Epilogue

E PILOGUE

Independence is happiness.

—Susan B. Anthony

There wasn't much else for Marigold to do—she had done all she had set out to accomplish at Hatchet Farm. And there was nothing left in her pocketbook for her to do anything else.

Isabella heard her sigh. "You know what you need?" she began as she supervised the loading of Marigold's trunks onto the launch.

"Money," Marigold answered.

"Some occupation," Isabella corrected. "And before you say it, I mean an occupation that will bring you the money you need to resume the life you want to lead."

"Naturally," Marigold agreed. "I seem to recall having this conversation some weeks ago."

"Well, you hadn't solved a murder some weeks ago."

"Two murders, actually?" Plus those poor, as-yet-unaccounted "other girls" done in by Alva. "Do you mean I ought to set myself up as a sort of a consulting detectivist?"

"Too dangerous," Isabella advised. "Why don't you just write about it? All the gory, grisly, gothic details that the public loves?"

"Isabella," Marigold chided. "One doesn't want to appear ghoulish."

"Nonsense," Isabella countered. "Take up a pen name like that savage man you mentioned. Because if anyone can tell such a tale with style and panache, it's you, my dear."

"I am all for the idea of writing, but I am meant to be working on my mythology."

"Think of the money." Isabella tried again. "The paying press is always hungry for the sensation and scandal of an interesting murder. It's bound to be more lucrative than your worthy, but frankly boring, academic tome."

"The classical myths are far from boring—not the way I'll retell them."

"Darling, please. You need money ."

"True." Isabella's idea began to have some appeal. "Perhaps I might try," Marigold reasoned. "I did enjoy Wilkie Collins' mysterious novels—perhaps I could write my own."

"Perhaps?" Isabella repeated theatrically. "The inimitable Miss Marigold Manners says perhaps ? My dear friend, I truly begin to worry."

" Begin ?" Marigold had to smile. "I will admit to being rather shaken by all that has happened. It was one thing to find myself a pauper, but now to be a pauper and a bastard—" She shook her head. "It's all just too sordid, even for me."

"Darling," Isabella said with feeling, "if you can give bastardy as much style and verve as you've given paupery, you'll be a smash. Write your murdery story. It will do you good."

It might. Even if the experience did nothing more than sort out her still-conflicted thoughts and feelings—it would never do to exist as a slave to her emotions.

"Perhaps I will." It would certainly be something different.

Marigold picked up her pen.

The first thing she noticed was the scarecrow's hat, battered and torn but still somehow familiar, tilted at a rakish angle, as if the wearer had some style or panache—but panache was what gave one style, if you asked her …