Page 29 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland

Learn your craft. Gather your tools. Spend time with other people as sensitive as you. Help the newbie. Don’t be a bag of dicks. There, that’s the only lesson in psychic-mediumship you need.

—Evie Oxby, Palm Springs and Bat Wings, Netflix

For the next few days, Beatrice studied.

She studied alone on the houseboat when Cordelia and Minna were busy, and she made lists of questions to pepper them with when she got to see them.

She’d managed to talk Cordelia into letting her keep the grimoire for a little longer, and now that her internet had been hooked up, she could cross-reference some of the language used in the family book of spells with what she found online.

Previously, she’d thought the internet was made up of equal parts kitten videos, porn, and political memes, but it turned out she’d missed a whole huge segment of it: witchcraft.

Minna came over one afternoon after her library shift and showed her the reputable sites.

She made Beatrice put TikTok on her phone and told her the best witchtokers to follow, warning her away from the ones who just wanted to sell her fake crystals from China.

That same afternoon, Minna happened to witness Beatrice’s first verifiable, tried-for spell.

It was small, simply spinning a plastic spoon as it sat on the galley table, but Beatrice made it happen .

On purpose. She used the right words for a tiny push and then felt the cramp of energy move out of her body through her fingertips.

The spoon spun six inches to the left. Nothing touched it.

The windows were closed. Not so much as the wake from a kayaker rocked the Forget-Me-Knot .

Minna laughed and clapped. “You did it!”

Beatrice gulped a breath. “Not a…”

Minna knew what she didn’t want to say. “Definitely not a miracle. Just some everyday magic.”

“I did magic!”

“You’re, like, one of us, Auntie.”

Beatrice felt her cheeks redden with pleasure.

Other days, when Reno was on the houseboat quietly working on the bookcases, Beatrice got out of her way, spending time at the library with her computer and all the metaphysical books Keelia could load her up with.

With the books at her side, Beatrice watched YouTube videos and made notes in a Magic spreadsheet.

On it, she tabulated both what she learned (the assemblage of herbs, incantations, and energy work) and the time she spent learning (tracked in fifteen-minute increments, categorized into Reading , Watching , Written Reaction , and Questions for Further Research ).

Slightly embarrassingly, the book she enjoyed most was Evie Oxby’s recent memoir.

The psychic’s tone was conversational, and she came at the subject with an edge of disbelief, one she herself was battling, and one Beatrice recognized.

Her favorite part so far came from chapter 7: “How can this be true? I can see that lighting a candle’s wick with a few words and a bit of my energy should be technically impossible.

Yet, I can do it. I know that the man speaking to me in the dark died two hundred years before I was born.

That makes me desire to know more, and at the same time, I distrust anyone but myself to tell me anything about how the universe works.

But since I can’t remember to move my laundry from the washer to the dryer until it smells like mildew, I’m not sure I should trust myself this way. ”

Not that Beatrice would ever tell Grant she was a new fan of his famous client.

She was trying not to tell Grant anything at all, which was difficult with his near-daily text messages.

Apparently he was sticking with his belief that they could split “amicably,” because so far he’d asked her: where the laundry detergent was (shockingly, above the washer), where the dishwashing pods were (had he really not looked under the sink?), and her absolute fucking favorite, when trash day was.

Beatrice hated that as a proud bisexual feminist, she’d fallen prey to outdated binary gender roles, but yes, she’d been the one to remind him every Monday night to roll the trash and recycling to the curb for their Tuesday collection.

She’d honestly thought he just forgot each week, not that he didn’t even know what day it was.

No one could possibly fault her for telling him trash day was Wednesday. It would probably still take him a few weeks to figure out why the garbage was piling up.

Meanwhile, at the bookstore, Winnie had posted Beatrice’s auto-writings from the cemetery on a billboard in her fortune-telling annex.

According to Cordelia, who Beatrice had coffee with every morning, two of the messages had already been claimed by townsfolk who recognized themselves.

Norman, whoever he was, had needed to know that the key to his deceased wife’s safe-deposit box was in the freezer inside the gluten-free pizza box.

Patrick admitted he did need to be forgiven for something, and he was willing to listen to Andy, who’d said to wait.

The message about Nutella and potato chips still hadn’t been claimed.

“Word’s getting around,” said Cordelia. “Winnie hasn’t told anyone you’re the scribe yet, but she’s been clear with people that it isn’t her. Someone is going to want you to do more of it at some point.”

