Page 8 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland

Women and gender-fluid people have more power, as a rule. Men can be powerful, too. Sure. But I find they’re sometimes less willing to try as hard.

—Evie Oxby, Reddit reply to “Can men do magic?”

Astrid’s eyebrows drew together into a magnificent wave that crashed in the middle of her forehead. “I heard two different female owls cry this morning, seven minutes after sunrise. Now I know why.”

Beatrice stared, but found Astrid difficult to focus on.

Rather, she was made up of so many disparate parts that a singular focus felt impossible.

She was tall, wider at the hip than either Beatrice or Cordelia.

Her hair was the reverse of theirs, stark white with one dark stripe, and it was piled on her head, speared with something that appeared to be an actual twig.

She wore a long red-and-black tunic that was a goth-hippie mash-up with a black mesh bodice, bells dangling from a cord at the neck, and snakeskin print on the sleeves.

Below the tunic hung a longer black linen skirt adorned with tulle ruffles.

She escaped looking like the village witch with a perfectly applied slash of crimson lipstick.

“Hello,” Beatrice managed.

“And where did you come from?”

“Your uterus, apparently. Forty-five years ago today.”

The left side of the eyebrow wave crested. “Is your father still alive?”

“Last time I spoke to him, yes.”

“Mmmm.” She narrowed her eyes. “I knew he’d finally break. Always the weak link, that man.”

“Mom—” Cordelia’s voice was a warning.

Beatrice didn’t need protecting, though. “He never told me. Though he should have.”

Minna said brightly, “It’s all coincidental, Gran, can you believe it? She’s here so her husband can golf.”

“Coincidences are for lazy atheists. As I am neither, I reject this outright.” Astrid looked like the type who had never believed anything she didn’t want to, including the fact that she had two daughters, not one.

“Dad said you were dead. And apparently you told my twin that I was? Seems like you and Dad both intended to keep the fuckery permanent.”

The door of the shop opened with a bang, and a man tumbled inside, his eyes huge, his shirt buttoned wrong.

Reno was already moving toward the back room. “I’ll get your bag.”

Cordelia nodded, moving to a wall of small bottles that Beatrice hadn’t noticed before. She took down five or six of the bottles, slipping them into a brown lunch bag.

The man barreled directly at Beatrice. “She—it’s all happening so fast, this can’t be normal.”

Crap. “Sorry, I’m the wrong one. Not me!”

“Tim.” Cordelia’s voice was calm. “That’s my sister. I’m over here.”

Tim’s gaze traveled from me to Cordelia and back again. All he said was a simple “Oh.”

“Who’s with her, Tim?”

“Her aunt.”

“Good. Why didn’t you just call my cell?”

“Shit! I didn’t think of it. I just ran.”

“Well, we’re so close, that makes sense. I’m sure I would have done the same thing.” Cordelia threw an unruffled smile over her shoulder as she reached up high for one last small bottle. “It’s going to be okay.”

“It’s not ,” he gasped.

Cordelia was a midwife? What else didn’t Beatrice know about her?

Astrid spoke then. “Tim, there’s no one better at this than Cordelia. It will happen just right.”

Her mother’s voice was hypnotic, a slow swirl of smoke that released something tight in Beatrice’s chest.

Tim took a deep breath and nodded. “All right. Yes.”

Reno came back with a black case that looked like an old doctor’s bag. Cordelia put the paper sack into it, her movements swift and easy.

“Okay, Tim, let’s go.” As they left, Cordelia said, “Minna, darling, will you get Beatrice’s number and text it to me?”

“Yeah.”

Then Cordelia focused on Beatrice. “Beatrice, you are the best birthday present I’ve ever received in my whole life. I wish I had time to prove that to you now, but I’ll call you tomorrow. And then, we’ll talk . Oh, my sister, we’ll talk.”

It actually ached to feel so much warmth, as if Beatrice’s body had been ice, and the thaw was agony. She tried not to gasp aloud.

The door closed.

Astrid, Minna, Reno, and Beatrice stood in awkward silence until Minna broke it and asked for Beatrice’s number.

She tapped it into her phone. “I’m texting you now, so you’ll have my number, too. You can text me anytime. Or call me. I’d love that.”

Astrid turned to face Beatrice, the bells at her neck jingling like the bells on a dangerous cat’s collar.

That cranberry and cinnamon scent Beatrice had always wondered if her mother smelled of—nope, that wasn’t possible.

This woman probably smelled of sulfur and fury.

Not that Beatrice planned to get close enough to find out. “Do you have it?” Astrid hissed.

Beatrice jerked. “Have what?”

That sinuous eyebrow wave again. “Don’t be coy. Did you get the Knock? Is that how you got here?”

“I took a ferry.”

“Oh, goddess, you’re not even activated . But I can feel it coming off you. Unused and dusty, perhaps, but it’s there.”

Beatrice tried to smile. “That’s quite a personal attack.”

Astrid barely blinked. “She called you Beatrice. But that’s not your name.” Her voice held none of the comforting tone she’d offered Tim.

“It is.”

“You are Beatrix .”

“No.” Beatrice’s jaw tightened with stubbornness.

Minna rolled her eyes in an unmissable, almost audible way. “Great. Another name for her to accidentally get wrong on purpose.”

Astrid whirled to her. “And you! You must love this! Yet one more name for me to screw up. But I’ve been getting your pronouns right most of the time and I haven’t called you—”

Reno leaned forward, a knife cutting through flesh, placing her body between Astrid and the girl. “You will not deadname her.”

“I won’t! I haven’t called you by your boy name in so long. Have I?”

“Not this week,” whispered Minna.

Minna was trans? It felt like a lovely thing to know. But Astrid shouldn’t have outed her like that, and something about the girl’s abashed response made Beatrice feel feral. She could leap forward—she could bite Astrid on the leg, straight through to the bone—

Astrid, unaware of the danger her limb was in, turned back toward Beatrice. “And your last name is?”

When Beatrice had married Grant, she’d kept her father’s name as her last, since their shared company was Barnard Family Finance. Now she was grateful she wouldn’t have to change it back. But she owed this woman nothing, not even the privilege of knowing her full name. “Minna, thank you. Astrid…”

The older woman drew herself up very straight and tall. “I’m not scared that you’re here.”

What? Who said she was? In Astrid’s gaze was a flash of an emotion Beatrice couldn’t parse. It didn’t seem to be fear. And it couldn’t possibly be love, obviously. It wasn’t hate, and it certainly wasn’t indifference.

Astrid’s scowl grew deeper.

Whew. All of this was way too much, and Beatrice needed to be anywhere but here.

And since she had never known she had a mother who wasn’t dead, she had spent exactly zero time in her life working on the perfect parting shot.

So Beatrice just left.