Page 38 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland

I don’t know, I find it comforting to think about them still out there. Still being themselves, having a good time on the other side. Can you imagine what they’re getting up to out there? Shenanigans. Hijinks. I just know it.

—Evie Oxby, Us Weekly

Her cappuccino hot in one hand, a latte in the other, Beatrice wandered back to the marina, a new lightness in her bones.

She’d helped someone! That was real! Who in the world would mix salt and vinegar chips with Nutella?

Okay, granted, the world was really big, and surely, a couple of other people probably did.

But the initials, K for Kumail, and L for Leon.

The blue handkerchief. Put together, the truth was incontrovertible, right?

It was proof.

And more: She’d known enough to handle the situation the right way. She hadn’t done more auto-writing. She hadn’t triggered another miracle. Nor had she inadvertently invited the pissed-off undead to throw chairs through windows.

She had simply made Mrs. Jumai feel better.

All of it pointed to one thing: She was figuring this shit out, and if she figured more shit out, maybe she could forestall future miracles. Maybe she could keep being alive.

The gate to her dock was wide open, and Beatrice felt a smile spread across her face.

Reno was good people. Somehow, she knew it. Was it possible that Beatrice really could make a home here? Would Reno be her first real friend? Cordelia and Minna didn’t count—they were her family. (Her heart gave a zing at the thought. Again.)

But friendship took time. Something she might not have much of.

She felt her smile wobble, but then she saw Reno on the wide deck of the Forget-Me-Knot , another plank balanced on her sawhorse.

The muscles of her arms shone in the sun, and she must have felt the sway underneath her feet as Beatrice boarded, because she turned. She didn’t smile as much as… brighten.

That brightening? Better than any smile.

Feeling suddenly too warm, Beatrice held out the cup. “Brought you something.”

Reno did her head-duck thing. “Oh.”

Their fingers brushed.

Something danced in Beatrice’s stomach. “Cordelia said you like a latte.”

The brightness got even brighter. Joy looked so good on Reno. “I do.”

“Fritz guessed it was for you and added two sugars.”

She touched the lid. “That’s… really kind of you.”

This was where Beatrice would normally wave away a gift with a quick Oh, stop, it’s nothing .

But if she did that now, she’d brush off this moment of—what was it?

Connection? Whatever it was, it felt good.

“I know you’re working, but do you want to take a break?

We could sit on the bench over there and just… ”

Reno’s eyebrows rose.

“Sorry. That’s silly. I’ll let you get back to work.” Surely Reno had enough friends already.

“It’s not—”

Beatrice tried to grin. “Enjoy the latte. I’m going to go to the library and let you work in peace.”

Reno, though, was looking over Beatrice’s shoulder. “You have company.”

Beatrice turned.

Then she dropped her cup. The lid flew off, and coffee splattered up her jeans.

“Hi, Button.”

Her father insisted on buying her a replacement cup of coffee, which was fine, because that meant she didn’t have to invite him into the houseboat.

Fritz had obviously wanted to ask questions, but a small rush of customers flooded in, so all Fritz said was “Do my eyes deceive me? Do I see a family resemblance here?”

Before her father could answer (and he wanted to—he always wanted to brag about his daughter to anyone who would listen), Beatrice said, “Wow, look at all these people! See you tonight at the party!”

On the sidewalk, her father said, “Party? Settling right in, huh?”

She couldn’t even dignify that with a response. “Beach walk?”

“Of course.”

Beatrice led him past the marina and around the gazebo, past the charred remains of the stump of the lightning-struck tree. Sunlight glinted from his bald head—he should be wearing a baseball cap, but he always forgot to. Naya was the one who’d reminded him.

Only one fisherman wearing chest-high waders was on the deserted beach, two buckets at his side.

Her father’s voice was tentative. “Gorgeous day out here, yeah?”

Fury stopped Beatrice’s throat. She nodded.

“Good flight, not too bumpy. That ferry was something, though. Worst nachos of my life.”

It physically ached not to agree with him about the fake cheese.

“Don’t blame Iris. I brought the stuff you asked her to box up. It’s all at the hotel. I hope I brought the right things.”

Oh, Beatrice would blame Iris. She stomped through the sand, refusing to worry about his high blood pressure and whether he’d be able to keep up with her. He would or he wouldn’t. Not her problem.

“Button, we have to talk.”

Did they, though? Two weeks ago, she would have agreed with that wholeheartedly.

