Page 128 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland
The craft of magic is the marriage of energy and intention. When those two get hitched, it’s a true love match, yes. But watch out for surprises. Love likes to keep a trick up her rather voluminous sleeve, just like that one you’retotallypulling off right now.
—Evie Oxby, in conversation with Lady Gaga
Beatrice entered the cemetery on the street side, not through the gate in Cordelia’s yard. She couldn’t see her sister’s house, and she was glad of it. She would send a text soon—she had it drafted in her mind, but she’d get closer to the crypt before she did.
She stumbled over grassy hummocks and went down two wrong lanes, mixing up the landmarks she hadn’t managed yet to commit to memory. The Holland crypt was just to the north of Xenia Holland’s grave, right? Under the tall stand of pines?
But there were a few tall stands of pines, and it took her ten minutes, maybe more, of scrabbling at vine-covered epitaphs on the aboveground tombs to find the right one.
The gate around the Holland crypt was rusted, so that she could tug at it until it screeched open far enough for her to slip through, but the small marble building was still closed, the stone door shut tight. From the seasons of leaves built up on the ground, it didn’t look like anyone had entered for years. Maybe decades.
Naya, are you sure?
Putting her hands on the door, Beatrice leaned forward, trying to feel—what? Heat? Life? She placed her forehead against the marble.
But she felt nothing but her own despair.
The wind picked up, and the pines overhead moaned. A pair of rowdy crows squabbled on a branch above as two motorcycles roared past on the side road.
A scent of gardenia wafted past.
She froze.
Minnawashere, somewhere. And if Minna wanted to hide from her mother and Astrid, she’d have to do it very well and very thoroughly.
Beatrice had no idea how to break through that kind of magical camouflage. This went so far past anything she’d learned in the last week. She needed help.
She fumbled for her phone and typed out a group message to Cordelia, Reno, and her father.I’m at the Holland crypt. I think she’s here. Please come.
But when she hit Send, the message remained pending.
No bars of service.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. This stupidtown.
The passing seconds beat in her chest like she’d choked down a clock.
Okay. She stared up into the sky—so blue, there wasn’t even a cloud to hang her gaze on.
Help.
She was alone.
No one was coming to her rescue. And she didn’t know how to do this the right way.
So that just left her way.
Whatever that looked like, it was going to have to be good enough, because it was all she had.
Think, Beatrix.
Beatrix? Where had that come from?
Trust.
Fine. She could be her mother’s daughter, Beatrix, for a moment.
How, exactly, just a few days after she’d come to town, had she figured out how to imagine the pen going into the lock to make the auto-writing spell work?
