The Codicil

They reconvened three days later, at Juno's request. She'd asked for one more meeting before anything moved forward — "not lawyers," she'd said. "Just us."

They met at Larkspur, the house Delphine had grown up in, around the kitchen table where four people had never once sat together until now.

"I didn't come here for a quarter of a company I've never worked for," Juno said. She'd brought nothing with her this time — no envelope, no folder. "I came because I wanted to know if she ever thought about me. I know now. That's enough for me."

"It's not that simple," Barrett said, but there was less heat in it than before. Something in him had gone quiet since the meeting with Feld, and Delphine had noticed, even if she didn't know why.

"It could be," Corwin said. He looked worse than he had three days ago — hollow around the eyes, jaw tight. "Just split it, sign it, let's all go home."

"You need it that badly?" Delphine asked him.

"I need Friday to not be a problem," Corwin muttered, and didn't explain further.

The doorbell rang before anyone could push him on it. Abernathy stood on the porch, a slim leather case under his arm, looking older than he had in the office.

"I wasn't going to intrude," he said, "but there's something I have to tell you in person, and it can't wait for Friday."

"What now," Barrett said flatly.

Abernathy set the case on the table and opened it. Inside was a single envelope, sealed in wax the way lawyers hadn't sealed anything in decades — Odessa's doing, clearly, one more piece of theater.

"Your mother filed a codicil three days before she died," Abernathy said. "A formal amendment to the will. She left instructions that it wasn't to be opened until all four of you had met, in person, in this house."

He looked around the kitchen — at Barrett's folded arms, at Corwin's shaking hands, at Delphine's stillness, at Juno sitting where she'd never once sat before.

"That happened tonight," he said. "So I have to open it now."

Nobody moved to stop him.