, something unexpected and unfamiliar. She was like a cup filled past the brim and overflowing, unable to hold on to it all before it washed away. She felt simultaneously unworthy of the attention, ashamed of herself for craving it, and downright delighted. Andrews was still aghast. “Again, my deepest apologies for your ham-fisted reception. After all you paid to come here— Er, wait, you won a contest? What sort of a contest?” Charming squealed. “A dance contest!” “You’re a professional dancer!” said Andrews. “How splendid.” “No, it was a dance-till-you-drop situation,” said Kestrel. “And I don’t drop easily.” “I believe you,” said Jerome, his accent taking on even more of a Caribbean melody. His brow furrowed, and he turned to look at Charming. “Are we to understand that the contest you conceived to advertise Austenland was a dance marathon ?” “Mrs. Wattlesbrook complained that a dance marathon had nothing to do with Jane Austen,” said Charming. “But I wanted whoever won to really want it, you know? And who would keep dancing for hours and hours except someone 25
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who was plumb dying to come here? Besides, it did earn us a buttload of publicity. Starting in March, we’re fully booked for the next eight months.” Jerome was looking at Kestrel with thoughtful admiration. “How long did you dance?” “Twenty-two hours.” Jerome gave a long whistle. “That’s quality.” Kestrel began to do a two-step walk forward, then a two- step walk back, a sort of weak and tired Charleston. “This was the winning move. After about twelve hours, it was the only dance my body would let me do on repeat.” “That is an interesting experiment,” said Andrews. “What dance would you all do?” The other three began to dance around, working through different motions till they found their groove. Charming enacted a sleepy shimmy, Jerome leisurely gyrated his hips, and Andrews fell into a slow- motion twist. And so it was that when Mrs. Wattlesbrook returned, she discovered the four of them moving in complete silence, like a zombie dance party. They all froze. “I . . . a pologize,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook. “I am not normally prone to vociferous public exclamations.” Andrews smiled, took both Kestrel and a pale-faced Mrs. Wattlesbrook by the arm, and walked them out of the drawing room. “Kestrel, duck, our esteemed proprietress Mrs. Wattlesbrook prefers to interview our guests and get them attired before they enter the house, so they can immediately immerse themselves in Austen’s world. Let us rewind as if the past day hadn’t happened, shall we?” Kestrel nodded even though she didn’t want to lose a 26
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moment of it, clinging to the memory of Christmas Eve laughing on the kitchen floor and Christmas morning stuffing stockings with Charming. The whole experience was reminding Kestrel of the summer she was fifteen. Grandma had dropped her off at summer camp an entire week early— by mistake, one assumes, but you never knew with Grandma. She had been a confused and reluctant guardian for a teenager from the start. Grandma drove away before the camp counselors realized, and since the camp was at the top of a mountain and Grandma didn’t have a cell phone, the laidback staff shrugged and let Kestrel stay and help with the prep work. When the other campers arrived, Kestrel was already besties with the counselors. For an adrift and friendless extrovert, it had been heaven. Andrews left them in a study with windows overlooking the brownish-green lawn and bare-limbed trees, the other three walls covered with tapestries in deep jewel tones. Kestrel sat quietly while Mrs. Wattlesbrook arranged herself behind a dark wooden desk as if steeling for battle. “I am not nor mally a screamer,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook finally said. “Hey, the holidays are hard on everybody.” “Miss Charming had suggested beginning this session on Christmas Eve, but I understood that all the guests preferred to arrive on the twenty- sixth, as they had family engagements. Nothing is more important than family.” Kestrel wholeheartedly agreed. She would have shouted it from the rooftops had some rooftops been handy. Everything would be better, easier, and more fun if she had a family. “And Christmas is all about family,” said Kestrel. “Quite. Family and tradition.” 27
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“And games,” added Kestrel. “Oh, and pie!” “And, of course, the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook added hastily. “You bet,” said Kestrel. Mrs. Wattlesbrook opened Kestrel’s file. “So, you prefer to use your middle name?” Kestrel nodded. Her free-spirited mother had named her after her grandmother Sarah in an attempt to gain favor with her conservative father, who disapproved of pregnancy out of wedlock. Ultimately it’d made no difference, since he’d died soon after his only grandchild’s birth. “Some ladies prefer to completely be themselves here, in which case we would call you Miss Kestrel Klein. Some wish to play a part and choose a new name. And some try to find a balance between their true selves and their fictional selves—” “That’s me,” said Kestrel. “I’m that one. The limbo in between truth and fantasy.” “Very well. You may keep your first name and take on a new surname.