But now, really, what was there to say? If Astrid had been telling the truth last night, there had been a good reason to separate the girls, to keep their power from gathering in the same place.

Her father, though—he should have fought to keep Cordelia in his life.

And he should never have lied to Beatrice.

“Maybe you should have talked to me a long time ago.”

“I always wanted to.”

“Oh, my god. Don’t.”

“I’m so sorry. I wish this had never happened.”

Beatrice stopped walking, keeping her gaze on her bare, sand-covered toes. “You wish what had never happened, exactly?”

“You coming here. Finding them.”

“They’re my family.”

“They are not !”

His shout jolted her—Dad wasn’t a man who shouted. The adrenaline that spiked through her wasn’t fear, though. The jolt of it only bolstered her anger. “Care to explain that claim?”

“Who raised you?”

“You did.”

“Damn straight I did. Me and Naya, no one else.”

“How could you possibly have let Cordelia go?”

He looked up at the sky as if hoping the answer would be written in the clouds. “She said she’d take you both if I fought her. And I knew by then what she could do.”

“You knew about the magic.”

“Trickery, you mean. She was good at the sleight of hand. Astrid abandoned you, never forget that. She left you behind without a backward glance.”

It still stung, but not in the way he was probably hoping it would. “I admit you and Naya did a good job of bringing me up.”

“We did.”

“You always said family was the most important thing. Me, you, and Naya.”

“Yes.” Her father scowled. “I know what you’re trying to do. Don’t bother.”

But she kept going. “If family was the most important thing, why keep me from half of mine?”

“I chose the best mother in the world to raise you.”

“I thought my own mother was dead. Because you lied. Then you substituted another woman in her place.” Sorry, Naya.

Her father’s neck turned red, and then purple. “Naya was everything to us. You know that. You’re just trying to make me feel like I did the wrong thing.”

“By not telling me I had a mother and a twin sister ? You did the wrong thing. Do you have any idea how I grieved Astrid?”

“You didn’t even remember her.”

“I knew how her absence felt, though. You wouldn’t even tell me how she died. It took me begging for you to even tell me she’d had cancer.”

At five years old, when she’d asked how her mother had died, Dad had said, When you’re older, I’ll explain it to you. At ten, he’d told her that Mom had cancer. At thirteen, he’d told her it was lung cancer.

Her father rubbed his jaw. “I hated lying to you.”

“Yeah, well, I hate that you did, too. You have no idea how much I knew about lung cancer as a thirteen-year-old.” Beatrice had insisted that Naya and Dad get the house tested for radon and had held her breath when she walked past people smoking on sidewalks.

When she was a high school sophomore, James Reyes had offered her a cigarette.

She’d batted it out of his hand and said, “The risk for lung cancer is twenty to forty percent higher in smokers than non-smokers, and tobacco use is responsible for seventy-nine to ninety percent of lung cancer.” He’d said in response, “Give me fifty cents for wasting that smoke, you little freak.” She’d had a three-inch binder full of research on somatic mutations in the TP53 and EGFR genes, filing each new bit of information by date of publication in plastic sheet protectors.

“Oh, Beatrice.”

“Did you even love Naya? Or were you just trying to find me a mother so you could have less guilt over keeping the secret of my mother and sister from me?”

He looked stricken. “I can’t believe you would say that. You know I worshipped that woman.”

Dad had thought Naya hung not just the moon, but also the sun and probably every single star, too.

No one knew that better than Beatrice did.

Why, then, did she keep twisting the knife?

She couldn’t help herself, though—the words just kept coming.

“I’m not sure about any of your motives anymore.

You’re so careful with money—maybe you just didn’t want to pay for a nanny for me. Easier to marry someone?”

“Button, no.”

“My name is Beatrix. Isn’t it?” Would claiming her birth name give her distance from this man, the one who’d ostensibly taught her that honesty was key?

“No.” He ground the word out. “You can’t use that name. That’s her name. Please, please use the one I chose for you. You’re my Beatrice. My Button. That’s why I’m here—”

“You said that you came to bring me my stuff.”

“I did.”

“Could have FedExed it.”

“Guess you’re right.” He frowned into the sky again. Wrinkles cut deeply across the face Beatrice had always thought handsome. When had he gotten so old? Sure, he’d been slowing down, but Beatrice realized that if a stranger looked at him, they’d just see an old man in wrinkled chinos.