Beth didn't know quite what to do with herself with Jo gone. She had thought that she would cry and cry, but she hadn't been able to at the funereal or thereafter.

"Don't go so far away from us," Meg said, grasping her hand. "I feel as if I can't touch you any longer."

It was a very strange speech, which Beth did not know quite how to answer.

Looking for closure, Beth ascended the steps to the attic one day, carrying with her an armful of Jo's favorite books, her pen and ink stand, a pair of slippers which Beth herself had made her, an odd glove, and all of the other relics she had been able to find. Four little chests sat all in a row, each with a name carved upon it. Beth ignored Amy's, Meg's, and her own, but opened up Jo's chest, her heart beating as if it were truly her sister that she was intent on locking away, and not just an assortment of meaningless objects.

A disorder of broken toys, scribbled fairy tales, and thoroughly worn clothing reigned within. Jo, Beth thought, would have looked inside and found something important to say about it. Beth only thought of how alive and vital Jo had been compared to the rest of them, and all that she should have done. Beth could imagine thousands of futures for Jo, each more exciting than the last. It was strange, for she could not imagine anything for herself. Beth had never thought about what she would be when she grew up, or made plans for the future, and here she was an adult, without the one person who had been able to drive her forward.

Beth remained seated on the floor of the attic for several hours that day, until it came time to go help Marmee prepare dinner.

Laurie took to inviting her along whenever he went out, and Beth always accepted.

"Grandfather has me slaving away already at the business," he said one day. He was leading Beth over a stone path across the creek, which she never would have dreamed of trying to cross usually. Meg and Amy, she knew, would have refused such a journey outright, for it could not be made without getting the hem of her dress wet, and making a mess of her shoes. Beth found that she did not mind that much, as long as he continued speaking to her.

"I fancy he doesn't know what else to do with me. He's said often enough that I might go to Europe if I choose, but that failing I must work. He won't have a grandson loafing about the house, playing the piano all day."

"You can play at our house, if you like," Beth offered, remembering how Grandfather Laurence did not like Laurie's music.

"Your house feels haunted these days. I don't know how you bear it."

"I wish it was," Beth sighed. Lately she had begun to think that she wanted Jo back in any form. Her guilt for shrinking away from her so when she was sick had not abated, and she'd often prayed and promised that she would be able to take anything, if only she might have Jo back.

Laurie took her hand, as if to keep her from slipping as she reached the riverbed, though her footing had been firm up to that point.

He did come over that night. He was charming and kind to Marmee, helped with washing the dishes, and spent a good hour playing away at Beth's piano, touching the keys with a passion which was unlike Beth's usual tender delicacy. She had thought, once of asking him to play duets with her, but now she thought their styles poorly matched.

"Do you miss Jo terribly right now?" She asked, when he had finished.

"Yes."

It was a single word, but it spoke volumes. He gathered Beth into his arms when she came forward, thinking to comfort him. The kiss that he planted on the top of her head before leaving for the evening felt misplaced.

;.;.;.;.;;.;.;.

"We could marry," Laurie said, some weeks later, sitting with Beth in the clearing where the girls had once held their "Busy Bee Society" and built castles in the air. Laurie, far from obeying the rules, was lounging idly. Beth was making a daisy chain, but hardly thought herself any better, for it was a child's game, and not a woman's work.

"What?" Beth asked, concentrating on the stems that she was looping together, and half hoping he would go back on what he had just said if she pretended not to hear.

"I want to see Paris again, and Rome," he said, stopping Beth's hand so that she had to look at him. "And I never meant to make the trip by myself. Won't you come with me?"

"As your wife?" Beth asked slowly. Laurie was watching her with nothing of the desperation he must have felt towards Jo, and Beth was glad of it, for the thought of having an ardent lover frightened her. There was also something fragile and fond about him, which she did not like to disappoint.

"Would we be abroad very long?" Beth asked, thinking at once of Marmee and Father, and wondering if she ought to leave them alone.

"However long you wanted. We could see Amy, if you like. It must be difficult for her, being so far away at a time like this."

The last few words were wisely chosen by Laurie, and showed that he understood something about Beth, who nodded.

"Let's do that, then, if you're very sure."

;.;.;.;.;.;.;.;.;.

Their wedding was a pleasant, pretty affair, but Beth did not think it as joyous as Meg's had been. But then, how could it be, with one member of the family missing? Beth wore her bridal gown tranquilly and well, and could not doubt that Laurie made a handsome picture in his suit and tie. There was nothing overwhelming about the moment when Laurie kissed her lips for the first time, but Beth thought that she liked it well enough.