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook handed her a printed list of suggested surnames in alphabetical order. “Oh, do not select ‘Cox,’ if you’d be so kind. We have learned how . . . er, distracting that word can be to Miss Charming.” Kestrel flipped the pages to the S names, because the curve of the letter seemed to beckon her like a finger. She scanned down—Scroggs, Shirley, Sparks . . . “Spinster? I love it. I’ll take it.” After all, at age twenty-nine, she would certainly be a spinster in Austen’s world. And she intended never to marry anyway. Let her name be a celebration of the fact that, unlike in the nineteenth century, women today could be unmarried and still live a life of their choosing. 28
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“Every guest at Pembrook Park is assigned a love interest. Or rather, at Miss Charming’s suggestion, now we offer two love interests per guest. Since you have already become convivial with Colonel Andrews and Captain Relish—” “Captain Relish?” “Er, Jerome, as you know him,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook clarified, with some distress at having to say his real name to a guest, “I do not think it wise for either of them to be part of your romantic story.” My romantic story? That wondrous sensation poured into Kestrel again, and she sat up straighter, trying to expand, to make room for it all before she overflowed. She was going to be the lady on the brochure. She was getting a story! A romantic one at that. “That’s . . . great, so great,” said Kestrel. She had a friendly, sisterly feeling for Andrews and Jerome, and she didn’t want to pretend to be in love with them. But she was going to pretend to be in love with someone. She had danced till she feared her limbs would snap off and roll away. She was going all in. “Maybe we could say the three of us grew up together and are practically siblings?” “Very well. But I maintain a strict code in this house. Women and men must not touch each other, apart from the necessary social graces such as taking a gentleman’s arm while walking or his hand in a dance. This entire endeavor is a social experiment, if you will, and it only succeeds if we make great efforts to be Regency appropriate. Even our most iconoclastic guests report that following the Regency rules of etiquette serves to enhance their experience.” “Understood,” said Kestrel, though just the word rules made her skin feel itchy. 29
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Mrs. Wattlesbrook narrowed her eyes. “A warning. Do not confuse the role-play with reality. The actors are very good, and their pretend love can feel real. At times, even they might become confused. But it is not fair to them if it . . . goes too far. To be frank, I counsel you to avoid physical intimacy at all costs.” Now Kestrel was dying to know more. Had things gone too far in the past? She barely paid attention as Mrs. Wattlesbrook went over schedules and rules, etiquette and expectations. She was still half dreaming as she followed the proprietress into another room, full of hanging clothes. A stout woman of fifty years was dressed as a Regency-era maid, in a brown dress under a white apron, a white cap over her black hair. “Miss Kestrel Spinster, this is Juliette. She will be your lady’s maid for your stay at Pembrook Park.” “I get my own lady’s maid? Merry Christmas, me.” Juliette smiled, her bright blue eyes twinkling, her cheeks rosy as apples. The moment Mrs. Wattlesbrook left them, Juliette began speaking rapidly in fluent English with a French accent, talking Kestrel through the dressing process. And it was a process. Entering Austenland was like walking slowly into the ocean, submerging herself inch by inch. Behind a screen, Kestrel took off all her clothes and put on a chemise—a simple nightgown- like undergarment. Under that, drawers, which looked like very silly calf-length pants. After stockings and corset completed the undergarments, Kestrel emerged sheepishly, feeling like a partly dressed and discarded baby doll. “How about this muslin dress for today?” asked Juliette, touching the sleeve of pretty blue one with a pattern of small white dots. It had long sleeves that puffed at the shoulders and, 30
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like all Regency dresses, a waistline just under the bosom and a skirt that fell to the feet. Kestrel’s heart gave a single happy thud, but her wary brain jumped in with doubt. She rarely wore dresses and had to shop in petites due to her height. On Kestrel, knee-length skirts were mid-calf, and ankle-length dresses dragged on the floor. “It’s pretty, but will it fit me?” “Of course.” Juliette took down the dress to show her. “Every dress on this rack has been tailored to your measurements.” Kestrel’s throat closed off, her stomach clenched, and she realized the unfamiliar sensation of being near tears was raging through her body. She was so moved, she couldn’t speak. The thoughtful attention felt almost painful in its kindness and intimacy. And beneath the ache, the wonder was still spinning like a carousel. Juliette finished with Kestrel’s buttons, brushed and pinned her hair into an updo, and then walked her to a full-length mirror. “Oh là là!” said Juliette. Kestrel couldn’t help laughing at herself, but the humor was tinged with awe. She usually wore her long, black hair loose or in a ponytail or braids. Now it was all expertly twisted and poofed on top of her head, somehow making her eyes look darker, her face rounder, and her whole self generally more Bridgerton friendly. “Now it begins,” she said. “What, Christmas?” asked Juliette. “Yep,” said Kestrel. But she really meant, Everything. Now, finally, everything begins. By the time Kestrel emerged, dressed from slippers to curls, 31
