Page 54 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland

I should clarify. I said to be brave, new witch. Not stupid.

—Evie Oxby, at New York Fashion Week

Beatrice touched the wax seal at the edge of the page. How long had it been since someone had opened this? Had Cordelia ever seen what was inside? Did Astrid know what it was? Or did the secret of its contents go back farther, to her foremothers, Rosalind and Anna and Valeska and Xenia?

As Beatrice’s shaking fingers touched the edge, ready to unfold the page, she paused.

The promise she’d made to Cordelia not to look was from before.

Before Beatrice had learned so much, before she’d spent hours and full days studying magic.

Before she’d really, truly believed.

And crucially, before she’d broken everything by teaching Minna something that had put her in imminent danger.

What if Cordelia was wrong?

The fact that the book had opened itself to this page, combined with the fact that Beatrice had no other earthly idea what to do—oh, for fuck’s sake.

Using the same knife she’d cut herself with, she cracked through the wax on the seal. She unfolded the page.

It held nothing but a single sigil, drawn in red ink so dark, it verged on black. The parchment puckered around the ink, as if it were drawing the page into itself like a small black hole.

The image resembled an old-fashioned scale with one half missing. Two sharp slashes at the fulcrum were separated by a jagged, stabbed line. An arrow pointed down, diving into what looked like a teardrop, which bled its own tears.

Looking at it felt worse than almost drowning. Beatrice struggled to breathe, the air in her lungs almost as heavy as water.

There were no words on the page, nothing to help her parse what the sigil could do.

She shouldn’t have known what it meant, what it stood for.

But she did.

She knew exactly what it meant, and she wished, instantly, that she didn’t. The very image of it seared itself into her brain, and when she shut her eyes, it was all she could see.

You will die for love.

The words filtered into her brain as clearly as if a person in the room had said them out loud, and it was followed by a perfect, clear understanding of what the image meant. The knowledge flowed into her like oxygen.

As clearly as if she’d been reading magical symbology all her life, Beatrice understood the sigil was the curse of the dead twin.

It was baby Louise’s blood on the page. Velamen blood.

When Xenia had stripped Anna and Louise of that half of their magic, when Louise hadn’t survived, Xenia had locked that power on this page.

The inevitability of the curse crawled into her veins. It was hers now. Or did she belong to it? And was the curse somehow related to the way the Velamens would try to bring a Holland to the other side, to die to give them power?

She had no idea, and it didn’t matter—it couldn’t. She still didn’t know where Minna was. And when it came to that girl—Beatrice would die for love if she had to.

She scrubbed her face, rubbing her eyes.

Who the hell did she think she was? How had she thought she could find Minna? Minna was loved by her mother and grandmother, two women who had true power. If they couldn’t find her, with their advanced magic, what had Beatrice been thinking by trying to help?

She barely knew what love was. And she was pretty goddammed sure she wouldn’t live long enough to figure it out.

I will never know enough.

Fine. True. Yes.

But the second unexpected thought came so swiftly and sweetly that it felt like a gift. No matter what, I would never know enough, even if I lived forever.

A floral scent wafted lightly through the open door.

Gardenia.

Beatrice lunged into the bedroom, where she’d left Naya’s letter. Grabbing it from the bedside table, she raced back to the kitchen. Without looking again at the image in the grimoire, she slammed the book shut, dragging the notebook and pen toward herself.

One last try. Naya, I need you.

She took a breath. Auto-writing didn’t bring miracles—she didn’t have to fear it. She wasn’t suicidal. Just desperate. Naya would help.

She held the letter in her hands as she imagined the nib of a fountain pen fitting itself into the padlock. Carefully, she recited the spell.

It came on fast this time—the urge to scratch the itch with the pen, the feeling of floating away from her body but not really being anywhere else while she was gone. Then came the pop of returning to her body, and she looked down to see what words she’d left for herself.

The scent of gardenia was almost overwhelming, and Beatrice had to blink hard through her tears to see the page.

Button, you must trust yourself. You have everything you need, and you always have. Minna is with her ancestors, as am I, as you will be soon. Don’t be afraid. Not now. Not ever. She needs help only you can give her. Go now.

She covered her mouth. Minna was with her ancestors?

Dead?

The thought was too big, larger than the universe, impossible to imagine.

But then, Minna wouldn’t need help, so it had to mean something else—was she in the cemetery?

Cordelia and Astrid would have searched the cemetery, surely. They’d have searched the aboveground crypts, all the ones open enough that a girl could sneak into but—

Minna had said the old Holland crypt was locked.

Beatrice grabbed her cell phone and ran.