The chair squeaks against the stone floor. Sigismund winces at the sound. The involuntary flinch is the only move he’s made to acknowledge the other person since their arrival.

He hears Aunt Becca in the other room, carefully dividing the servings of the meal to fill another plate. She adds some extra pieces of bread to hide the deficiency. The scrape of her fork against the cheap stoneware grates on Sigismund’s nerves. His head aches, and the effort of containing his seething anger at the audacity of some people drives him to grind his teeth.

“We weren’t expecting you to come, is all,” Aunt Becca explains. She serves small portions of pork stew with potato dumplings, roasted yams, and limp field greens. There is just enough. In this house, there is only ever just enough.

Why does Sigismund even bother?

“You thought I would still be in jail,” Cousin Deirdre responds in a very flat tone. “I told you I would not get out for a while.” Sigismund’s younger cousin takes her place at the table and then also a sip of the watered down ale. “You know that his lordship claimed that there would be no tolerance for repeat offenses. You weren’t wrong to think that.”

“Of course she was wrong,” Sigismund sneers, “you’re my cousin, and I’d always fight for you.”

Deirdre and her mother stay silent. Uncle Robert glares daggers at Sigismund. Sigismund looks over to his father for approval and finds him looking contentedly smug. That is fairly typical of anything that gives Uncle Robert heartburn. That family dynamic has been unhealthy for ages.

“Thank you,” Aunt Becca says, taking her seat as well. “We are always grateful that our daughter has her freedom.” Sigismund notes she is looking steadfastly at Uncle Robert, and not in his direction at all.

Uncle Robert holds up a hand to halt the failing conversation and offers a prayer before the meal. In it, he deliberately and obviously skips the section usually dedicated to gratitude for one’s family and focuses on gratitude for one’s food.

Sigismund feels that the food available should not be something one expresses gratitude for at all.

“It was all I could do for you to have the release authorized,” Sigismund explains, as though it was a kindness, “I was not sure of the timing on when it would go through.” This is a lie. He was expecting it to be done already when he arrived for dinner with his father. He feels no guilt in lying to his family.

“And what am I going to have to do to return the favor this time?” Cousin Deirdre asks, her tone sour. She spears a lump of something unidentifiable but solid on her fork.

“Nothing big,” Sigismund lies again. “I’m sure you’ll be capable of the task when it’s time.”

His cousin smashes her food into the plate with the fork, mixing everything together instead of eating.

“Is that what you said about Trey?”

All eyes in the room immediately snap to Aunt Becca. It has been years since that name has been spoken.

“He would have made it if he tried.” Sigismund’s father’s reply has an undertone of pity. He rubs grease from his beard with a rough cloth napkin. “Boy was always slacking off.”

Aunt Becca slowly places her utensils down next to her plate of untouched food. Cousin Deirdre nearly snarls in anger, looking for all the world like a rabid dog with wild anger in her eyes.

But Uncle Robert takes a slow, deliberate bite of his bread. The thick crust crunches as he chews loudly in the uncomfortable silence.

“Yes,” Sigismund agrees, “he was very good at his job, but he took shortcuts as much as possible.” He gestures vaguely with his knife. “Cousin Trey made a mistake. That can happen to anyone.”

“And me?” Cousin Deirdre stares at her mashed up food. Green and orange chunks of vegetable combine loosely with the browned meat and white tuber. She refuses to look up from her plate.

“What about you?” Sigismund’s father takes a swig of the watered down ale, slurping loudly. “You know what you’re doing. Never known you to try to hide in the snow when chased.”

Cousin Deirdre takes a bite of her thoroughly combined meal. With it all so mashed together, she barely has to chew before swallowing. Sigismund doesn’t understand the habit.

But Sigismund has spent no time in the dungeons below the lord’s hall of justice either. He has never and will never be caught red-handed with items that do not belong to him.

“You knew he was out there,” Aunt Becca accuses, hands delicately resting in her lap. “You both knew he was out there in the cold and you didn’t help find him before it was too late.”

Uncle Robert places the stump where his missing hand belongs on the table.

