They weren’t only heavily into software: They were also heavily into philanthropy, and their contributions were a large part of what made saving Weed possible. Of course, that left them owning a controlling share in two of the town’s four major fisheries, as well as most of the hospital. We’re talking about the kind of people for whom a thousand dollars is a perfectly reasonable price for a bottle of wine. When Maggie turned twenty-one, they asked her what she wanted, said that the sky was the limit, nothing was too good for their precious little girl.
She asked for the farmhouse that belonged to her grandparents, a military-grade security system, a private T1 line, and permanent access to the interest generated by her trust fund. Nothing else. And her folks, being the sort of people who try to keep their word, agreed. We might have been safer in an underground CDC bunker. Maybe. If it was protected by ninjas or something.
“But…” Kelly said finally. “Shouldn’t she be doing something, I don’t know, important with herself?”
“She is,” I said, and smiled. “She hosts grindhouse film festivals and writes for me. Come on. Last one to the table has to do the dishes.” I started for the door, skirting a wide circle around Alaric and Maggie. Kelly followed me, still looking confused, and Becks came after her. She left the front door standing open. The privileges of security are many, and not always visible.
None of the other Fictionals were evident in the large, bookshelf-lined living room, which was cluttered with boxes of dusty papers, dog beds, and comfortable-looking couches. That was unusual; Maggie was almost never home alone, having opened her house on a semipermanent basis to all the Fictionals working for the site, as well as a few of the Irwins and Newsies. She liked company, Maggie did. She grew up in a level of society where it was still possible to be a party girl, and even though she walked away from her roots in a lot of ways, she couldn’t walk away from everything she’d learned. Normal people like being alone. Being alone means being safe. Maggie got lonely.
Kelly stuck close behind me, drinking in her surroundings with a coolly assessing expression that I recognized from watching Irwins sizing up hazard zones. Most homes are decorated for utility these days, resulting in a lot of sleek lines, brightly lit corners, and modernistic furniture that looks like it came from a pre-Rising horror movie, all of it designed to be easy to disinfect. Maggie decorated in antiques and homemade frniture, with clutter covering every surface, and dust covering all the clutter.
I’ve always assumed that Maggie lives the way she does partially out of sheer contrariness. If everyone expects her to run around partying with the kids she grew up with, moving in a virtual bubble of overpaid security guards and the sort of safety that only money can buy, fine; she’ll live in the middle of nowhere with a pack of epileptic dogs instead of a purse poodle and a posse. If people expect her to have three brain cells to knock together, she’ll become a professional author and manage a crew of twenty more. The list goes on. She’s a fun girl, our Maggie, even if the way she lives implies that her sanity is somewhat dubious.
The thought barely had time to form before George interrupted it, saying, You’re one to talk.
I didn’t mind. At least she was talking to me. And she sounded amused, which is always nice. It’s good to know that I can still make my sister smile. “Hush, you,” I said.
Kelly gave me a startled look. “I didn’t say anything,” she protested.
“It was George,” I said, with a quick shake of my head.
“You know,” said Kelly carefully, “if it’s anxiety that leads you to continue conversing with her, there are medications that will—”
“New topic time,” I said pleasantly. “Continuing this topic is going to lead to somebody getting punched in the face. It could be you.”
“Shaun has no compunctions about hitting girls,” said Becks.
“You try growing up with George, see how many compunctions about hitting girls you come out with.” I led our motley little parade into Maggie’s kitchen. It was decorated like the rest of the house, in middle-class pre-Rising shabby. Maggie hadn’t been kidding about the meatloaf. It was sitting on the kitchen table, alongside a platter of sliced vegetables, a big bowl of mashed potatoes, and half a sponge cake.
“I’ll get the plates,” said Becks.
When Maggie and Alaric finally came in fifteen minutes later, they found the three of us seated around the kitchen table, stuffing our faces. Becks and I were stuffing our faces, anyway. Kelly was watching us with a sort of horrified bemusement, like she couldn’t believe her life had gone so terribly wrong in just one day. She’d catch on. If she lived long enough.
Maggie and Alaric had clearly both been crying, although it showed more on her than it did on him; her eyes were puffy and her cheeks were even redder, whereas Alaric looked about as normal as he ever did. He tried to explain his consistently camera-ready appearance to me once, but I didn’t listen. Largely because I didn’t care.