Page 22 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland
“I used to draw.” About a million years ago. Dad had hated it so much that she’d eventually stopped. “What medium do you use?”
“Ink? Yeah, ink.”
“Cool. I used pen and ink, too.”
Minna folded her lips tightly, obviously trying not to say something.
“You can tell me anything,” said Beatrice, meaning it.
“Eep! Okay. In school, I do pen and ink.”
Interesting. “And… out of school?”
Minna looked across the room. “Reno?”
Minna’s voice wasn’t loud, but Reno tugged an earpiece out. Maybe the headphones were just for show. “Yeah?”
“Can you show her my art?”
One slow eyebrow lift. Then a nod.
Reno pulled up a low leather ottoman and straddled it, slipping off the red plaid she wore over her T-shirt.
Tattoos in a deep blue ink wrapped around her forearms and up her biceps, accentuating the hard musculature below them. The lines were intricately drawn—the overall impression was one of climbing vines, but when Beatrice leaned closer, she saw each leaf was actually a curved line drawing that held something else. A key in one, a star in another. Some lines looked like letters, as if words were climbing Reno’s skin, but she couldn’t read them.
“This is your art? You drew these for her to get tattooed?”
Minna’s smile grew. “Um. Kinda?”
Reno flexed her forearm, and a tiny rabbit inside a letterGseemed to move. “Her. She did it.”
Surprise jolted Beatrice into a laugh. “No. You’re fifteen!”
Reno shrugged back on her shirt. “She knows what she’s doing.”
Beatrice got it. It was on her to prove that she meant Minna no harm. “Obviously, yes. I’m just amazed, that’s all. It’s incredible work. How long have you been doing it?”
Minna said, “Drawing? My whole life. Since I could hold a pen, probably. My dad was a tattoo artist, a famous one. Taurus Diaz? Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
She hadn’t, but she nodded encouragingly.
“I inherited his tools, but Mom won’t let me ink anyone but Reno until I’m eighteen, not even myself.”
“Especially yourself,” said Reno.
They shared a smile, and Beatrice felt a sharp pang of longing. “What about your mom? Can you tattoo her?”
Minna laughed. “Oh, Mom would ratherdie. She didn’t even let Taurus ink her—she’ll never let me.”
“You inherited his tools. So… he died?”
Another smaller nod.
“I’m very sorry.”
“Yeah, well. Me, too.” Minna examined a torn fingernail. “He fell off a ladder when I was little. I don’t even remember him. This place was his favorite place of all. He called it his hideout, and now it’s where I like to hide, too. Me and Reno.”
“So, are you—”
