What would happen if four authors were each to write a novella for an anthology and it turned out they had all used the same plot premise? Disaster, right? But what if it had been done deliberately? What if the four had agreed ahead of time on certain plot details they would all use and had then gone ahead and written the novellas without further collaboration? Madness, right? All the stories would be basically the same.

Or would they?

For years it has been my conviction that the individual imagination, voice, style, and outlook on life of each author would guarantee a quite unique story no matter how similar the basic plot was to someone else’s. I wanted to test the theory, but could arouse no interest in it until recently. And then I was out on a Levy book-signing tour with a crowd of other authors and idly mentioned my idea to Candice Hern and Jacquie D’Alessandro. They were instantly enthusiastic, and we talked of nothing else for the whole of one long bus journey from Chicago to Detroit. We were going to do it. But we felt that we needed a fourth member of the group and made a wish list. Candice happened to have Stephanie Laurens’s e-mail address with her, and since she was at the top of our list, we wrote to her and had an almost instant acceptance, despite the time difference between Detroit and somewhere in Australia. Our agents also loved the idea-and so did Avon when we pitched it to them.

And so here it is-an anthology of four novellas with the same plot! You can be the judge. Are they so similar that when you have read one, you have read them all?

Or are they as differently fascinating as the four seasons in which they are set?

The plot premise is this: A man and a woman, who have neither seen nor heard from each other in ten years, meet again when they find themselves staying at the same inn for a twenty-four hour period. To make the experiment a real one, we did not discuss our stories at all as we wrote them. The only artificial restriction we placed upon them ahead of time was to take different seasons of the year, since there are four of those and four of us.

Enjoy these very different novellas-even though in one sense they are all the same. Right? Or wrong?

Mary Balogh

It was a dark, stormy, and utterly miserable night. Rain fell from the sky in unrelenting sheets; whenever Robert “Rogue” Gerrard, fifth Viscount Gerrard, managed to squint through long lashes weighed down by icy droplets all he saw was more rain.

Hunched in his greatcoat on the box of his traveling carriage, he held the reins loosely in one long-fingered hand; he’d stripped off his sodden gloves miles ago. There was no risk of the horses bolting.

“Just a little further,” he crooned, urging them on. He doubted they could hear over the drumming downpour, but the coaxing croon was ingrained habit. If one wanted females or animals to do what one wanted, one crooned; in Ro’s experience, it usually worked.

The powerful pair, normally arrogantly high-stepping, were disdainfully lifting first one hoof, then the other, free of sucking mud. Their pace was down to a crawl.

Inwardly cursing, Ro peered through the water coursing down his face, trying through the darkness to make out some-any-landmark. It was February. His mother always maintained one should never travel in February; as with many things, she was proving to be correct. But business had called, so Ro had dutifully left the luxurious warmth of the hearth at his principal estate, Gerrard Park, near Waltham on the Wolds, summoned his trusty coachman, Willis, and set out that afternoon for town.

He’d imagined putting up for the night along the way, possibly at the Kings Bells in St. Neots.

As usual, they’d joined the Great North Road near Colsterworth. It was only after they’d swept past Stamford that Willis, glancing idly back, had seen the massive storm clouds rushing down on them from the north. The turnoff to Peterborough had already been behind them; when applied to for orders, Ro had decreed they’d press on with all speed, hoping to reach Brampton. They’d just raced through the hamlet of Norman Cross when the heavens had opened with a ferocity that had instantly made traveling, even on England’s most major highway, a nightmare.

They’d limped toward Sawtry, but with the smaller, slighter Willis all but drowned on the box, having increasing difficulty managing the reins, Ro had insisted on trading places. His drenched coachman was now a shivering lump inside the coach, while Ro, also drenched to the skin, but courtesy of his size and constitution better able to withstand the apocalyptic downpour, squinted through the torrent.

They’d reached Sawtry over an hour ago, only to find every possible habitation packed to the rafters with travelers seeking shelter. The Great North Road was the country’s busiest highway; mail coaches, post coaches, and private coaches, let alone wagons and carts, had been stranded and deserted all around Sawtry.

No shelter of any sort was to be had, but the deluge had shown no signs of abating; if anything, as the hours dragged on, the downpour had only increased.

That was when Ro had remembered the small but tidy inn in Coppingford. The lane along which it lay met the highway about a mile south of Sawtry. With no real option, Ro had accepted the risk, not just of that extra mile on the highway, but of what he’d estimated as two miles of country lane.

Now, with the night an icy, wet, close to impenetrable shroud around him, with the horses slowing even more with every step, with the deluge rapidly converting the lane into a quagmire, he was seriously wondering if he’d judged aright. Yet quite aside from its seclusion tucked away through woods two miles from the highway, given the sudden onset of the storm and its dramatic impact, he doubted the Coppingford Arms would be full.

Gaining shelter for him, Willis, and his horses was currently his only objective, and both instinct and intellect told him shelter awaited at the Coppingford Arms.

He was debating whether to get down and lead the horses when he caught a glimmer through the dripping trees. Leaden branches drooped and bobbed in the downpour; he blinked, shook his head, sending droplets flying in a vain attempt to clear his eyes, and stared again. A small, weak lamp glowed through the curtain of rain.

It grew larger, its light stronger, as the horses inched along. Through the drowned night the outline of a low, solid, two-story building in gray stone took shape. As well as the single lamp by the main door, flickering light at one window bore testimony to a fire within. The sight made Ro realize just how chilled he was; he quelled a shiver.

A stone archway beside the inn gave access to the stable yard. He turned the flagging horses under it. “Willis! Wake up, man-we’re here.”

“I’m awake.” Willis was out of the carriage before it had rocked to a halt. “Ostler! Get yourself out here! His lordship’s horses need tending before they get washed away.”

Swinging down from the box seat, Ro saw an ostler come rushing from the stable.

Wide-eyed, he grabbed hold of the leader’s bridle. “We can walk them into the stable and unharness there. No need to get washed away ourselves.”

Ro nodded to Willis when Willis looked back at him. “Go on. I’ll get my bag and bespeak rooms-come in when you’re done.”