#* maggie

Everything about this place was stifling. The grandeur not something that Maggie could truly see as anything but hollow, an empty promise of peace that would only ever exist on the edge of a knife in a place like this. Between the chill that touched her spine, and the heat of each look that accosted her with thoughts of who she was - what she’d done, Maggie yearned to smell the earth again. It took a while, but once she’d made her way through the crowds and met the open air, she felt the weight on her shoulders lift. A few more people cast themselves across the patio, an arrangement that reminded her of constellations as such, though she found herself drawn to only one. Perched on the steps below, Maggie would recognize such an aura anywhere. Kicking off her heels as she found a place only a short distance away, she curled her toes in the grass and sat on the lowest step. Sheepishly, she offers him a smile, and soon casts eyes elsewhere - her aversion to eye contact still far too prevalent, “So, did they confiscate all the plaid and denim at the gate or are you about to tell me that you’ve kept that locked up in that lighthouse of yours all this time?” 

Maggie Whittaker - Style

Switching to red wine might not have been her greatest move, given - usually at home, it never mattered how much she drank to drown out the images and sounds still imprinted in her mind. Nobody else was ever around to witness that, and more importantly, nobody was ever around for her to accidentally brush up against, the long sleeves of her dress not quite giving her the relief it should have. Even still, she’s never been able to pass up a glass of red. Seemingly alone again, Maggie relished in the distant sounds from inside, the calmer atmosphere when she was somewhat removed from it all soothed her soul in ways she couldn’t really explain, but when a shadow encroached, blocking the dim light from behind, she drank back the last mouthful of wine and scooted over a little on the steps, “-- Sorry, don’t mind me, I didn’t realize I was right in everyone’s way.”

After seven years, Maggie still wasn’t entirely sure how the rest of the family saw her. Undoubtedly, she’d heard the whispers of those in the coven who’d damned her right along with her uncle and since the fateful day they’d discovered the atrocities that he’d committed and since they’d begun, she felt the full weight of such guilt. It was any wonder that she found enough courage now to approach Jesse at all. Ever the spitting image of his father, it made it difficult to remember they were near nothing alike. “You’re here alone?” She questioned, a little uncertain as to whether she was breaching territory that was truly none of her business, but it seemed a little less confrontational than anything else that twisted up in her throat. 

Strictly speaking, Maggie generally did everything she could to avoid approaching people. Something about the churning anxiety that gripped her from the inside out and being so uncertain of how those familiar with who she was, might react, but Brandon felt different to her. Although he seemed to place himself center stage a lot of the time, the aura she felt seemed much gentler, and after hearing about what he’d done for the ritual - in helping Brielle offer up the kind of human tears required for such a spell, she knew she was right. Illusionary magic was one thing, but to piece together such a thing with memory was another in and of itself, she could only have imagined the pain the young woman felt during the incantation. “Brandon?” She interrupts gently, offering a slight look of apology as his current company excuses themselves, “I’m..-- I’m not entirely sure if you remember me, but I heard about what you did for the Perez girl, during the ritual.” Her words fell a little too quickly and she cast hues around at those nearest, “Pairing illusion with memory. You must be quite talented.”