Page 56 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland

Fear is its own sort of magic and requires a set of tools that I’m only starting to learn how to use.

—Evie Oxby, in conversation with Brené Brown

Beatrice had never been in an aboveground crypt.

The tomb had seen better days, and cracks ran through the marble.

Part of Anna’s final resting place seemed to have collapsed in on itself on one side, but it was bigger inside than Beatrice would have thought, maybe eight feet square.

Three candles burned at the front of the space on a raised dais of stone.

At one time, it must have been used as a small altar, and a vase still stood there, whatever flowers it might have held long turned to dust. The air smelled of mildew and cold dirt.

Behind her was the door, transformed back to marble.

To the left and right were seats chiseled into the stone.

Above each seat were dark, carved plaques.

Anna Holland. Rosalind Holland. So Anna was here with her daughter, Rosalind.

Was Anna’s lost twin, Louise, here, too? Or somewhere nearby?

After her cursory glance, Beatrice returned her gaze to her niece, sitting alone on the dusty floor, her father’s tattoo gun pressed against her arm. Even though it wasn’t plugged into power, the metallic buzz of it echoed through Beatrice’s teeth.

“Minna.”

The sound stopped, and the girl spun around. “What the fuck? How did you get in?”

Beatrice said honestly, “I’m not quite sure. I said some words, and they worked.”

A breeze moved through the room, moving the dust into small eddies.

Oh, god. In a sealed tomb, the dust could only come from one thing.

Minna shook her head. “You can’t be here.”

On her arm, Beatrice could see the same T that the girl had been drawing on Taurus’s grave. A small ooze of blood rose up along the lines. “What are you doing?”

Her niece’s face looked carved of marble itself, her expression stubborn. “I’m going to assume you don’t actually need me to answer that.”

“Minna, your father—”

A flicker of fear raced across Minna’s expression, and in it, Beatrice recognized the girl she loved. The old Minna was in there, the one who didn’t have Taurus guiding her hand.

The fear switched off, Minna’s features stilling. “He loves me. All he wants is to hug me one time. He said so.”

“How? How do you know?”

“I hear him now.” She looked down at her forearm. “I hear him more with every drop of ink. We just don’t know the final lines I need to draw, to power this sigil to get to him. Or to get him here. I’m not—I’m still figuring that out.”

“What is he saying to you?”

“ Nothing , with you here. He’s gone silent.”

“He’s a Velamen, Minna.”

Minna laughed. “Nice try, but no. He’s a Diaz.”

“From a long line of Velamen blood.” Beatrice raised her arms to either wall. “These are your ancestors on your mother’s side. Your father’s side, though, is trying to claim you for themselves.”

Emotions flared across Minna’s face, changing too rapidly for Beatrice to follow them. “Who told you that? My mother?”

“And your grandmother, yes. They’re terrified he’ll try to take you from them.” Could he hear them now? A shiver raced down her spine. “Listen to your gut. You know I’m not lying to you.”

Minna gripped the tattoo gun so hard, her knuckles went white. “He loves me for who I am.”

“Your mother loves you for who you are. And you lied to me about that. She never rejected you.”

She tossed her hair back from her face. “You believed me because you wanted to. You wanted to feel special, like I was choosing you over my mother.”

Ridiculous.

But—the truth was ice against her skin. Beatrice had loved it when Minna had chosen her for a confidante. She had felt special.

Minna continued, “Just because your real life was stolen from you doesn’t mean that mine should be, too.”

“Hang on.” Beatrice took a careful step toward her.

“My life wasn’t stolen. I wasn’t raised by my mother, okay, but I was raised by a loving father who helped make me into who I am.

My dad’s full of flaws, yes, but he loves me, deeply.

Taurus, though—he doesn’t love you. He’s only trying to steal your life.

Your power , Minna. And not so he can be with you. ”

Minna’s eyes burned dark. “Stop it.”

“He’s using you. He only wants your power, not you. When he takes it from you, it’ll leave you dead, stripped of everything. You won’t even have your soul left.”

“You don’t know that.”

But Beatrice did. Somehow, somewhere deep inside her gut, she could feel what Cordelia had said was true, and Minna—if she let herself listen—might know it, too.

Minna, though, picked up the gun and went back to work. “I’m going to figure this out. Once I complete it, you’ll see. You’ll see he was right.” She gritted her teeth and continued drawing the straight line into her skin.

A spell—Beatrice needed a spell—but what the hell kind of spell would banish a malevolent spirit trying to lure his own child to her annihilation?

She didn’t know.

No fucking idea.

Naya.

Naya had gotten her this far.

Her brain stalled, unable to think up a rhyming spell, so Beatrice prayed, instead. Naya, please help me get her out of here. Away from him. I can’t lose this girl. Please don’t let Taurus take this girl’s soul.

A low laugh bounced off the marble.

Minna’s head whipped up, the gun buzzing still in her hand.

The scent of gardenia blew through, raising the dust again, followed by a fetid, sewer-like smell of flowers left to rot, maggot-filled meat abandoned in the sun, a smell that made Beatrice want to retch.

I’m so glad you’re here, Button. The voice wasn’t audible exactly—it was a rumble instead, one that she felt inside her chest rather than hearing with her ears.

But it was clear.

It was real.

And it was male.