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the rest of the party was back in the drawing room and dressed as well, the whole lot transforming from college dorm room to BBC historical drama in one fell swoop. Charming wore a frilly pink dress with consequential puffed sleeves. Andrews and Jerome were particularly noteworthy in knee-high black boots, tight brown breeches, white shirts, and cravats, with a purple and a deep green jacket respectively, their long sideburns completing the look. These new duds brought out a different side of them that Kestrel hadn’t noticed before. Both the gents looked a little stiffer, a little older, and, if it was possible, even more handsome. When Juliette stepped to the threshold and said, “Presenting Miss Kestrel Spinster,” all eyes looked toward Kestrel. She felt a physical shock, as if the actors in a movie had suddenly looked into the camera and called her by name. As she entered the drawing room on slippered feet and curtsied, a cold, wonderful buzz whooshed from her toes through her bones to the top of her head, as if she had finally completely submerged. Her skin prickled with chills. “Miss Charming, you have a visitor,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, entering from the front hall. “If you were expecting Christmas guests, I wish you had informed me.” “Who is it?” asked Charming, adding, in a strained and unconvincing British accent, “Pish-posh, r ight-o.” A voice called out, “Iiiiiiiiiit’s Bobby!” A large man popped his head out from behind the doorway. He was around Charming’s own age, with a full head of hair turning gray, his mid- length beard almost entirely white. He had an appealing face—not necessarily handsome, but his eyes were bright, and his excited smile was so genuine, Kestrel couldn’t help returning it. 32
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He put his arms out at his sides, presenting himself. He wore a brown three-piece suit and was carrying a massive bouquet of red roses. “I came back for you, sweetheart,” he said. “Merry Christmas.” Charming had both her hands over her mouth and was staring wide- eyed, but Kestrel couldn’t tell if it was from horror or delight. Bobby went down on one knee, his smile huge, confidence rolling off him like the scent of his musky cologne. “Aw, honey, I missed you so much. You look incredible. Knock- me- out-of-my-boots-and-brand-my-butt drop-dead gorgeous. You are my entire world, you know that. My entire world!” Still Charming didn’t move. Her eyes were so filled with tears they glistened in the chandelier light. Bobby’s proffered roses began to dip. He laughed nervously. “Don’t leave me hanging. I crossed half the globe for you.” Her hands lowered from her face to press against her chest. “My heart is pounding so hard I’m gonna break my corset in two. Bobby, what—?” He tossed the roses onto the carpet, took her hands, and pulled her to her feet. “I’m doing what I should’ve done two years ago.” He dipped her backward and bent over her to kiss her. When he brought her back up, her cheeks were pink and her mouth was smiling. “That’s my girl.” He looked her up and down. “Whoo-wee! What a getup! You’re finer than a frog’s hair split four ways. I’d like to smear you on a biscuit and eat you for breakfast.” “Um, Bobby, this is everybody,” Charming said, slightly breathless. “Everybody, this is my . . . this is Bobby.” 33
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“Howdy, y’all!” He waved. “Thanks for taking care of my girl for me. But I’m back now!” She giggled, and he kissed her again. And everyone watched silently like the audience of a show. Kestrel sidled up to Jerome to whisper, “Have we started? Is this part of the play?” Jerome shook his head. “No, this is real.” Andrews was tightening his fists and looked about ready to deck Bobby into tomorrow. Was he jealous that his best friend’s attention was elsewhere? Or did he have reasons to be concerned about Bobby? Kestrel squinted at the canoodling pair, looking for the cracks, the fault lines, the signs that something was about to break open. “Austenland isn’t a play, just so you know what to expect,” Jerome whispered. “You won’t be watching stories acted out. You will be part of them, creating them.” “Right, it’s ‘an immersive Austen experience,’ ” Kestrel quoted from the brochure. “ ‘No scripts, no written endings,’ ” Jerome quoted back. “The only thing for certain is no one ever knows what is going to happen.”
