By J. Cézan

When Cal died, I went to get Aunt Edwina from the retirement home where we'd stashed when she became too inconvenient to keep around. She had a right to come to the funeral, despite what anybody said – and they had all said quite a lot.

I watched Edwina closely at the cemetery, though, just to make sure that she didn't steal any of the headstones. And I kept a special eye on her at the family crypt, not even looking away during the prayers, despite her twinkling eyes and innocent air. Even with everything all tightly sealed, I wouldn't have put it past her to try and slip an urn or two into the capacious bag she carried.

Back at the house, though, I relaxed. Anything that she wanted to swipe from here, I figured, she'd earned.

My sober dress and pearls went well with the gathering; the aunts were all wearing varying manifestations of black, bobbing about and jabbering at each other over the hors d'oeuvres like a flock of quarrelsome ravens – an unkindness of ravens, as the venereal expression would appropriately have it. Edwina's presence among them didn't set them off one bit; they talked around her as if she didn't exist, as they always had, flowing on either side of her if she happened to be in their way. She moved among them uneasily, her small, sharp features ready to slip into a smile. But the ravens weren't having any of it.

From time to time I saw her tiny hand snake out, quickly, and slide a spoon or small dish into her bag. That had been the real reason for her incarceration, of course; we couldn't keep her from stealing things, and no one wanted to be following her around all the time, or apologize to yet another irate store owner – or worse. My mother had bailed her out of a police station, once.

But that day, the day of Cal 's funeral, I thought I might be beginning to understand what she was doing, why she was doing it.

The aunts had started eyeing Edwina, stealing quick glances at her and then looking away again, exchanging meaningful nods with each other. Like predators warily approaching wounded prey. They began circling, one after another approaching her, then turning away when she tried to make eye contact. "It's Edwina, isn't it?" said one of the ravens at last, peering at her from across the dining—room table. "Good heavens, I thought you'd passed on by now!"

"No," Edwina started to say; but another of the ravens was waiting in line. "I never thought that you and Cal were that close, my dear," she said, her voice as empty as an echoing dovecote. "What an interesting outfit!" exclaimed another, circling closer. "Of course, one never knows what they'll find to wear in those places…"

"What places?" I interrupted. It sounded like somebody ought to come to her rescue.

The aunts were not amused. I was sure I heard a flutter of wings as they rounded on me. "I always thought you took after her side of the family," pronounced one of them, frowning in my direction, shaking out her hair with the flutter of a black wing. But the interruption had been enough; they were there, after all, for the high drama of death. They could amuse themselves torturing Edwina any day they felt like a drive out to the country.

She was quiet in the car, looking out the window. I cleared my throat. "I'm sorry," I said finally, the words inadequate to the feeling. "They were all pretty ghastly to you back there."

She turned to me, the dark sparrow eyes bright and full of mischief. "Oh, don't worry, dear," she said, her voice soothing. She patted her tapestry bag, bulging now with its stash of miscellaneous forks, pictures, books, and knick—knacks.

"I took the will!"