Page 42 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland

Don’t overcomplicate magic. Keep it simple, sister.

—Evie Oxby, on Radiolab

Minna grinned. “Amazing.”

“That’s…” Beatrice zoomed in, then out again. “Why… why would the sunlight do this?”

“It wouldn’t. That’s not sunlight. That looks like love to me.” Minna extended the word out long, almost singing it. “What—or who—was the sigil for?”

“My stepmother. His wife.”

“Her light’s super pretty.”

“Holy shit.”

“So.” Minna held up the gun. “Black ink?”

“Don’t be silly, Minna. We have to get ready for the party.”

“I can do line drawings like this in my sleep. Fifteen minutes, and done.”

Beatrice bit her bottom lip. She wasn’t actually considering this, was she?

Permanently marking the sigil on her skin, the sigil that had proved Naya was always near? The very idea felt lovely. “Really, fifteen minutes?”

Minna nodded, her face bright. “Then I’ll make one squillionty deviled eggs.”

“Your mother won’t kill you?”

“She’d kill me if I tattooed myself, or anyone else under voting age, but I can tattoo adults.”

“Like Reno and who else?”

“Okay, like only Reno so far. But that’s because I’ve only asked you and Mom, and Mom always says no.”

It was silly to feel so flattered, and yet, she did. Beatrice held out her arms. “Where should I get it?”

“Wherever you want, maybe somewhere you can see it easily and remember her? Your forearm, or inner wrist?”

Why the hell not? “Inner wrist.” She’d never gotten one before because of pure vanity. How would a tattoo age on her? How it would look on wrinkled, crepey skin? But if her skin never had the time to wrinkle…

And what was the big deal about a little ink in memory of a woman she’d loved, who’d managed to send her a letter through the years on the ocean’s waves?

Even Naya herself had a tattoo on her left shoulder, a goldfinch lighting on a gardenia flower to commemorate her own mother.

“Purple was her favorite color. Can you do it in that?”

Minna squeaked. “Can I ever!” She pulled out a drawer and then muttered, “Whoops, can I? Hang on.” Then she triumphantly held up a plastic bottle with a purple pointed top. “Yes, I can!”

The prep went quickly. Minna asked Beatrice to draw the sigil while she sterilized the tattoo area and her tools.

Then Minna made a stencil sheet of the design and pressed it against Beatrice’s right wrist. She pulled the paper away, leaving behind light purple lines.

“You like the placement? We can move it, or make it bigger or smaller, whatever.”

“It’s perfect.”

Minna sniffed. “That’s a gardenia flower, right? Is that what I smell?”

There it was, again, that sweet perfumed air. Wow. “Yeah.”

“She sure smells good.” Minna held up the gun. “This won’t hurt very much. And if I’m lying, at least it won’t take very long.”

But Minna wasn’t lying. The tattooing hardly hurt at all.

The pain of the needle wasn’t like any other pain Beatrice had ever felt, actually.

If someone were holding her down and tattooing her against her will, it probably would have hurt like a son of a bitch.

But as it was, it felt like a weird, scratchy itch, one that she’d chosen. It felt good.

As she worked, Minna kept up a steady stream of chatter, as if she were trying to distract her. Beatrice listened and responded, but the words didn’t feel important.

Nothing felt as important as being here with Minna, getting the symbol of Naya (and of her, and of her father) inscribed upon her skin.

The gardenia scent bloomed, getting more and more heady, until Minna finally said, “There. Done.” She wiped away a small bit of blood welling to the surface.

“Look as much as you want, and then I’m going to wrap it in plastic for the night, okay?

Tomorrow you can let it air out and I’ll show you how to take care of it. Do you like it? How does it feel?”

It felt right . As if Beatrice’s skin had been waiting for this, exactly. “I love it. It’s weird…”

Minna took off her gloves and reached for her phone. “I’ll put on a new pair before I wrap it, but I want to get some good shots now—is that okay?”

“Sure. The scent has faded, right?”

Minna nodded. “I have a theory.”

Did it match the question running through Beatrice’s mind? “The smell went into my skin with the ink?”

“That’s what I think.”

“Oh.” Beatrice felt warmed from the inside out. “She’s inside me.”

