Winifred Fitzgerald

Winnie was a dynamite gal, two tons of fun without a care in the world. She bilked millions out of the romance-deprived with a series of novels so trashy you couldn't legally dump them on Grouper Island.

Damn fine woman, and a hellcat in bed. Burn these records when we're done here, legally nameless stenographer.

History
Winnie was born in 1827 to Howard and Laura Fitzgerald on Pool Island, Mirewell. She was followed by a sister, Annette, two years later. Those two ladies were as different as spit and spackle! While Annette was mincing her way through the Malk Institute, Winifred was brought up before the School Board thirteen times on charges of lewd exposure, public drunkenness, conduct unbecoming a wizard, and once on a battery of poorly-understood misuse of enchanting charges involved a family of possibly sentient sea otters.

The Fitzgerald clan almost fell through the financial ice during the Galt-Mirewell War in the '40s, and by the end of the war their fortune, made trading substandard dragon oil to Korovna in exchange for machine parts, was almost gone. Fresh out of the Institute in 1848, Winifred distanced herself from her family by speaking out against her 18-year-old sister's marriage to Galt publishing magnate Ambrose Marsh. Still, the lavish wedding took place, the almost-bankrupt Fitzgeralds were saved.

Winifred started writing novels, giving her father his first heart attack. Her fans say the one that got him in 1856 hit the first time he read one of her books. She pumped out smut faster than the printing presses that ran off her editions, and much to Ambrose's chagrin she refused to do business with him for an entire decade until her sister finally won her over.

Winnie never lost her wild side, though. When she inherited her parents' estate on Kelley Island it took about six hours for it to become the premiere party palace in all of Galt. Three butlers died of alcohol poisoning at the housewarming party! One of the woman's lovers checked herself into a private hospital to be treated for exhaustion! That woman was a goddamn testament to the maxim that bigger is, indeed, better.

Winifred died in 1878, stabbed to death in her swimming pool on Kelley Island by assailants unknown. This goddamn substandard world won't see a woman like that again.

I'm not crying, stenographer! Wipe that smirk off your face.

I'm not crying. And remember, burn these transcripts.