Page 90 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland
“It’s not—”
Beatrice tried to grin. “Enjoy the latte. I’m going to go to the library and let you work in peace.”
Reno, though, was looking over Beatrice’s shoulder. “You have company.”
Beatrice turned.
Then she dropped her cup. The lid flew off, and coffee splattered up her jeans.
“Hi, Button.”
Her father insisted on buying her a replacement cup of coffee, which was fine, because that meant she didn’t have to invite him into the houseboat. Fritz had obviously wanted to ask questions, but a small rush of customers flooded in, so all Fritz said was “Do my eyes deceive me? Do I see a family resemblance here?”
Before her father could answer (and he wanted to—he always wanted to brag about his daughter to anyone who would listen), Beatrice said, “Wow, look at all these people! See you tonight at the party!”
On the sidewalk, her father said, “Party? Settling right in, huh?”
She couldn’t even dignify that with a response. “Beach walk?”
“Of course.”
Beatrice led him past the marina and around the gazebo, past the charred remains of the stump of the lightning-struck tree. Sunlight glinted from his bald head—he should be wearing a baseball cap, but he always forgot to. Naya was the one who’d reminded him.
Only one fisherman wearing chest-high waders was on the deserted beach, two buckets at his side.
Her father’s voice was tentative. “Gorgeous day out here, yeah?”
Fury stopped Beatrice’s throat. She nodded.
“Good flight, not too bumpy. That ferry was something, though. Worst nachos of my life.”
It physically ached not to agree with him about the fake cheese.
“Don’t blame Iris. I brought the stuff you asked her to box up. It’s all at the hotel. I hope I brought the right things.”
Oh, Beatricewouldblame Iris. She stomped through the sand, refusing to worry about his high blood pressure and whether he’d be able to keep up with her. He would or he wouldn’t. Not her problem.
“Button, we have to talk.”
Did they, though? Two weeks ago, she would have agreed with that wholeheartedly. But now, really, what was there to say? If Astrid had been telling the truth last night, there had been a good reason to separate the girls, to keep their power from gathering in the same place. Her father, though—he should have fought to keep Cordelia in his life. And he should never have lied to Beatrice. “Maybe you should have talked to me a long time ago.”
“I always wanted to.”
“Oh, my god. Don’t.”
“I’m so sorry. I wish this had never happened.”
Beatrice stopped walking, keeping her gaze on her bare, sand-covered toes. “You wishwhathad never happened, exactly?”
“You coming here. Finding them.”
“They’re my family.”
“They arenot!”
His shout jolted her—Dad wasn’t a man who shouted. The adrenaline that spiked through her wasn’t fear, though. The jolt of it only bolstered her anger. “Care to explain that claim?”
“Who raised you?”
