Page 35 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland
Minna nodded. “That would work, right, Gran?”
Astrid narrowed her eyes at Beatrice. “The house didn’t burn down, though, right? So you started it but didn’t follow through because you don’t—”
“Magic doesn’texist.”
Cordelia and Minna’s faces stayed open. Accepting.
Astrid, though, said, “Jesus, woman, what do you need? More proof?”
“Yes. Hell, yeah.” Thatwasexactly what she needed. “Prove it to me.”
Her mother tossed her head. “You’re not activated. There’s no way to prove anything to you.”
Beatrice opened her arms wide to the side. “So activate me.”
Minna bounced up out of her chair and then back into it. “You want the Knock? Mom, she wants the Knock!”
Cordelia shoved her hair behind her right ear in the impatient way that Beatrice could feel she herself had just done. “Beatrice, you don’t have to do anything right now. There’s a lot to talk about.”
Astrid glared. “This is herheritage. Hollands choose to activate.”
Stubbornness warred with the recklessness running through Beatrice’s bones. “Don’t forget I’m not a Holland.”
“You are. Hollands never give up their names. They never change them.”
Minna said stubbornly, “Unless they want to, Gran.”
“They don’t want to,” said Astrid. “Ever.”
Beatrice said, “You sure have a lot of rules, don’t you?”
Leaning forward, Astrid jabbed at the tablecloth. “Other people live by rules. Wemakethem.”
“I mean it. Give me that Knock, or whatever it is.”
Cordelia’s expression was tight. “You should understand what it is you’re getting into—”
“Did you know?”
“Of course not. I was a baby.”
“Think of this as my first instance of sibling rivalry, then. I want it, too.” It wouldn’t do anything, and she’d tell them that. It would be her own kind of proof. She’d show them she was immune to new age psychobabble.
“It’s magic, Beatrice. Are you sure?”
Wow, they really took this nonsense seriously, didn’t they? Astrid looked smug, Cordelia’s face was tense, and Minna was practically vibrating with excitement.
But that still didn’t make it real. “I don’t believe in magic. So whatever you do, it can’t hurt me.”
“Mom,” said Minna. “Can I give it to her?”
Cordelia’s grip on her knitting was so tight, her knuckles were white. “It has to come from love.”
Minna twisted in her seat to face Beatrice. “Obviously. That’s easy.”
Whatever they were talking about—it didn’t matter. Minna had just said again—or at least implied—she loved her, and now Beatrice’s insides had melted into hot chocolate, or something even sweeter.
“I’m ready,” Beatrice said.
