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Nine days after she announced her desire to stop performing, Bridgers came to their rented rooms alone, dragging his lean body across the pitiful sofa and collapsing with a theatrical grunt. “Maggie, darling, could you bring a man some whiskey? He is weary and wan.”

“With broken legs,” Maggie replied, rising from the chair she had been curled up on and padding over to the cabinet with its lone bottle of cheap spirits. “Such a shame. And you’re so young.” She poured a finger into a tin cup and thrust it at him, returning to her chair and dropping down. “What happened? Why are you melting into the sofa, and where is Tom?”

Bridgers took a gulp of whiskey, grimacing slightly, and sighed. “Tom is at Western Union.”

Surprised, Maggie lifted her brow. “Is he robbing it?” She paused. “Do they have actual money at a Western Union?”

“No, he isn’t robbing it, and no, they only have fake money they send through wires with some sort of witchcraft.”

“What is he doing there?”

Bridgers offered a weak smile. “Sending fake money through wires.”

Maggie sat up straight, planting her feet on the floor. “What?”

Bridgers stretched from his sprawl with a grunt, delicately setting down the tin cup . “He is wiring rent to our new landlord.”

Clairvoyant or not, it must have been something supernatural that prevented Maggie from leaping across the room and throttling the man. “What new landlord? Bridgers, what have you done?”

“Well, Tom has taken this whole fresh-start idea very seriously, darling, and has spent the past week looking for a soft place for us all to land.”

“And he found one?”

“Charming little apartment, from the advertisement, outside of St. Cloud. We had to act fast or we would lose it, Mags.” He looked up at her with a slight frown. “You knew we were looking. It just happened quicker than we thought.”

“You should have told me,” she snapped, rising from the chair and stomping back to the cabinet. She withdrew the bottle again, taking a swig directly from it.

“Christ, Mags,” Bridgers muttered. “There wasn’t time. We only found it this afternoon. I thought you’d be a little bit pleased.” He paused. “You didn’t have your heart set on staying in Madison, did you? I know you were enjoying it here, but it would be difficult to settle down in a place where you’ve performed, and we’ve never been that far north in Minnesota.”

“No, that isn’t it.” She took another small sip of the whiskey, fighting off a cough, and set it back in the cabinet. “I have no desire to stay here. I just wish I had known.” She knew she was being unreasonable—they needed to act quickly if they were going to secure a place to live—but she was feeling huffy and irritable and unappreciated. Bridgers could weather it more reliably than Tom, who by now would have told her that if she didn’t like it, she was welcome to sell herself on the street.

“I’m sorry, Mags.” Bridgers was often flippant, but at this moment he appeared sincere. His lips curved downward slightly, and his brow was furrowed. Her heart softened, and she sighed, irritated at her own fondness. Silently, she grabbed his tin cup and refilled it.

“I’m sorry for snapping. I’m glad we have a place. How long is the lease?”

“Two years. We would have gone for one, but the rent was lower if we committed for longer.” He took a sip of whiskey and settled back into his chair.

Tom’s footsteps sounded from the hallway and the door opened a moment later. He slipped into the room and removed his hat, plopping it unceremoniously on the table beside the front door. “I imagine Bridgers told you we have secured a place to live.” He crossed the room to sit down. Bridgers made space on the settee, then promptly dropped his head onto Tom’s lap. “I also imagine you’re upset we didn’t tell you.”

They knew her far too well. “It’s fine. St. Cloud?”

“Just a bit outside of it, actually. We figured that it’s safer, since it’s unfamiliar to us.” He reached down and picked up Bridgers’ whiskey, taking a generous gulp despite his companion’s noise of protest. “The apartment is on top of a storefront.”

“A storefront?” Maggie asked, stock-still. A small viper, poised to strike at her infuriating older faux-brothers.

Tom dropped his gaze down to Bridgers. “You didn’t tell her about the storefront?”

“I feel very vilified today, I don’t mind telling you,” Bridgers replied, taking his whiskey back from Tom and trying to drink it while lying down. It dripped onto his face, and he rose from Tom’s lap, hissing.

Tom cast his eyes towards the ceiling and muttered something (Maggie distinctly heard full of grace) before reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a worn handkerchief, shoving it at Bridgers. “The apartment is on top of a storefront. I believe it used to be a greengrocers at some point, then something to do with photography more recently. We rented the entire unit, so we have the store at our disposal.”

“And what, pray tell, are you going to sell?”

Bridgers, recovered from his whiskey assault, coughed. “We haven’t gotten that far yet.”

Maggie leaned forward, thoroughly unladylike, and rested her elbows on her knees. She bridged her fingers together and placed them beneath her chin. “Might I recount the events of today, just for my own understanding?”

The men nodded in unison. Bridgers lifted the whiskey back to his mouth, tunneling his lips towards it like an anteater.