Epilogue

From the Journal of Lord & Lady Langdon

We have been married 10 years. We have 4 children. 2 boys. 2 girls.

I look at the sentences my beautiful and beloved wife wrote in our journal, and I cannot interpret everything. I see the numbers.

I know they are numbers. Do they represent a few or many? I still cannot recall their name without being told or comprehend

their value.

No, that is not true. Because what I do understand about the above numbers is that each one is composed of an abundance of

love. Love that is equal to every star in the sky. Stars I cannot count but I can determine go on forever, into infinity.

And that is the depth of my love for my wife and my children.

Marlowe and I created quite the stir with our marriage. But it didn’t take long for the name Marlowe to fade from the public consciousness altogether because “Marlowe” was no longer writ ten about. Not in gossip columns, gossip rags, or gossip sheets.

Lady Langdon, however... she fills the Society pages with her balls, dinners, and good works.

She visits orphanages and carries the children up in a tethered balloon. She does the same thing in the slums and rookeries.

She takes little scamps with nothing and gives them what few possess: the confidence of knowing that anything is possible.

She even believes in the impossible, my wife does. She is certain that in the very near future, a machine will be invented

that will soar through the heavens with such speed that it will replace the railway as a means of transporting people. When

it comes to pass, she intends to fly it.

The unhappy wives of lords come for tea and confide in her regarding their straying husbands or their discontent, and she

advises them on how to bring their men into line without them even realizing they are being tamed.

I suspect in some ways she may have even brought me to heel. Not that I mind. I want only for her to be happy.

She allowed me to pay off her father’s debts. It took some doing, but we convinced her mother to come live with us. Eventually

she met an aging lord she liked immensely, married him, and became what her first husband promised her she would be: a countess.

Marlowe has kept to her vow of keeping track of numbers for me. Sometimes I can almost snag one and then it dissipates like fog before the sun. It is such a strange affliction. Numerous doctors have studied me but are no closer to determining what the hell is going on in my brain. Perhaps numbers will return one day, but I am no longer bothered by their absence.

Marlowe and I even devised a series of signals that provides me with the information I need so I can cheat when playing cards

with my family.

We are a team, Marlowe and I. Together we can weather any storm, survive any tempest. We are unconquerable.

That is the strength and power of our love. It is immeasurable. Where it is concerned, numbers are moot.

I still am unable to tell her how many times we have made love, but I have yet to forget a single moment of loving her madly.