“Uh, excuse me for asking, but does someone want to explain to the nice Irwins,” I caught the hopeful look in Becks’s eyes, and hastened to clarify, “nice Irwins and former Irwins exactly what ‘the Kelly Connolly’ is supposed to mean? Because I have to say, I’m clueless.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Becks muttered, almost under her breath.

“Dr. Matras was her grandfather,” said Alaric, like that explained everything.

I paused, filtering through my recollections of college history seminars. Finally, I ventured, “You mean the CDC treason guy?”

They dropped the charges, George chided.

“Sorry,” I said, automatically.

Kelly must have assumed the apology was directed at her, because she shook her head and said, “It’s okay; that’s how most people outside of epidemiological circles remember him. His trial was a pretty big deal. They made us watch the tapes when I was in medical school.”

“Right,” I said. I was starting to remember more, probably because George was practically yelling in my inner ear. “He’s the guy who hijacked his kid’s blog so he could get the word out.” I could vaguely recall seeing Kelly in CDC press releases and interviews, always in the background, but pretty steadily there all the same. I always figured it was because she was photogenic. Turns out it was because she was an asset.

“His eleven-year-old kid’s blog,” said Becks, eyeing Kelly suspiciously. “You’re at least twenty-one. How did you manage that?”

“My Aunt Wendy was the youngest of six,” Kelly replied, with the ease of someone fielding an all-too-familiar question. “She was actually the flower girl at my mother’s wedding. My mother is Deborah Connolly, born Deborah Matras, age twenty-five at the time of the Rising.”

Becks nodded, her former Newsie’s instincts mollified. “So what brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“Uh, guys?”

“Dave, I told you, we’ll edit that report together in a minute,” Becks said impatiently.

My phone beeped. Holding up a hand to excuse myself, I took a step backward and pulled the phone out of my pocket, clicking it open. “Shaun here.”

“Why aren’t you online?”

“Hello to you, too, Mahir. Why are you still awake? Shouldn’t the Bride of Bollywood be threatening towithhold sex for a month if you don’t put down your keyboard and crawl back to the nuptial bed?”

“She’s asleep,” he said, flatly. “No thanks to you. Why aren’t you online?”

“There are a great many answers to that philosophical question, but for right now, I’m going to settle for ‘because we have company, and my mama taught me it was rude to use your computer in front of company unless you’ve got enough for everybody.’ ”

“You’re a bloody bad liar, Shaun Mason. Your mother didn’t teach you anything of the sort.”

“Maybe not, but she should have. Why do you need me online?”