Page 54 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland
Minna rolled her eyes. “The front pocket of the suitcase is broken, and there’s a red ribbon tied to the handle.”
Wrong.“Red bandanna. Not a ribbon.”
Holding up her hands, Minna said, “Fine. You got me. You’re right—all of this is just a big fat hoax. Jeesh. In the meantime, I want you to try it.”
“Trywhat?”
“The incantation.”
“No.”
“Because you’re scared?”
“Absolutely not.” But fear laced through her veins like a poison.
“I’ll be right here with you.”
“Fabulous. Protection in the form of a fifteen-year-old girl.”
“Almost sixteen. And you’ve sucked at all the other incantations anyway. You really think you’re going to get this one right? What’s the harm in trying?”
She did have a point. “Fine.”
Minna took out a notebook and pen from her backpack and handed them to Beatrice. “Mom used to make me write them out when I was learning. Maybe it’ll help.” She opened the grimoire again, to a page on which the writing had grown faint.
“Is that… a coffee stain?” A brown half ring marred the page.
Smiling, Minna touched it. “You know when your favorite page in the cookbook gets all effed up because you use it so much? Same thing. Okay. I’ll read it to you, and you write it out phonetically, so you get it right.”
“It’s not a rhyme, like the others?”
“It’s not a rhyme, and it’s not in English. Well, it may be Old English or something, but it doesn’t sound like anything I know.”
The syllables were odd and didn’t fit in Beatrice’s mouth.Piece by piece, she said them slowly, writing them down and putting them together, one after another, until Minna finally said, “Good. You’ve got all the bits. Now say it all at once.”
“And then what?”
“Then you listen. Or you see. Or whatever.” Minna’s voice was cheerful. “Anything could happen.”
Beatrice took a deep breath and sat up straighter. “This isn’t going to do anything.”
“Noted.”
She began to mutter the words.
As each syllable slipped through her mouth, the phrases got easier to say. By the time she’d spoken the three gibberish lines, the pen in her hand heated up, as if it had been plugged into a wall socket.
“What the—?”
But before she could finish asking, everything dropped away. She could see Minna’s outline, but it was blurred, as if Beatrice had put on someone else’s prescription glasses.
In her mind rose the image of an old fountain pen, the nib of it nosing into the keyhole of a rusted padlock. A vibration roared in her ears, and she only wanted one thing: to scrape the pen’s tip against the paper in the notebook. As the ink trailed out—dark blue against the ruled pages—it was the only thing that stayed clear.
It felt like scratching an old mosquito bite, the kind that’s mostly healed but wakes you in the middle of the night with its phantom itch as fresh and new as the day you got it. Impossible to resist. She didn’twantto resist. The only thing that mattered was drawing the lines. Nothing in Beatrice’s consciousness told her how to move the pen—it was an urge that she followed without questioning, like drinking a glass of water when she was thirsty. It was right. It was good.
Snap.
With an audible pop, the buzz in her head stopped its whine.
