Epilogue

Goodbyes were difficult business, Meret realised, and the tying-up of loose ends required an inordinate amount of both time and care. A year at Oxford, followed by her working stint in Milton, had left her with a clutter of possessions—not to mention connections.

For the last few days she had tried to get organised and, finally, on her last night in the flat she shared with Louisa, it looked like she had come to the end of her to-do-list.

In the case of possessions this had involved a lot of boxing and shipping. Some odds and ends she had bought for the flat, mostly kitchen utensils, remained with Louisa, as did a large potted plant, a brightly coloured woollen blanket and a couple of cushions. She had given her bike, which she had bought second-hand in Oxford during her first month as a student, to Phil, wondering if he would ever use it.

As for the connections... Pooling funds with Louisa and Phil, they had given a farewell party at the Medical Institute with pizzas and lots of fancy cocktails in test tubes; using brand new glassware—Meret had insisted on it, shuddering at the thought of misappropriating any of the used ones. She had been out for coffees with both Jackie and Fiona. The latter had taken the opportunity to press-gang her into doing more research on her ancestor's later life in Denmark...

—

"If she really had a psychological practice in the 1920s, then there may still be some records with a medical association, or whatever your national equivalent is," Fiona said. "I'd be ever so grateful if you checked it out for me. After what we've learnt from her diary, and after having received proof that Emily really studied and worked in Zurich, I'm absolutely determined to do a piece on her for the Beardsley Wing publication."

"I'll see what I can do," Meret promised, a little overwhelmed. She didn't have much of an idea where to start her search in Copenhagen. But perhaps her father, who had done his own research on Emily's husband Ole Frederiksen, was willing to help. It would be fun to make it a family project in the weeks to come.

"Please try," Fiona insisted. "Emily was quite the pioneer, even if she didn't make any outstanding discoveries. But she was a professional at a time when career women didn't exist. I feel we owe it to her to bring her back from obscurity and to fill in the gaps that still remain."

She had met with Jareth—and Jareth alone—for a final stroll with Pinks, and to hear what had become of the Marlborough Mills development...

—

"What about my idea for a cosy café?" she teased him. "I'm relying on you rather badly for that!"

"Things have taken on a slightly different turn... The investors have jumped on the latest bandwagon—and for once that's not a bad thing," Jareth said, although cautioning her not to get her hopes too high. "While it's still going to be a conference hotel—with a restaurant open for the public, mind—the new thing is that we're working on a sustainability concept for it—and not just going for an 'eco friendly' label, but the whole shebang."

He went on to explain about geothermal energy, photovoltaic systems, rainwater and waste heat utilisation—"An artisan bakery is coming on board."—and lots of other things Meret had only the foggiest idea about.

Eventually, seeing her somewhat bemused expression, he laughed self-consciously. "Sorry. I'm getting carried away. But it is all rather exciting... for an architect, anyway," he conceded.

"Sounds like you're keeping busy. How's Ben dealing with it, now that he's on an enforced leave?"

"He's taking it on the chin... well, more or less." He smiled lopsidedly. "He's said so himself that, with him being away so frequently, he can hardly complain now that the tables are turned for once... It's not perfect, though." He whistled for Pinks who, off the leash, had wandered off into the nearby undergrowth. Within moments the dog came bounding towards them.

"You've probably guessed that we're rather different individuals, Ben and I," he continued, straightening from his stoop after putting Pinks back on lead. "We had a bit of a conversation after you'd left the other day— "

"He wasn't trying to anticipate things, was he? Because it was really none of my business and I've never intended to mention it to you," Meret said defensively, wondering at the same time if she was just about to make things worse.

"So, he was talking to you?—I guessed as much... Well, no, this is none of your doing... I suppose it was simply about time we had this conversation." Meret looked up sharply, fearing that he would tell her that they had split up in the wake of her visit, when he continued, "Being rather different in what we expect from life doesn't make our relationship any easier, of course, but by the end of the day we're both feeling very strongly that we want this to work out. So, we've chosen compromise... and we'll make it up as we go along."

"Sounds difficult," Meret remarked, a little dubious.

"Actually, I see it as a challenge—" And, quite unexpectedly, he grinned.

"Possibly—deep down—you're not so different, after all!" she laughed, kissing him goodbye on the cheek. "I wish you every happiness... both of you."

It was a quarter to one. Phil and Sebastian had left half an hour before and Louisa had gone to bed shortly afterwards, promising to prepare a fabulous farewell breakfast on the following morning. Meret was wearily piling the rest of her belongings into the large suitcase that was lying open on her bed and currently prevented her from going to sleep. Eventually she snapped it closed and heaved it onto the floor. As she did so, she dislodged a folder lying on the bedside table, and the diary copies fell out of it and tumbled to the floor.

With a sigh she knelt to retrieve them. Both sets of copies had been stapled together in the correct order, but a few sheets were torn loose from one of them. Picking them up she saw that the strange second diary—odd lists written by Margaret Thornton's old servant as Meret had learnt in the meantime—had come undone. She swore under her breath. Emily's diary with its coherent, continuous writing would have been so much easier to put back in order.

Meret stared at the half dozen pages and wondered if there were any clues to help her find out how they came one after the other. As she tried to decipher the spidery writing, she saw faint traces of a different handwriting on one of these pages. It was an elegant cursive, though what it actually said Meret couldn't determine on the monochrome printout and in the faint light of her bedside lamp. She grabbed her mobile and searched for the respective page in the scan file.

There it was! The letters had faded to a brownish hue which, along with the yellowing paper, made them indeed easy to overlook at a superficial glance. Zooming in she saw that the handwriting was not unalike Emily's, and yet Meret had the distinct impression that it was not hers. Hadn't Emily stated a revulsion of the notebook in her own diary?—so, why would she add her own annotations to it?—and hadn't she mentioned that the volume might initially have belonged to her own mother, Margaret Thornton?

Just three short paragraphs... Meret feverishly flicked through the pages of the file, but no matter how hard she squinted at the minuscule images on her mobile screen, this one entry, near the end of the notebook, was all she ever found...

—

They tell me that I have recovered because I go through the motions.

But how can I be well when I am empty inside? I have a daughter, I have a husband—and I feel no yearning for either. I have retained no memory of how it feels to love.

Another few days and then he will be here—I don't know how I shall bear to see the hope die in his eyes.

—

The End

A/N:

I know that this may have been a disappointing read for some, especially as there tends to be an expectation that N&S fanfic always ends with a HEA. I also know it's generally a big no-no to do away with one of our beloved main characters. It is, however, one of the upsides of writing many shortish stories rather than one comprehensive work that one can start over and over again with alternative scenarios and explore very different possibilities—including the tragic ones.

I'd like to thank every one of you who stuck by this story till the end... and I sincerely hope that I haven't caused distress.

Echo draws from many sources, some of them literary, and a few superficially relate to my own family history. This story not only alludes to postpartum psychosis (which fortunately is very rare and has not been experienced by anyone I personally know), but also more generally to depression.

If any of you experience any symptoms of depression, please don't hesitate to get professional help! Mental health issues are nothing to be ashamed of; they can happen to anyone anytime.