You're Not Sick, Are You

Four days ago. Before the folder. Before the pen. Before any of them had asked him to sign a single page.

Which meant the whole performance with the power of attorney had never been about getting his consent. It had been theater for a file that already existed — something to wave at a judge as proof they'd tried the gentle way first.

Cornelius barely slept that night, and it showed the next morning in a way he hadn't planned for.

Minnie found him in the study before breakfast, standing at the window with his shoulders straight, his eyes clear and hard, running numbers in his head about court dates and filing deadlines like the businessman he'd been for fifty years.

"Dad?"

He turned too fast. Too sharp. The old man dissolved off his face half a second too late.

Minnie didn't move from the doorway. She just looked at him — really looked, the way she used to when she was small and could tell he was lying about being fine after her mother's funeral.

"You were just standing here doing math," she said slowly. "Actual math. In your head."

"Minnie—"

"You called Rosalind by her full name yesterday. Twice. You haven't gotten anyone's name wrong all week when it was just the two of us." Her voice wasn't accusing. It was worse than that — it was hurt. "You're not sick, are you?"

Cornelius could have lied to her. He'd lied to everyone else in this house for four months without a flicker of guilt.

He couldn't do it to her.

"No," he said quietly. "I'm not."

Minnie's hand came up to cover her mouth, and for one terrible second he thought she might cry, or worse, that she might walk out and never trust another word out of him again.

Instead she lowered her hand, crossed the room, and said the last thing he expected.

"Good. Then tell me what you actually need me to do — because Barnaby just texted the family group chat. The guardianship hearing got moved. It's tomorrow morning."