Minna held her phone over Beatrice’s wrist, taking multiple shots. “Well, to be fair, she already was. But yeah, stuff like that’s important. Reno’s got Scarlett’s ashes in a couple of her tattoos.”

“Oh, my god, people do that?”

“It’s not a big deal if you do it right. Which I do. I wish I had some of my dad’s ashes, but he was buried. If I did, I’d use them in the sigil I’m trying to copy from that photo of him—do you want to see it?”

“Of course I do.”

Minna flipped open a notebook to a sketch of a bold T surrounded by slashes and lines made through two conjoined circles. The effect was strong, almost leaping off the page.

“I love it.”

“I’m getting closer. I know I’m missing something, but I can’t tell what it is.”

“It’ll come to you.”

With a sly look, Minna said, “Or you could help me figure it out by auto-writing. He could tell me.”

“Nope.” Okay, rejecting her niece’s bad ideas was getting easier with practice apparently.

Minna huffed out a breath. “I keep trying. I say the spell perfectly but nothing happens. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I do it?”

The image of the fountain pen entering the padlock rose in Beatrice’s mind.

“Oh!” Minna exclaimed. “You figured it out!”

“What?”

“You just figured out what’s special about the way you say the spell.

I saw you realize it, don’t even lie. Tell me.

It’s not like I don’t have the spell, not like I’m going to give up trying.

This way, I’m doing it right instead of wrong, you know?

Doing it wrong could be dangerous, and I know you wouldn’t want that. ”

Attempting to think clearly, Beatrice tried to ignore the blatant manipulation attempt. It couldn’t be as easy as visualizing something, could it? Beatrice looked down at her tattoo, glowing with purple heat.

Evie Oxby said, Share what you know, and a deeper knowledge will return back to you.

As if Minna could hear her thinking about Oxby’s advice, she said, “We share what we learn with each other. That’s, like, Holland code.”

Well, shit. “If I tell you, you’ll try it.”

“I won’t.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Minna clasped her hands at her chest. “I promise I’ll try nothing alone, without telling you or Reno or Mom. Come on, Auntie Bea. You’re a Holland at heart, I know that. Share with me? Please?”

The girl was good. “You swear. You swear that you’ll tell me or your mom or Reno before you try it?”

“On my father’s grave.” Minna licked the tip of her finger and drew a cross over her heart. “I swear it.”

If I had one month left: I would try to be brave. I would try to be open.

“I imagine a pen going into a lock.”

Minna lifted and dropped her hands. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Because I didn’t know it was important! You keep forgetting I have no clue what I’m doing!”

“What kind of pen?”

“Fountain pen, long and skinny.”

“Old-school. I like it. What kind of lock?”

“Also old-fashioned. Heavy, dark metal. The kind of lock you’d picture on the gate of an old cemetery. Or hanging off a bridge in France, you know?”

Minna nodded. “Got it. So. Can we try it tonight? At the party?”

“ Excuse me?”

“I’m telling you! I promised I would tell you or Mom or Reno!”

Beatrice’s heart sank. “But that whole ‘close one’ thing? Your mom seemed pretty serious about that. And the other night, when I tried it, and that… whatever it was chased us into the house?”

“Tonight is the best time. Not to be an asshole about it, but if we’re in some kind of danger, wouldn’t my father be even closer than normal to protect me?

And since today’s his deathiversary, I was already going to try to reach him at midnight during the party.

I usually try to contact him, but this time, it might work. Thanks to you.”

Something churned low in Beatrice’s gut. She scanned her mental inventory of the Magic spreadsheet—why didn’t she have a Protecting Others column? What was this dread? What was she missing? “I don’t like this.”

“Come with me, then.”

“Maybe. And your mom, too?”

Minna slammed a package of nitrile gloves onto the workbench. “She doesn’t get me. Only you do.”

Through the dread, Beatrice felt her heart expand a notch. This girl trusted her. “I hear you.”

“So you’ll come?”

“Yes.” And she would tell Cordelia, too. She’d convince her sister to keep it a secret but she’d also get advice on how best to help Minna and keep her safe. It was too important now to get it wrong.

Minna’s shoulders relaxed. “Good. I’ll be careful. Plus, you’ll be there, so it’ll be fine. I know what I’m doing.”

That makes one of us.