“I’m not ready.”

“Yeah, well, it can be really hard to turn away people desperate for help. In hard times, people look for certainty.” Cordelia touched the pile of colored Post-its that Beatrice was organizing into questions in a companion notebook to her Magic spreadsheet. “Isn’t that what you’re looking for?”

Beatrice exhaled before nodding.

“So… when will you have enough of it?”

“No idea. I just want to learn what to avoid. The last time I auto-wrote, I triggered a miracle.”

Cordelia dropped the small pink block of Post-its. “Oh! But you didn’t auto-write before the other three miracles, right? Could that just be a coincidence?”

“I have no idea. About anything, really.” And that was why she would keep studying. “What if there are multiple miracle triggers? Like trip wires. Auto-writing is one, and um, sitting with coffee, and looking into traffic…” No, it didn’t make sense.

“Auto-writing is magic, not a miracle. I think you might be trying too hard to make connections that might not be there.”

“Hang on,” said Beatrice. “My sister, the actual witch , is telling me I might be getting carried away?”

It felt good to laugh with Cordelia, but still, if all of this was true, Beatrice had only three shiny miracles left.

She needed a shit-ton more certainty about all of this before she got cocky.

Feeling that little jolt of her own energy moving a plastic spoon was more than enough to keep her happy for quite a while.

And it felt good, honestly, to dive so deeply into something new. She loved being on her boat, and she loved seeing Cordelia and Minna almost daily. And it was so easy to avoid Astrid that the evasion must have been mutual.

One evening, when she arrived home after having dinner with Keelia at the diner, Reno was still there in the dimness, finishing up her work on the deck. She wore a headlamp, and she was bent over a sawhorse, sanding a long plank.

Beatrice stepped on board. “Hi.” The light of the headlamp dazzled her.

“Sorry.” Reno switched off the lamp.

But there was still enough light dropping from the sky to see the work Reno was doing. The edge of the wood was marled and unique, perfectly smooth and stained a deep reddish-brown to match the paneling inside.

“This is gorgeous. You’re a magician.”

Reno shook her head. “I just like wood.”

“It’s going to be beautiful.”

Reno looked out at the water. The lights of the mainland were visible, the clearest Beatrice had seen them yet. “It’ll be nice, yeah.”

Beatrice remembered what was in her bag. “I got you something.” She rummaged under the pile of her research books and pulled it out. “Keelia said you were looking at it the other day.”

Looking startled, Reno said, “You bought me a book?”

“I love Nick Offerman’s voice. I’ve never worked with wood in my life, but I read this when it came out and loved it.” The more she said, she sillier she felt. Not everyone responded to everything in life by reaching for a book.

“That’s… really kind.” Reno gazed at the cover with a serious expression, and then her face melted into a slow, warm smile. “Thanks.”

Her words were simple, but they felt good to receive. Beatrice rocked on her heels awkwardly. “You’re welcome.”

“I’ll get out of your way now.”

A line from Beatrice’s Life Expectancy: If I have one month left checklist flashed through her mind. I would tell Cordelia, Minna, and Reno that I want to know them.

Before she could second-guess herself, Beatrice said, “Would you like a glass of wine?”

A pause. “I don’t drink. Anymore.”

Crap. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked. But she had. “Tea?”

That slow smile again. “I like tea.”

After Reno tidied her tools and Beatrice brought up two cups of tea, they sat in Beatrice’s new chairs and watched the marina close itself up for the night.

Most of the sailboats were in, their sailors coiling lines and battening down sail covers.

A low, squat fishing boat chugged past, heading out for the night.

A man on board waved at them, and Beatrice’s heart lifted as her hand did.

Then it was quiet.

“So—” started Beatrice.

At the same time, Reno said, “Are—”

“You first,” Beatrice said.

“You’re staying? Not just a summer person?”

“I… yeah. I’m curious about what it’s like to live on a houseboat in winter.” If I make it that long.

Without hesitation, Reno said, “Cold.”

“You live in the motor home at the cemetery, right?”

“Technically it’s in Cordelia’s yard.”

“Why do you stay there?”

“What do you know about me?”

Startled, Beatrice said, “Nothing.” Except that Minna said people don’t trust you.

“Mmm. I like to keep an eye on them.” She didn’t have to specify who.