Henderson laid the document on the table, covering my untouched plate of roast beef. It was thick, bound in blue paper. The irrevocable transfer of power of attorney and the immediate release of the Blackwood Trust. Forty-five million dollars.

“Is this my present, Julian?” I finally spoke. My voice was a whisper, raspy and weak. It took effort to sound this frail.

Julian laughed, a harsh, barking sound that echoed off the high ceiling. He uncapped a heavy fountain pen—Arthur’s pen—and shoved it into my trembling hand.

“Think of it as freedom, Grandma,” he murmured, leaning in so close his breath ghosted over my ear. “Freedom from the burden of numbers you can’t understand anymore. Freedom to just… sleep.”

He pressed the nib of the pen against the paper. He pressed so hard that a blot of black ink bled into the fiber, spreading like a bruise.