Hilltop House

Maeve, One

At least the couch was in the right place, and at least the television had been set up. Maeve could stream something while she drank a glass--a bottle, probably--of wine. She didn't even care if her daughter saw her drink, these days. It wasn't as if Maeve got massively or even stupidly drunk and went around saying and doing things she'd regret. She drank quietly, and then she fell asleep. What was wrong with that? She definitely earned it each day, putting up with Cora. And she'd definitely earned it tonight, after that move.

It was her job, that was all. Cora had acted as if the move was a personal affront, as if Maeve had done it to spite her, but the answer wasn't anything so interesting. It was a job. That's all.

This place was cozy enough, Maeve reflected as she picked at the chipping nail polish on one of her toenails, her other hand rather precariously holding her glass of wine. It was a weird little house, but she'd gotten it at a steal—and it was obvious as to why. The place was old and aesthetically ugly, on a sad street with reclusive neighbors . . . Of course it had all been framed differently: a charming vintage bungalow, quiet street, intimate community. Not that Maeve hadn't seen through that. But it hadn't mattered; the price was right, the school was apparently decent, and the bones of the house were strong.

Bones. Why had bones come up? The house. Right. It was sturdy.

Maeve had done it again, brought her thoughts back to it. How was it so difficult to avoid one simple line of thought? Why did everything come back to it? Would she ever be able to stop going round about it, like a vulture too afraid to land on a carcass below, worried the thing might still be alive?

Oh, it hadn't just been the job that'd convinced her to move here. Maeve knew that, and no doubt her daughter sensed it. Thank God Cora didn't know the extent of the truth, though.

Maeve looked at the clear tawny liquid in the glass she held. It was such a pretty color. It'd had eyes like that, a sort of amber, such a strange sight in someone so—

Nope. Not again. What was it that was making her so emotional, so maudlin? The wine? The stress? She picked up the remote and began scanning programs. She needed to find something good, some easy distraction, something light and romantic, maybe a period drama, with lots of juicy bits. If Cora had been a different sort of daughter, the two of them could've sat and watched it together. Maeve wasn't quite sure where exactly the girl had come from, with all her weird interests and her constant desire to shock. Half of her daughter's hobbies and behaviors were affectation, Maeve knew that. And she knew at this point, as well, that the harder she pushed, the deeper Cora would dig in. It wasn't the girl's fault, really, that she was confused. Maeve reflected on the disjointed upbringing her daughter had had; Cora had been with her grandmother the first twelve years of her life before her mother had come to retrieve her, and the middle school years that followed had been rocky. High school had been slightly better, though Cora had fallen into her Goth ways, which had surprised Maeve, who'd thought that sort of thing had died out in the nineties.

Everything old became new, again, she reflected.

Like this house. Could she make it look newer? It was really in need of some attention. Maeve had never considered herself much of a decorator, but at the very least, they'd need to tear up the gross carpeting in this living room. Although, it did feel pretty soft beneath her bare feet. Almost like, like soft fur. Like she'd walked to the couch across the back of a giant cat.

Mmm.

If only the color weren't so pukey.