A GENTLEWOMAN'S GUIDE TO LOVE AND MURDER

Act II, Scene 1

What could you do now? No lawyer. No divorce.

The concrete of the buildings seems to close in around you. They drip with grime and sadness like tears. Or maybe this is Urinetown. You don't want to consider this possibility, but there were no more lawyers who weren't old, or fake, or synchronized.

Suddenly, a gust of wind blows a bunch of papers and a hint of New Orleans jazz around you. You remember that last time, Hamilton publicly admitted to cheating on his wife. Why couldn't he do that for you? That would make a legal case, like, so much easier.

A dark, mysterious, shadowy, and melodramatic figure rushes past you, bumping your shoulder. They stamp one of the floating papers into the damp pavement. You can't make them out behind the large, billowing, black cloak and the wide-brimmed, black hat, but they're carrying a bag from the Gap. Then you look at the paper on the ground. Is that your name down on the floor? Could you be doing something more? Upon closer inspection, it doesn't spell Y/N, it's a bootprint, 8.5 Doc Martens, and letters which spell "G-R-O-U-P" and "T-H-E-R-A-P-Y." As if on cue, a neon sign lights up in the window of a less grimy-looking building next to you. You look up and see it spells the same thing as the soggy paper.

Has that been there the whole time?

You might have just caught a glimpse of some people in plain black jeans and t-shirts rounding the corner.

The glow invites you and you almost chase toward the door, place a hand on the handle, and turn to look hopefully into the middle distance before opening the door and ducking inside.

"Come on in, the door's open! Though you already figured that out," says a friendly older woman in an unfamiliar accent. "My name's Beulah."

"My name's Y/N," you say.

"Welcome to the Group Therapy! Go ahead and take a seat."

You sit and listen as people discuss their problems—Persephone's husband spends a long time talking about how much he loves her, but she doesn't seem to appreciate all the things he does for her. You don't know how to tell him that she doesn't like shiny things, just flowers and wine.

A large, furry cat with a big collar talks about feeling insecure about loving a small magician, then turns to you. "What about you?"

"Well . . . I'm trying to get a divorce—" you try to say.

"YAS QUEEN! All you wanna do is get DIVORCED," six voices sing in iridescent pop harmony from across the room.

"Wash that man right outa your hair!" yells someone else.

"But I can't find a lawyer. I tried everywhere, including the graveyard, but I still couldn't find anyone." you tell them.

"Who are you divorcing?" asks the cat.

"Alexander Hamilton." your words are accented by a dramatic sting.

"Girl, same." You look over. It's Tony Award Winner Angelica Schuyler.

"Angelica!" you say. "I thought you were in love with Alex."

"I only loved him for his body. I'm way smarter and more accomplished."

You feel seen.

"I'm sure, with all our resources put together, we can get you a lawyer!" a Disney princess says. You wish she wasn't in here, but she's inspiring nonetheless.

"Queens fix each other's crowns," Anna of Cleves tells you.

Someone you can't quite see in the back corner starts humming.

"Even when the dark comes crashing through . . ."

The cat starts to sing along.

Soon the whole room is singing Dear Evan Hansen. You feel uplifted.

On the way out, Beulah tries to give you a fish, but you politely refuse and step out into the city.