They did not sleep the first night of their honeymoon, because Laurie seemed unable to climb into bed besides Beth, and instead pulled her out of it, and spent a great portion of the evening teaching her how to play cards. Beth, having nothing to compare things to, was satisfied if a little groggy the next morning.

Jo had left many of her manuscripts behind, instructing Beth to keep of the tradition of publishing them for her, and make money for the family that way. Her hand had been feeble towards the end, and after one publisher deemed one of Jo's poems illegible, Beth took to re-transcribing her sister's works in her own neat hand.

A few weeks into her marriage, Beth found a story that gave her much comfort. It told tales of herself and her sisters as children, and instead of simply copying it, Beth read the first several chapters over and over again, feeling close to family and happiness once more. Everything was there, including much that she had forgotten. This was the story which, above all others, Beth wanted to see bound as a book that she might keep close to her forever.

The only problem was that it had no ending. The last paragraphs dealt with Louisa, the sister who Jo had modeled after herself, and read simply:

It was after much deliberation that Louisa decided that she would rise, and for once not hide from the romance she had started up as an unknowing child, and the damage she had caused. If she could not make her Laddie happy in any other way, at least she would give him the goodbye that he deserved, and be sure that at least one person remembered her as something other than an invalid.

She was peaceful all day, storing up strength for what she meant to do that night. She had not left her bed for several days, but so determined was she, that it never crossed her mind that

The story stopped there, mid-sentence, in a way that maddened Beth. She showed it to Laurie, who went very quiet upon reading it.

"I want to finish it," She said. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"We had a picnic," Laurie said, but he looked far away, and Beth could not believe it was the entire story. She did not ask more, but was more silent than usual in the days that followed, and more attentive to her husband, guessing correctly that he wanted to talk about things but didn't know where to start.

"Who do you love most, Jo or myself?" He finally asked one morning over breakfast. It was a simple question, but very easy to answer.

"Jo," Beth said . "And I know you love her more than you do me as well, so please don't worry about that."

"I slept with Jo that night," he said, more significantly than Beth thought the admission warranted.

"I imagine she was tired."

Laurie made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a grown at that, and Beth flushed, remembering some of the things that Meg had said about men, and how babies came about, while helping her into her bridal gown.

"Oh," Beth said.

Laurie took her hand at that, saying in a tone of disbelief, "You're not angry at all are you?"

Beth shook her head.

"Most woman would be. They'd leave right now, in fact."

"Perhaps I'm not as like most women as I think."

"No," Laurie said, touching her cheek almost tenderly. "You inhabit a world all your own, and I like you all the better for it."

"What you did with Jo,' Beth asked, after some thought, "Does that mean that the two of us can't have children?"

"Do you want children?"

"I think so. Yes."

"We'll have them, then," Laurie said, brightening at the prospect. "We'll be a family then, won't we Beth?"

Beth did not answer, but smiled at him from across the table.

;.;.;.;.;.;.;.;.;.

Beth picked up Jo's story several times after that, with the intent of completing it. She was not a writer, and never could be, but she felt a great deal of her heart, as well as the heart of the author was in that tale. She made several false starts, but it was not till she was large with her first child that she finally decided what she would do.

She could not embellish and take refuge in fiction as Jo once had, but she could write the truth, and that she did, attaching the following note to the end of the story:

Josephine March could not finish writing this. She died after a long struggle, leaving behind her a loving family to mourn for her loss. I will tell you that Jo and Louisa are one in the same, and let you draw your own sad conclusions. May married her Frank in London, and lives very happily there. If she is reading this, then she must know that we all wish she would come home from Concord for a visit. Anne and John are as happy as a couple can be, and the babies are growing bigger every day, and getting on wonderfully. I apologize if this disappoints the romantic reader, but Laddie is married to Lizzie, and they both get on pretty well. They live in a large house with a piano, and three cats, and are expecting a child any day now.

- Elizabeth March, April, 1853

With that Beth put down her pen, folded the pages, and sent Jo's little book off into the world to seek its fortune.

;;.;.;.

Notes: And that's the end! If you've read this story from start to finish, it would make me very happy if you could review and let me know.

On a side note, there are lots of would be scenes between Jo and Laurie, which are left out because the narrator doesn't get to see them. I have to admit that the Jo/Laurie scenes in this 'verse are the sort of thing I'd much rather read than write. Therefore, if anyone would like to write them, I'm putting the concept up for grabs. Just let me know.

Some credit has to go to Mariagoner, who originally suggested the idea of Jo catching scarlet fever instead of Beth, as a plot device to get Jo and Laurie married at a very young age (the fact that they don't marry in this story just goes to show what a failure I am as a shipper).