Free A bucket of ashes by P.B. RYAN

that sounded almost atonal until Nell recognized it as an appallingly heavy-handed rendition of her favorite piece, Beethoven’s “Moonlight” Sonata.
    Cocking his head to listen, Mr. Mead said, “I know that’s not Althea. She plays with a rather more... delicate touch.”
    “Silas, you are born diplomatist,” said Viola with a little chuckle. “That’s Cecilia, and she fancies herself quite the pianist. I fear I shall have to invent a rather creative repertoire of excuses to disappear after dinner while they’re here.”
    Her excuse tonight was a desire to show Mr. Mead the artwork she and Nell had executed that summer—just a ruse, of course, for a private legal consultation about Nell’s marital situation, cooked up in advance between the three of them. Grabbing the candelabra off the dining table, she’d asked Nell to steer her wheelchair to the doomed greenhouse off the kitchen, which she’d long ago pressed into service as a studio. After a cursory tour of the paintings propped on easels and tucked into drying racks, the lawyer and Nell pulled up chairs and they got down to business.
    “I’ve brought some papers for you to sign,” Mr. Mead told Nell. “I’ll file them next week and follow up on them aggressively, but you should know that this process, even if successful, can be extremely time-consuming. There are two facilitating factors that can speed things along and help to ensure a favorable outcome. First, it would be helpful if you could convince your husband not to contest the divorce.”
    “I don’t think that will be possible,” Nell said. “He’s adamant that we remained married.”
    Viola said, “Does he understand—really understand—that you have no intention of living with him again as his wife, even after he’s released from prison?”
    “I’ve made that abundantly clear,” Nell said. “He says he objects to the idea of divorce on religious grounds, because the Church doesn’t recognize it, but really it’s because he just can’t let me go. When we were married, he became extremely possessive and jealous, with no reason to be. He tried to dictate what I could do and who I could talk to. I think he still wants that kind of control over me.”
    “If you can think of any argument that might sway him,” said Mr. Mead, “now would be the time to make it. I’ll be going to Charlestown State Prison Monday to inform him that you’re filing a petition for divorce, and to ask for his cooperation. If you think it might help to write him a letter, I can bring it to him at that time.”
    Nell said, “I’ll write one and give it to you before you leave.”
    “Under normal circumstances,” the lawyer continued, “I would suggest that you offer him a generous financial settlement—that sometimes does the trick—but given that he has another twenty years to serve on his sentence, I’m not sure money would be a strong enough incentive.”
    “You can try it,” Nell said, “but you’re right—I doubt it will make any difference.”
    Viola said, “Do you think it would help to mention in the petition that he attacked Nell viciously?”
    “Doubtful. It was a long time ago, and it would be difficult to prove. And, too, such incidents are generally viewed as private matters between husbands and wives.”
    Viola muttered something very unladylike. “The second facilitating factor,” she said, “would be the use of influence and bribes, I assume?”
    “As always, Viola,” Mead chuckled, “your candor is uniquely refreshing. I don’t call them bribes, though. I call them ‘financial incentives.’”
    Imagining herself growing large with child while still wed to Duncan, Nell said, “I’ll pay whatever I have to pay.”
    “That’s good to know,” Mead said, “but I suspect it won’t amount to very much, because of Mrs. Hewitt’s connections.” Withdrawing a notebook and pencil from the wallet pocket of his sleek black dinner coat, he told Viola, “Now would be