Page 46 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland

Spirit is just waiting for you to ask. Didn’t you know that?

—Evie Oxby, Come at Me, Boo

Out. Beatrice needed out . Her feet carried her through the crowd, and her face cooperated with her flight, smiling politely at people who smiled at her, and then, yes, thank god, she was on the edge of the party, and then she was in the garden that led to the hideout.

Beatrice pushed open the low gate, passing under the jasmine-laden arbor.

The twinkle lights twined through the white flowers and along both sides of the fence.

Overhead, the blackness of the sky was studded with pinpoints of light, and even though she couldn’t see the bonfire from here, the smell still clung to the night air.

The door of the shed stood open, and there Reno was. Of course. She stood at the workbench next to her wooden kayak. Her back was turned, and she spoke without turning around.

“Was wondering when you’d come find me.”

Oh, god, was Reno hoping for someone else? Would she be disappointed? “It’s Beatrice.”

Reno turned slowly, setting a piece of sandpaper down on top of the workbench. At her feet curled a pile of wood shavings. She was wearing a thickly knit black beanie and her red flannel shirt, making her look like a sailor home from the sea. “I know exactly who you are.”

The air in Beatrice’s lungs got caught somewhere near her heart. “Oh.”

Half a crooked smile laced across Reno’s face, but she didn’t offer anything else.

“What are you making?”

“A gift. Want to see?”

Beatrice nodded, moving closer.

Whatever it was, it was small and thin, maybe four inches wide and two inches long. There was a hole drilled in the middle, and on both sides, it curved out like an elongated eye. The wood was dark red and already looked soft as silk.

“It’s beautiful,” said Beatrice.

“Do you know what it is?”

“Not a clue. Oh, wait! Is it a pasta measurer? You put the pasta through the hole and that tells you… um, that you need more pasta?”

Reno shook her head. “Nope.”

“I have no idea.”

“Book holder.”

Beatrice remained puzzled. “How?”

“One-handed.” She reached for a book on the closest bookshelf. It was a hardcover, something about building wooden boats. Reno held it out to her. “Open it.”

She did.

Then Reno reached for her hand, slipping the piece of wood onto her thumb. Beatrice wasn’t sure what felt better, the smoothness of the freshly sanded wood, or the warm touch of Reno’s fingers against hers.

The point of the wood fit exactly into the seam of the book, and the flanges, curved as they were, rested against the pages. With her other four fingers under the book, it was easy to hold the book open one-handed.

“You like books,” said Reno simply.

“You… you made this for me?”

A nod. “Did I get it right?”

Beatrice’s voice came out breathier than she’d expected. “I love it.”

With relief in her voice, Reno said, “Good.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Reno tugged off the hat, rubbed both shaved sides of her head, and then shoved a hand through the dark curls on top.

Could she be nervous, too?

Reno opened the door of the small fridge. “Ginger ale?”

“Yes.” Not that she was thirsty—she’d already had a beer and three lemonades. She just wanted to agree with Reno. About anything. She’d have accepted a glass of warm milk spiked with bathtub gin; she didn’t care.

“Outside?”

Outside, inside, upside down, it didn’t matter. The day was catching up to Beatrice and nothing had made sense for a while, but this? Right here? This made sense.

In the garden, they sat on a wrought iron bench.

On the other side of the gate, a group of children holding sparklers ran over the grass without glancing in their direction. The roses and hollyhocks were high enough that Beatrice felt hidden again, as she had with Cordelia.

Only this was different.

Reno’s thigh was so close to hers that she could feel the heat of it.

This was really different.

But she was probably imagining all this—Grant had always said she was too prone to flights of fancy.

She had to say something. She had to break the silence. “It’s dark out here.” It wasn’t really, not with the twinkle lights hanging above. But it was something to say.

“Are you scared?”

“No.” That wasn’t quite true. “Maybe.” Out there, past the garden where the cemetery began, that was the darkness that chilled her.

A low film of dread filled her as she thought about meeting Minna there at midnight.

But Cordelia would be with her by then, and maybe they could recruit Reno to come, too.

She needed to keep her eye on the time, make sure she got back to the party to tell Cordelia first about Minna wanting to contact her father, then—

“Hey.” Reno spoke gently. “I’ll know if something really bad is coming. I’ve had a couple of waves of something unpleasant roll through tonight, but they pass by quick. I don’t think we’re in danger.”

Beatrice frowned. “It’s not that.” But her words came out rough, and she could almost feel Reno retract into herself.

Looking straight ahead, Reno said, “I get it. I wouldn’t trust me, either.”

