Page 31 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland

Feel free to be creative in how you seek Spirit. She’s tougher than you think.

—Evie Oxby, I Ain’t Afraid of No Ghosts

Two days later, Cordelia didn’t look the slightest bit surprised when Beatrice entered Which Craft in the late afternoon and acted from her Life Expectancy: If I have one year left checklist: Accept Cordelia’s offer to teach me how to knit.

Within minutes, Cordelia had cast on and knit a row for her. “I can’t in good conscience let any baby knitter learn how to cast on first—it’s a ridiculous way to learn. Get the hang of the knit stitch and then I’ll teach you how to cast on.”

So Beatrice knitted. From time to time, Cordelia would walk past and peer over her shoulder.

“There. You’re doing it!” Cordelia’s voice was warm, and the tension between Beatrice’s shoulder blades melted the smallest bit. Of course, holding the needles and peering down at them ratcheted the tension back up, but she was knitting. Well, she was doing something with yarn anyway.

The yarn in question was light purple, thick, and strong, and the dark wooden needles had already warmed in Beatrice’s hands.

Cordelia had opinions about them, too. “Straight needles are good for beginners, but soon I’ll move you to circular needles.

Better for everything, including healthy wrists.

Making things is powerful, you know. That’s why we have this store.

We put energy into intention and help others to do the same. ”

Beatrice would have knitted asbestos rope with ski poles if Cordelia told her it was the best way to learn. Did she care about knitting? Apart from it being something to bring her closer to her sister, nope. Not in the slightest. She didn’t care if what left her needles was a scarf or a bath mat.

She just wanted to be here. Near Cordelia.

Which meant being near Astrid, of course, but even that felt easier now, as if the edges of the woman had been sanded off a little.

Now, when she looked at Astrid, it was as if a subtle Zoom filter had been turned on.

The way the woman clattered around the shop—greeting customers with a piercing, singsong, “Tell me if you need help deciding Which Craft to tackle!”—was actually kind of funny.

Colorful. If Beatrice had been a tourist in this town (like she had been just two weeks ago), she probably would have found it charming.

And perhaps Cordelia had cautioned their mother against overwhelming Beatrice, because Astrid hadn’t ordered Beatrice to do or be anything yet.

Today, she’d given only a small wave when she’d entered, and then she’d floated past behind Beatrice’s chair twice, both times saying, “Oh, you’re a natural, aren’t you? ”

Beatrice wasn’t a natural—that was a lie.

(So maybe Astrid was being herself.) The needles felt clumsy in her hands, and as she wrapped the yarn around the right needle, she used her whole body to do it.

Her core muscles tightened, as did those in her neck and upper back, not just the fingers of her right hand.

Wasn’t knitting supposed to be relaxing?

She glanced at Cordelia, who was ringing up a young woman purchasing a skein of yarn that would apparently knit up into rainbow-striped socks. As if she felt the gaze, Cordelia smiled at Beatrice. I’m so glad you’re here.

Beatrice jumped.

Had Cordelia’s lips moved?

No. That was silly. But it felt like she’d heard Cordelia’s voice in her mind. She hadn’t, of course. She played it back. Her ears had heard nothing in the room but Astrid showing a woman where the size-10 needles were.

“Did you say something?” Beatrice asked, feeling immediately ridiculous. Still at the counter, Cordelia was obviously too far away to hear her over the classical music on the stereo and the chatter of a small cluster of shoppers looking at a spinning wheel.

She’d just read the sentiment on Cordelia’s face; that was all.

Had this been part of the way they’d communicated as kids?

Through the mirror? More came back to her now, a thin memory of watching Cordelia’s lips move, and just knowing what it was the other little girl was saying, even though she couldn’t always quite hear her.

Once, she’d fallen in the garden, skinning her knees.

She’d showed her sister the cuts and bruises, and Cordelia had blown kisses toward them through the glass.

She’d been able to feel the cool air on her knee, and together, they’d laughed.

Who would she be now , if Dad hadn’t smashed the mirror? If she’d known Cordelia her whole life?

A stitch jumped off her needle and slid into invisibility, no doubt gone forever.

The bell jingled on the door. Minna raced through, her face tight, her expression stormy. She marched to the counter and thumped her backpack to the floor.

“I locked myself out.”

“Again?” Cordelia reached under the counter and pulled out a ring of keys. “You were supposed to put the extra one in your bag.”

Minna’s outfit of the day was varying shades of bright pink and deep green. Whatever could be dipped in glitter (hair band, nails, earrings, purse strap, shoes) had been. “I did. But apparently, it didn’t stay in there.”

“Ah. It just jumped out on its own?”

A muscle jumped in Minna’s jaw. “Good, be a jerk about it. Excellent choice.”

Cordelia sighed. “You okay? How was the library?”

Minna’s back was so straight, she almost vibrated.

“ Fine. Fantastic. I had to do story time because Miss Liesl didn’t show, so I’m covered in kid snot, and all I want is a shower, but instead, I have to come beg my mother for a key and be mocked while I’m at it.

So yeah.” She snatched the key from Cordelia’s fingers. “I’m just great. Thanks for asking.”

She stalked toward the door, noticing Beatrice at the last moment.

Beatrice raised her needles, and two more stitches leaped to their untimely death.

“Hi, Auntie. Bye, Auntie.” Her voice was almost as surly as it had been toward Cordelia.

And Beatrice freaking loved it. Apparently there was nothing better in the whole world than being snarled at by your teenage niece. “Hey—um. I could bring you a churro from Fritz’s after your shower?”

Minna nodded as she yanked the door open. “And a hot chocolate. Extra marshmallows. Please. ”

A sharp stab of happiness ran through Beatrice, and she set down the three inches of knitted travesty. What she’d just done to that yarn was probably illegal in some countries. No more knitting for the day.

Her niece needed marshmallows, and by god, she would have them.