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Before
For Kestrel’s first ten years, her mother, Jill, had “home schooled” her, aka taught her to read but mostly left her to watch TV while Jill was at work. A kid like Kestrel could only spend so much time indoors before she would literally climb the walls. The second time she broke her wrist, social services got involved, and Kestrel was forced into fourth grade. Recess with other kids was great, but being caged by a school desk was so suffocating, she started to experience panic attacks. On one of the greatest days of her life, Kestrel had been sitting in class staring out the window, when her mom—her amazing, beautiful, lively mom—pulled up to the curb in her old blue convertible, the backseat piled with all their things in boxes. Like a hero in a movie, Jill honked and called Kestrel’s name. Without a word to the teacher, Kestrel ran out of the school and down the front
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steps and hopped over the car door into the front seat. She waved goodbye to nobody as they drove into the sunset. Metaphorically. It was 11 a.m. “I found us a new place in Oregon!” Jill said happily. “It’s called Farm Home, and it’s an intentional peace community. Isn’t that beautiful? A group of families founded it, and everyone lives there for free, taking care of the gardens and animals, working together to support each other. I’ll finally be able to raise you properly. No more scrabbling for rent, no more broken pipes and eviction notices. It sounds too good to be true!” Yes, it did. When they pulled up on the dirt road, dozens of people gathered to greet them, as if they were already family. Three kids Kestrel’s age were assigned to give her a tour of the property—a big farmhouse and collection of cottages, several barns and sheds, crop fields, and a fruit orchard. When Kestrel saw her mother again, she was in deep conversation with a slim bearded man called Teacher, who served as Farm Home’s unofficial leader. And the blue convertible was gone. The kids brought Kestrel into the cottage set aside for children aged seven to thirteen. Kestrel was to share a room with a half dozen girls, sleeping on four mattresses shoved close together. “What about my mom?” asked Kestrel. “The parents sleep in different houses,” a girl explained. “And that means . . . n o grown-ups to tell us to go to bed!” At first, it felt like a perpetual sleepover. The girls in her room stayed awake for late-night parties, sometimes joining with the rest of the children for a massive game of 36
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Sardines. As long as they didn’t wake the adults and still got up in the morning to do their chores, the kids were free. Kestrel discovered she didn’t mind her chores. She could chat with other kids while weeding between the zucchini and tomato plants and milking the goats, and she thrived, feeling capable and a part of something tangible. Loneliness was banished. Solitude just a bad memory. Kestrel was part of a huge, messy, silly, wonderful sort- of family. But after a couple of weeks of barely seeing her mom, Kestrel learned that wasn’t an aberration. In order to “cultivate both equality and independence,” Teacher advised parents to separate from their children and allow the community to share child-rearing responsibilities. Kestrel felt an alarming tightness deep in her belly as she realized she might never again go to the grocery store with her mother, begging for cupcakes and chocolate milk. And no more nights when Jill watched dramas on TV and Kestrel curled up and fell asleep, her head on Jill’s lap, the sounds of the show making her believe their house was full of people. Now when Kestrel spied Jill from a distance, she felt strange and achy and tinged with shame. Maybe Jill didn’t want her anymore. Maybe Kestrel was being punished for being a bad kid. Also, there were the rules. Most were sensible and mostly achievable. Don’t steal. Don’t lie. Don’t cheat. But there were just so many rules. Kestrel wished they were written down somewhere for her to memorize. Instead she was in a constant state of worry that she might be breaking a rule she didn’t know about. 37
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Do your chores thoroughly. Clean up after yourself. Be positive. If an adult caught her breaking any rule, her punishment might be loss of Free Time. And, it was hinted, there were worse punishments. Attend Teacher’s lectures. Pay attention to Teacher’s lectures. Every sunrise and sunset they gathered in the Pavilion to listen to Teacher lecture about peace, harmony, and personal responsibility. As near as Kestrel could tell. She was so bored, she barely kept awake. But the lectures were the one time of day she was sure at least to see her mother. Often she managed to sit beside Jill, close enough that their knees touched, and sometimes their elbows. Kestrel’s whole self felt aware of those small points of contact, pulling them deep inside her as if they were full- body hugs. Sometimes she turned her head toward her mother and slyly breathed in through her nose. Jill smelled different now, like Farm Home’s goat milk soap. A few weeks after arriving, Kestrel leaned close to whisper a confession—“Mom, I don’t like Teacher.” “Hush,” Jill said. “If you ever say that to me again, I won’t be able to talk to you.” Kestrel didn’t say it again. Her gut warned her to be wary of Teacher, so she tried to ignore her gut. Confess rule-breaking every week. This meant entering the Confession Room when it was vacant and, to a blank-eyed video camera, detailing any rules she’d broken. Ten-year-old Kestrel knew instinctively to keep this simple and stick to things she’d already been caught doing. 38