“I knew he was hiding, Auntie,” Sigismund deflects, guessing at the pain point by how still she holds in reaction. “If I knew where he was, I’d have caught him. He hid too well.” It takes a massive amount of self-restraint to not laugh at his own pun. Sigismund does not choose to expound on the fact that he did actually know where his cousin was supposed to be hiding.

He knew in advance that the intent was to meet by the old well house after completing the deed. But before he could get there, a message rider spooked the saboteur and Trey had climbed into the well to hide.

What Sigismund does not know is whether Trey slipped or was pushed from the interior ledge to fall down through the crust of ice over the water far below. The message rider was never clear on that chain of events. And Sigismund remains somewhat suspicious that the message rider may have fought Cousin Trey outside the well house and simply disposed of the corpse in the well.

In a well is a terrible place to hide a corpse. Sigismund knows better than to do that, this is for absolutely sure.

His aunt does not respond to that statement in the slightest.

Cousin Deirdre finishes shoveling pre-chewed food into her mouth. She stands roughly from the table, and the chair squeaks roughly against the stone floor again. Sigismund winces at the noise. He hates it. He absolutely hates it.

As his cousin leaves the table with her dishes, Sigismund’s father continues to eat his meal. He overacts his play of just how delicious it must be, patting his belly and grinning.

“Why did you come here tonight, Art?” Uncle Robert glares at his brother. It strikes Sigismund in this moment more than any before how much the two look alike. Both have thick, bushy beards, curly dark hair upon their heads threaded with silver. Both older men have broad shoulders and thick arms.

Where the brothers differ is that Uncle Robert’s nose is long, narrow, and pinched and a thrown fist flattened Sigismund’s father’s nose. And the punishment for cattle theft caused Uncle Robert’s right hand to be severed. And right now, the two also differ starkly in their demeanor. Uncle Robert is grimly serious in opposition to his brother’s casual attitude.

Sigismund’s father slowly chews the tough meat and grins at Uncle Robert’s wife in reply.

“It’s the anniversary of Peggy’s death,” he says with what would be a mockery of grief in his tone. “I couldn’t be alone in the house without her tonight.”

“Art, you’ve never remarked on the date before.” Uncle Robert’s mustache twitches impatiently. “What is it really?”

Aunt Becca takes her untouched meal with her while silently stealing away from the table to return to the kitchen. Sigismund notes that her frail hands are shaking as she walks away from the conversation.

Sigismund can hear that Aunt Becca and Cousin Deirdre begin a conversation outside his line of sight, but he cannot make out the words, no matter how hard he strains to hear them. The awkward pause while his father continues to chew the tough meat.

“She got caught too soon,” his father says at last. “We needed her to make the swap before being made, but they caught her with the real thing.”

“You didn’t tell her what the plan was,” Uncle Robert accuses, his deep voice filled with anger. “She thought she was making a drop, not doing a swap. If you let her in on the plan for real, maybe she can achieve what you really want.”

“No,” Sigismund says with ice in his voice. “If she knows, then she could give up the entire trick when interrogated.”

“Then don’t let her get interrogated,” Uncle Robert pushes his empty plate away roughly. “Are you the sheriff or not here? Just stick her in the stocks again instead of sending her for questioning.”

“It’ll work better if she is,” Sigismund’s father sneers. “Because she’s family. We can’t have it looking like there’s favoritism at play, now can we? If he doesn’t investigate to the fullest extent of the law, then there will be no way anyone believes that our most high lordship is dealing in forgeries.”

“Aren’t there easier ways to make it look like someone’s forging coins?” Uncle Robert gives a skeptical glare. “You don’t need to set your cousin up to fall like this.”

“If there are,” Sigismund’s father gestures with his knife, “then the magistrates will have thought of them.” He points knowingly at his head. “This plan of ours will work. We just have to make sure she doesn’t know a thing about it when questioned. That’s why we need her to lift the coin and get caught. It needs to be unimpeachable evidence that his money is no good.”

Uncle Robert shakes his head.

“Look at it this way,” Sigismund offers, “forgery is still a hanging crime. If she’s still just a thief, then she’s just going to be in jail.”

Just jail. That’s all.

Only a little light torture from the guard in charge of the questioning.

Nothing to worry about.