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“Why don’t we move on,” said Rebecca, glaring openly at Jane.

“In a moment,” Jane said. “Mr. Osborn,” she addressed Byron. “Do you really mean for us to believe that you aren’t just as guilty of presenting women with an idealized version of themselves?” Having never read a Penelope Wentz novel, she hoped she was correct in her assessment of Byron’s prose.

“I think we can all agree that fiction, particularly romantic fiction, works best when it contains some elements of fantasy,” Byron said smoothly. “After all, a world of laundry, carpools, and helping with homework is hardly the setting for romance, do you think?”

“I absolutely do,” said Jane. “In fact, some of the most romantic novels in the world feature perfectly ordinary women. Take Sense and—”

“I think we should move on,” Rebecca interrupted loudly. “Mr. Osborn, perhaps you could tell us more about how you came to write as Penelope Wentz. I’m sure it’s a fascinating story.”

Jane sat back in her chair. She knew she’d been bested. Byron’s glamor was too strong, and she was out of practice. He had upstaged her, taking away what should have been a triumphant moment for her and her book.

For the next hour, Byron fielded questions from the audience. Jane and Chiara were barely noticed. Every so often one of them would start to answer a question, only to be cut off by someone who preferred to hear Byron’s thoughts on the topic at hand. While Jane was annoyed by the proceedings, Chiara seemed not to mind being eclipsed by Byron. Finally Jane tuned everything out and just sat there pretending to pay attention.

Only when she heard another wave of applause did she listen to what was going on. It seemed the panel was over.

“And now Mr. Osborn will sign copies of his books,” Rebecca announced. “Oh, and so will the other authors,” she added hastily. “Please form an orderly line.”

It seemed to Jane that nearly every person in the room rushed toward the platform simultaneously. For a moment she feared she would be trampled, but they came to a halt a few feet away and somehow managed to organize themselves into a queue stretching off to Jane’s right. The first person, a girl of maybe twenty, stepped onto the platform and approached her. Jane smiled, anticipating the first signing of her novel. However, the woman didn’t even glance at Jane as she went right to Byron.

“Could you sign it to Brandi?” the girl asked.

“That’s Brandi with an i, correct?” said Byron.

The girl beamed. “How did you know?”

Byron answered as he wrote in her book. “A girl as unique as you are is certain to have a unique name,” he said.

Brandi giggled and bit her lip.

“Thank you so much for coming today,” said Byron, eliciting another titter. “I hope you enjoy the book.”

“I will,” Brandi said as she was encouraged by Rebecca to move along. Jane noted with some small satisfaction that the girl walked by Chiara without so much as a turn of her head.

By then another reader had bypassed Jane and was talking to Byron. As he had with Brandi, he charmed her to the point that all she could do was giggle.

“Who do you think you are?” Jane asked in the interval between one woman leaving and another arriving. “The Beatles?”

With agonizing slowness the line grew shorter. Not a single person asked Jane or Chiara for an autograph. When the last person had received a signature from Byron and walked away glowing, Jane stood up.

“That was fun,” she said. “Now I’m afraid I have to be getting along. It was lovely to meet all of you.”

She gathered up her things and started to leave, not caring whether or not she insulted Chiara or Rebecca. Her entire trip had, as far as she was concerned, been a waste of time. Not quite, she reminded herself. You did kill Charlotte Brontë. That’s something, at least.

“Jane, wait.”

She heard Byron’s voice behind her but kept walking. A moment later he grabbed her arm. “Wait,” he said.

She shook his hand off and whirled to look at him. “Why would I possibly want to do that?” she asked.