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Christmas in Austenland
“During Teacher’s sunrise lecture, I got up too many times to go to the bathroom. And at lunch yesterday I tried to take an extra muffin.” Aside from adults berating her for wiggling and talking too much, Kestrel managed to avoid any real trouble, except the time she lured fellow eleven-year-old Jenna away from weeding duty and down to the pond. It was hot out, and they swam and splashed and picked names for imaginary pet horses. The next week, Kestrel was shocked when one of Teacher’s assistants confronted her about the stolen afternoon. It was useless to try to lie her way out of it, because Jenna had already blabbed in the Confession Room. “I had to,” Jenna explained later. “Teacher says Farm Home will teach the whole world how to live in peace and harmony, but it only works if we’re completely honest and obedient.” “Yeah, I know,” said Kestrel, “but they wouldn’t have found out. You could have just not said.” “But I want to bring peace and harmony to the world!” Jenna wailed. News of the infraction traveled all the way to Teacher himself, and when Kestrel was called to his office, he gestured for her to sit on a bean bag. He remained standing. “I know your heart, Kestrel,” said Teacher. “I can tell when people are good or bad.” “Like Santa Claus?” Kestrel asked, genuinely curious. Teacher looked down at her as if he could see right into her soul. And he frowned. Many times since coming to Farm Home, Kestrel had felt confused, uneasy, or ashamed. But that was the first time she’d felt afraid. 39
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Dear Reader, This is the book I’d been wanting to write for fifteen years. I thought at first that life got in the way, preventing me from returning to Austenland as quickly as I’d wanted. But now, I think, life was simply preparing me, giving me the necessary experiences so that I could be the person to write this story. So, hey, life—I mean, thanks, I guess, but couldn’t it all have taken fewer years and significantly less pain? No? Okay fine. I can dig up some genuine gratitude. Thank you. For the growth and the wisdom learned. The adventures and connections. The pains and the ecstasies. It’s all pudding, love. And so much gratitude for everyone who ever said, “Write another Austenland!” I can’t express how much it meant to know there were readers like you across the Great Fourth Wall. It gave me hope that if I labored diligently and then tossed my novel over, someone like you might be there to catch it. And continued thanks to all the characters in the vast oil painting of Austenland, including: Erica Barmash, Faye Bi, Lindsey Leavitt Brown, Melissa Bryner, Liz Byer, James Callis, Mary Kate Castellani, Ally Braithwaite Condie, Jennifer Coolidge, Beth Eller, Ann Dee Ellis, Carrot Forward, Kimberly Glyder, Dean Hale, Valerie Hale, Jerusha Hess, Alexa Higbee, Jessica Hunt, Mette Marie Ivie, Bree Martinez, Yamile Saied Mendez, Stephenie Meyer, Jodi Reamer, Amy Robin, Jane Seymour, Anqi Xu,
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Shannon Hale
Lily Yengle, and all the ton at Bloomsbury. Sending so much love to survivors of cults, high-control groups, and unhealthy families. Life is strange and heartbreaking and yet still so beautiful, and this world is better for your existence. Tally-frickin’-ho, Shannon Hale
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A Note on the Author
Shannon Hale is the New York Times bestselling author of over fifty books, which have sold more than fifteen million copies in North America and been translated into dozens of languages worldwide. Austenland was her first novel about Pembrook Park and its regulars, followed by Midnight in Austenland and Christmas in Austenland. With director Jerusha Hess, Shannon co-wrote the screenplay to the film Austenland, starring Keri Russell and Jennifer Coolidge. Her novels for young readers include The Goose Girl, Book of a Thousand Days, and Newbery Honor-winner Princess Academy. She has co-created many graphic novels, such as the Friends series of memoirs (with LeUyen Pham), the Dream On series (with Marcela Cespedes), Eisner-nominee Rapunzel’s Revenge (with Dean Hale and Nathan Hale), and Princess Academy: the Graphic Novel (with Victoria Ying). She is also the co-creator of the popular chapter book series The Princess in Black (with Dean Hale and LeUyen Pham) and the best- selling Itty-Bitty Kitty-Corn picture books (with LeUyen Pham). Shannon lives in Utah, where she shares a home with her kindhearted husband, four magnificent children, two ridiculous cats, and a glorious number of books.
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Read the delightfully charming book that started it all, featuring brand new “behind the scenes” content about Austenland the movie!
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In search of mystery, romance, and a lot of fun? Don’t miss Midnight in Austenland !
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