Page 45 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland
Never look a gift synchronicity in the mouth.
—Evie Oxby,New Yorkmagazine
The next morning, Beatrice blew a fuse while making breakfast. It was her own fault—she should have realized that toasting bread while the electric kettle heated might be too big a drain on her mysterious electrical system, but when she couldn’t evenfindthe fuse box, her own internal electrics started to overheat, too. The internet company was coming later in the afternoon, but until then, she was making do with the shitty cell phone reception that came and went with the island wind. Pulling up houseboat diagnostics at the dial-up speed of the late nineties wasn’t helping her irritation level.
Her mood probably had something to do with the fact that her life as she knew it was over.
Or maybe it had to do with the fact that she’d quit her job without warning. It got harder to breathe every time she remembered that. Yes, she had savings. But savings were supposed to be for the future, not for thenow. That was the whole point.
Maybe her mood was bleak because she’d bought a boat? Who bought aboat? Sure, it was a houseboat that didn’t like to be away from land. But still. She used to do the books for a sailing instructor who’d said the second-happiest day of a sailor’s life was the day they bought their boat. She’d fallen for it, asking, “What’s their first-happiest day?” He’d grinned. “The day they sell it.”
Or perhaps this dire cloud of fear that had settled into her brain like a summer thunderstorm had something to do with the fact that she’d never noticed that her husband was in love with another woman, and had been for the duration of their marriage.
Beatrice tried to put peanut butter on her untoasted bread and succeeded only in ripping the slice to shreds. Fine. She ate the sticky pieces with her fingers.
Or maybe—just maybe—this dark mood had a little something to do with a prediction of full-ondeathafter seven miracles, and that two of them might have already occurred.
She wiped more peanut butter on another sad, torn piece of bread.
A voice called out from the dock, “Beatrice? Are you home?”
Home.Wasshe home? When would she know that for sure?
Outside, Cordelia’s hair hung in two braids, and her face was bright with hope. “Hi. Good morning. I didn’t want to bug you, but I brought you something.” She carried a red patchwork bag over one arm and held a to-go cup in each hand.
“Please tell me one of those has my name on it.”
Cordelia thrust one cup forward. “Extra-hot cappuccino. Fritz says hello.”
“Bless you both. Come in.”
Inside, Cordelia put her bag on the galley counter and slowly turned in place. “This can’t be Hector’s old place. How did you do this in just one day?”
Every muscle in Beatrice’s body ached. “It’s possible I worked a little too hard.”
“I get it. I’m the same way with a new place. Which reminds me, I brought you a housewarming gift.” She reached into her bag and took out a piece of folded white cloth. “Here.”
It looked like a simple handkerchief until Beatrice unfolded it to find the middle intricately embroidered. Three overlapping circles of red thread crossed two lines that resembled spears. Four thicker lines wove around seven French knots. It was stunning, equally pretty on the right side as on the wrong.
“Just a little protection. I sell kits for something similar at the store, but this sigil is just for you.” Cordelia’s smile was wide, her gaze open. “You, buying this boat… Beatrice, I can’t tell you how happy it makes me. It means we have time. All the time in the world.” She blushed. “That is, if youwantthat time. Here I go again, rushing in, assuming you’re staying because of me, because of us, and I could be completely wrong. Maybe you’re here for the golf. I hope I’m not. But I could be. I know that.”
Emotions, too fine and too many to untangle, knotted in Beatrice’s chest as tightly as the French knots on the cloth. “I hate golf.”
She needed to tell her what Winnie had said. Soon.
“Oh, thank goddess.”
Beatrice sank into the tiny armchair and gestured for Cordelia to take the small sofa. “Dude. I havequestions.”
“I bet you do.” Pulling a thick book bound in dark leather out of her bag, Cordelia sat. “I’ll do my best to answer anything you ask.”
Okay, then. Beatrice folded the handkerchief tightly in her fingers. “What’s the book?”
“Our family grimoire. Our book of spells.”
The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Are you a witch?”
“Mmm.” Cordelia looked at her hands, which rested on top of the book on her lap. “You could call me an energy practitioner.”
