Page 10 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland
“I can’t believe you have that. This is em-effingwild.” Then the words tumbled from Minna’s mouth without stopping. “Where are you from? Seriously, you’re just here because ofgolf? How long have you been married? Oh, my god, do you havekids? Have you ever done the 23andMe thing? Are your fingers double-jointed?”
Only her thumbs were double-jointed. But this strangeness had gone too far, and Beatrice wasn’t going to tell this girl about her bendable digits. “Um, I really have to go—”
“I mean, just the thumbs. Are your thumbs double-jointed? You really have zero idea. Will you trust me?”
Hang on. What the hell? Beatrice’s thumbs twitched.
What would a teenage girl need a total stranger to trust her about? For that matter, why on earth would Beatrice trust a girl who might be struggling with mental health issues, a girl who had imprinted upon her like a hatchling duck? “How old are you?”
“Sixteen.” A pause. “Almost.”
While it was pretty unlikely that a fifteen-year-old wanted to take her out back and mug her (Minna would have youth on her side, but Beatrice had decades of accumulated feminist rage on hers), trusting any stranger wasn’t a good idea, even on an idyllic little island. Which was why Beatrice was flabbergasted when her mouth said, “Okay.”
Minna smiled. “Get ready for a miracle. Follow me.”
A miracle.
Gossip traveled fast in this town—Minna might have even seen the blade that could have killed her, what, just thirty minutes before? Minna would probably lead her to another competing psychic. Once you had a sucker on the hook, you had to keep them wriggling.
Even so, Beatrice followed. Or rather, she race-walked to keep up with Minna’s speedy gait. Two blocks away from the market, Minna stopped in front of a shop. It was old-fashioned looking, as if at one time it had been a mercantile and sold things like horehound candy and blackstrap molasses, but in the windows were brightly colored sweaters, piles of yarn, and several spinning wheels that looked right out ofSleeping Beauty. The hand-lettered sign moved gently in the breeze—Which Craft.
“Here we are.” Minna spun to face her. “Oh, my god, I forgot to say Happy Birthday to you.”
Beatrice almost dropped her grocery bag. How could this girl be the one to give her the first birthday greeting of the day? How did she know?
Pulling open the door, Minna said, “Here we go!”
Inside, a woman with short dark hair and tattoos snaking up and down her arms sat at a long bench, whittling something. As she looked up at them, slices of thin wood curled at her feet. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded rusty, as if out of practice. “Fuckme.”
“Right? Where is she?” Reaching back, Minna grabbed Beatrice’s hand.
And for some reason, Beatrice didn’t pull away. Something was happening, or was about to happen, and excitement—no, make that straight-up fear—sluiced through her veins, sharp and electrifying.
The whittling woman jerked a thumb toward the back.
“Thanks, Reno.” Tightening her fingers around Beatrice’s, Minna pulled her past colorful rows of fabric bolts and tables piled high with skeins of yarn. “Mom!Mom!”
Another woman bustled out of a back room, wiping her hands on a canvas cobbler’s apron. “Minna, baby, you don’t need to—”
Beatrice’s whole body froze in place. Her feet stopped moving, and her heart slammed in her chest so hard, it almost hurt.
A mirror.
She had to be looking into a fucking mirror.
There was the same dark hair with the same thick silver stripe on the right side, although this woman’s hair was longer than hers. And she was perhaps a touch taller than Beatrice, but maybe she was wearing heels—Beatrice couldn’t look at her feet, though, because she was too busy looking into the woman’s round brown eyes, and they werehereyes, and how was this possible? This was so far past doppelgänger—sure, this could happen, but oh, it felt too bizarre. Too surreal. This was her ownface, including the dimple. Did she need to sit down? Was it dizziness or just exhaustion that made her feel like she didn’t remember how to speak, how to say anything at all?
The woman had frozen, too, her hands paused in midair, as if she’d been about to reach for a hug from Minna but had stopped halfway through the plan.
Her mouth opened once. Then twice. Finally, she gasped, “Beatrix.”
Beatrice finally found four words that she remembered, but she couldn’t say them louder than a whisper. “That’s not my name.”
CHAPTER SIX
Surprise is the Universe’s way of shaking your little snow globe.
—Evie Oxby,Palm Springs and Bat Wings,Netflix