Oh, god. How could she fix this? Somehow, she knew she’d trust Reno with her life.

“No, I swear. It’s not about you. I’m just—just a little overwhelmed with everything.

” But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to give Reno something real, something tangible, as sturdy as the carved bookholder.

Something to show that she trusted her. “Minna gave me my first tattoo today. Cordelia doesn’t know yet, and I guess I’m a little worried. ”

It worked—Reno’s shoulders relaxed. “Ah. Wondered why it looked like she’d been cleaning her tools. Show me?”

Beatrice rolled back the sleeve of her blouse. “Am I allowed to pull back the plastic?”

“If you’re careful, yeah.”

Her heart beating faster, Beatrice said, “I’m right-handed, so I’m not sure I’ll do a great job with my left hand. Would you?”

Reno’s eyes caught hers, smoky with heat. As she unwrapped the plastic, her fingers were so gentle that Beatrice’s stomach flipped. The tattoos that covered Reno’s arms seemed to move in the dimness, swirling on top of her skin, blue lines blending and shifting. Beatrice’s eyes traced each one.

Then her own tattoo was revealed.

“It’s good.” Reno tilted Beatrice’s wrist slightly toward the strings of white lights above them. “It’s really good.”

“For my stepmother.”

“You loved her.”

“She was the mother I knew best.”

“How does the ink feel?”

Through the string of lights, Beatrice saw a star wink down. “Like I was missing it before. Like I didn’t know I needed it until the ink was inside my skin.”

Reno carefully rewrapped the plastic, her touch still incredibly gentle.

Then she said, “I want to show you one of mine.” She reached for the top button on her flannel, undoing it and the one below it. And the one below that.

Electricity sliced through Beatrice’s blood as Reno parted her shirt.

“This is my most important tattoo.”

There, just above the edge of Reno’s black cotton tank, was the letter S , done in a curling, lovely script. It was bright red, almost the color of blood against Reno’s deep olive skin.

Beatrice didn’t have to be told that this was the tattoo that held Scarlett’s ashes in its ink. “Scarlett… oh, my god.” Should she say it? “It’s a scarlet letter.”

A rich laugh was her reward. “Not everyone gets it that fast. Scarlett always joked that I should get one, so I did.”

Bravely, Beatrice looked closer. To the left of the S were two bright little yellow things with wings. Against Reno’s skin, they glowed. “Are those fireflies?”

“She grew up in Tennessee. Loved her fireflies. She hated the fact that we didn’t have them here.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in real life.”

“Yeah, I’d never seen one before we went to visit her family. They were pretty magical. To me, she was the brightest firefly of all.”

Beatrice’s hand rose, as if she were going to touch that brilliant letter inked over Reno’s heart.

Shit. Horrified, she raised her hand higher and tucked a nonexistent strand of hair behind her ear.

Her pulse throbbed in her ears and her face flared red-hot.

What the hell was she thinking? Surely it was wrong to be so attracted to a woman who was literally telling her about the love of her life?

But then Reno caught her hand and drew it to her skin, pressing it gently against the S ’s red ink.

Under Beatrice’s fingers, Reno’s heartbeat raced as fast as her own.

Beatrice wasn’t alone in this feeling. Was she?

Summoning all the courage she had, Beatrice reached for Reno’s other hand. She turned Reno’s palm to rest flat against her own chest. She covered Reno’s hand with her own.

Reno’s gaze went smokier. “These fucking damaged hearts, huh?”

“What’s the prognosis, you think?”

“Inevitably fatal, I reckon.”

She was right, of course. “No cure.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Reno released Beatrice’s hand. The air that hit her palm felt like ice after the touch of Reno’s skin. Matching her, Beatrice let Reno’s hand drop from her skin.

Reno said, “There never was going to be a cure, though, right? Immortality’s hard to come by these days.”

“What about magic?” She knew it was silly to ask, but she asked anyway.

Inclining her head, Reno said, “Magic’s always got a surprise up its sleeve, yeah.

But… that thing I felt crash through me, when the darkness blasted through here with you and Minna.

” Beatrice almost felt the shudder she saw ripple through Reno’s frame.

“It was big. Bigger than I could even explain to Cordelia. It scared me.”

“You think it was the Velamens?”

She shrugged. “I guess maybe? They’re the ones who want to take the Holland power, so I’d think so.”

“Astrid bound the power, though. The thread and the blood. We bound it. Right?”

Reno shook her head and looked out into the darkness on the other side of the gate. “I don’t think it’s going to stop.”