The Widow's Other Funeral

How it begins

Cora received the invitation to her own funeral between two invoices.

The paper was excellent.

Heavy cream stock. Black border. Her name in a serif she would have chosen herself.

She checked the date.

Friday.

That was inconvenient. She was already booked to mourn a shipping magnate at eleven.

Cora set the invitation beside the kettle and read it again.

Beloved wife. Devoted sister. A life of quiet generosity.

None of that was accurate.

Her husband had left seventeen years earlier. Her sister had not spoken to her in nine. Her generosity was charged by the hour, with travel expenses added.

She made a living attending funerals for people whose families wanted a larger appearance of grief.

She was good at it.

The name on the invitation was the difficulty.

It belonged to a woman Cora had been assured was dead before she borrowed it.

The telephone rang.

"Mrs. Vale?"

"Who is this?"

"Simon Hale. Funeral director."

Cora watched the kettle begin to steam.

"I'm afraid there's been a mistake."

"That's what I was hoping you'd say."

He sounded tired rather than surprised.

"Which mistake?"

"The woman in our care has your passport."

Cora sat down.

Beyond the kitchen window, the sea was the color of unpolished silver. A gull landed on the wall and regarded her with the practical interest of a creature expecting food.

"Could it be forged?"

"Possibly."

"But you don't think so."

"I think you should come."

She looked at the invitation.

A life of quiet generosity.

The woman whose name she had taken had been described to her as having no family, no debts and nobody likely to ask questions.

Cora had paid extra for the last condition.

"What was she wearing?" she asked.

Simon paused.

"A dark coat. A small gold brooch."

"What shape?"

"A swallow."

Cora reached toward her own collar.

The brooch was gone.