(IF) I did It

If the news hasn't made it around the webosphere yet, readers, I'm sure it soon will. Adorna is dejected, but she isn't so crestfallen she's lost her wits, and she knows most of you will be reading this rapscallion's blog along with hers.

I ask you - what would you have done? Carlos had double crossed me and the villains had Sherlock and were threatening her! The canapes ruined the carpet and my dress will ever be the same again.

Socrates, perhaps it would have been different if you had been there. I scanned the crowd for you, but I could not see you. I don't hold that against you, my dear - you were never privy to the full story.

While the reprobates were congratulating themselves on a job well done, basking in the glow of the crowd (my fans - or ex fans...) I managed to slip away in the melee with my original manuscript and Sherlock.

I came here to tell my story. You need not fear about me. This isn't over. Adorna is tired of hiding in the half-light and wants to step out onto the podium and tell her own story in her own words.

Q: Why the Change of Heart?

A: I've had a lot of thinking to do over the past few days - reflecting on ownership of words. There is, as Broomington was fond of saying, nothing new in the world. We all recycle each other's stories. But as I turned the pages of the Pink as Perfume manuscript, I noticed (as if, my friends, I was reading the thing for the first time...) that there were more than a few parallels between the sad story in the novel of Bloominster - aging and down on his luck lothario, murdered by call girl and her pimp who then fall into each other's arms for a happy ever after - and the truth about Broomington's sad demise that only Carlos and I knew.

How would Desiderus have managed to compose such a thing? The detail in some of the passages - down to the make of Broomington's typewriter and the colour of my shoes is so accurate as to be startling. Carlos and I were the only people who knew these things. Did Carlos' deception start much earlier than I realised? Was the novel a kind of coded confession of his?

Q: Who else knew what we did?

A: Broomington.

Reader, go back to my rival's blog. I have confessed all. I have nothing to hide from him. Take special note of the way he describes the writing of his first, stolen novel. Almost as if a muse were holding his hand. A muse, or someone else.

Perhaps the words he has been scrabbling to hold onto aren't his after all.

I must depart. Fear not, reader - Adorna has had many careers, and has reinvented herself before. I will rise like a phoenix from the -

WAIT. I can hear a strange noise at the window. Desiderus' muse seems to have deserted him, but I sense a new guest at the door. I can't sleep. I can't eat. Sherlock clatters along the floor, wagging her tail and snapping at thin air.

This is not over yet. Perhaps I'll get a book out of this.

Until then, Adorna lives on, alone and in secret and is forever

Lady Writer x x x x x x