A Different Kind of Signature

Cornelius set the pen down with hands that, for once, were not acting.

"I think I need to lie down," he said, and this time the tremor was real, just not for the reason Barnaby assumed.

"Of course, Dad. We'll finish this tomorrow." Barnaby's disappointment lasted exactly as long as it took to close the folder.

Cornelius spent the next two days playing worse than he'd ever played before — vacant stares at breakfast, forgetting Rosalind's name twice on purpose, wandering into the garden in his slippers and pretending not to know how he got there. Every performance bought him information. Every stumble made Barnaby and Odalys careless in front of him, because why guard your words around a man who wouldn't remember them by dinner?

It worked better than he wanted it to.

On the third night, the east-wing camera caught Odalys on the phone in the guest room, pacing, voice pitched low but not low enough.

"—no, he stalled on the power of attorney, so we go straight to the guardianship filing. Alaric says the medical letter is enough on its own if the judge doesn't need his cooperation." A pause. "I don't care if it's not the cleanest way to do it. We need this locked before that daughter of his starts asking questions she can't unask."

Another pause, longer.

"The signature page — just use the one from the trust amendment two years ago. Nobody's going to compare it stroke for stroke. He barely remembers his own middle name most days."

Cornelius watched the footage back at midnight, alone in his study, the glow of Rosalind's laptop the only light in the room.

He played it twice.

Then a third time, just to be certain he hadn't misheard the words use the one from the trust amendment — because that was not a woman stalling for a legitimate filing.

That was a woman planning to forge his signature.