Unwritten, page 2
Grandpa’s Tirolese hat lay atop a chest the size of a shoebox. Beatrix pulled both items out and set them on the bed, then caressed the hat’s plaid weave and the feather adorning it. He had been wearing it the day she’d met him. Nine years ago, almost to the day.
And for a moment her story folded onto itself, taking her back inside the skin of her seven-year-old self. Like an enemy never vanquished, fear gripped her again. Same as that night when the monster had awoken. Worse, perhaps.
She’d been wearing colorful pajamas with Disney characters. Beatrix could still name each one, the heroes who’d kept her company at night. Like she could close her eyes and feel the million pinpricks stabbing her while she’d sat in bed, wracked in spasms. Or the throbbing in her veins, her eyes melting in their sockets.
The monster had erupted out of her hands, a discharge like a whip of nine tails, each made of lightning. White-hot and crackling, the currents arced, exploding whatever they touched, until outside her window they illuminated the night and ended a life. While it lasted, the violence of the Furie held her up, and when it was over, she’d collapsed. Crumpled by the window, she’d wailed for her mom—knowing the dead couldn’t respond, and she wouldn’t come. In her place, Grandpa had shown up.
He was an old man in weird clothes and a weird hat.
“Are you real?” she’d asked, because he looked like an escapee from Heidi.
He’d grabbed his hat and sat it on Beatrix’s head. “As real as you are, little one. I’m your grandfather.”
Her young brain didn’t wonder where he’d come from. Instead, she told herself she’d never fear again with him around.
Whisking the memory away, Beatrix stuffed Grandpa’s cap into her purse and focused on the box, her throat so knotted she struggled to breathe. She didn’t recognize the chest, but it was solid cherry wood, covered in floral carvings, and waxed to show off the grain—all the signatures of her grandfather’s work. Hinges suggested a lid, although the top didn’t release.
“Beatrix,” the nurse called from the door, and Beatrix knew she’d outstayed her welcome. She tucked the box under her arm.
“Thank you,” she said on her way out. “For everything. For being there for him in the end.”
“We’ll miss him.” The nurse’s eyes shone too. “He was one of a kind. A character, for sure. But we all loved him. Those are the ones we don’t forget.”
Outside the nursing home, the brightness of the afternoon hit Beatrix. The world hadn’t stopped; it shone sunny and hot with complete disregard for the dead. She loaded the Jeep, setting the box on the passenger seat next to the book Grandpa would never read. Then she laid his hat atop the chest, and for the short drive back, he was almost there with her.
2
MONSTER
By the time Beatrix arrived home, she’d rehearsed the exact way in which she would unload on Martin. She would get the name of the funeral home and, though too late to insist on a burial, she’d force him to allow her to scatter the ashes. Maybe she’d confront him about his hiding Grandpa’s death.
But Martin wasn’t there, and deprived of a target, Beatrix’s rage circled her in a toxic cloud.
Anger followed her into her bedroom upstairs, and when she dropped her load on her desk, it threatened to buckle. Not because the chest was heavy—a pencil too many would have toppled that desk. She needed a new one. More like a new bedroom set. The décor was juvenile and worn, but it had been her mother who’d picked everything, and for that reason, Beatrix hesitated to change it.
Her gaze flitted to the characters Mom had painted on the walls. The blonde girl sat atop her usual pile of books, the gnome tended to the same blue flower, and the toad, crown on head, stretched midhop as always. And still, somehow, they seemed at a loss too.
A truck’s roar reached her from outside, and after she walked to the window to check—a neighbor, no sign of Martin—her eyes were drawn again to the chest. Five minutes of turning it this way and that, and she heard the click. The lid’s mechanism hid in between a rose and a leaf. She knew Grandpa too well to be fooled by a trick like that.
The contents left her dumbfounded.
Grandpa had wrapped the interior with French-blue satin, and the coolness of the fabric breezed against her skin when she dug in. First, she pulled out a hand mirror that she recognized as the twin of her mother’s silver brush. Mom had been the one person capable of taming Beatrix’s curls, of helping her hate them less.
Beatrix set both the mirror and her melancholy thoughts aside and searched the box again. This time she retrieved a dull pocket watch. The lid sprang open with a clank to reveal a design of curves, astronomical signs, and a smiling moon and sun. It did not sport a single number, and neither an hour nor a minute hand. Maybe not a watch after all.
Next, she pulled out a thimble. She didn’t remember ever seeing one in real life, just in movies and books. It was a dull brass, decorated with intricate loops and swirls that ended in a thistle. The bottom edge looked shaved off.
Despite the strain of the day, she smiled. Typical Grandpa. Boxes and trinkets and gadgets missing parts.
Beatrix smoothed the lining of the chest and, not expecting anything else, flinched when her fingertips caught in a pocket in the fabric. Wedged inside lay a letter.
A letter for her.
Her fingers trembled at the sight of the initials on top. She recognized them from the stamps that marked every book in her library. Dizziness gripped her. Beatrix had been seven when her mother died. The fragments of memories were a washed-out sepia. And now this.
A letter.
From Mom.
Written on cream-colored paper with a plastic texture, the letter was folded to double as an envelope, sealed with wax where the edges met.
“A message for Beatrix,” read the cursive calligraphy on the front, “to be opened only after your eighteenth birthday.” And next to that, in pencil, “Forbidden Lines: 3X May the words.”
Although the seal was torn, Beatrix hesitated. She’d barely just turned sixteen a few weeks ago. Close enough, she guessed and opened it.
Inside, she could read a single line. Her mother had ended with, “Giving you all my love, always.” And if Beatrix hoped for proof of her caring, she’d have to make do with that. Because above that signature line was a collection of symbols that tore her heart open with disappointment. She sucked in a breath to keep her anguish at bay and studied the letter further. Toward the bottom, it contained a hand-drawn map with no place names—only a circular symbol, atop a hill.
Her tears stained the satin of Grandpa’s chest, and the letter plummeted to the desk, while the monster spiraled up.
A letter full of gibberish. That was what Mom had left her. And Grandpa had kept it from her. Beatrix felt the betrayal like ice at the back of her neck.
Numb with hurt, she began to stuff the contents back into the chest, and as she did so, the mirror glinted. Beatrix lifted it. She almost dropped it again.
Because what greeted her wasn’t her familiar reflection.
Her heart fluttered, and the shaking of her hands made the image wobble while she struggled to breathe.
Who was that?
It wasn’t Beatrix.
Or was it? Her eyes seemed the same, but her hair draped long and white; her face had become wrinkled and her lips thinned out. High cheekbones poked through translucent skin. Was it herself? Mom? Someone who resembled them both?
Beatrix leaned closer with a mix of fascination and dread. The lines on her face were hypnotic, and her hands were aged too, mottled and frail, with blue veins that popped. Cold fear slunk down her spine, wrapping around her chest and her stomach. She’d wanted to be older, true. Had hoped and wished for it. For Grandpa’s sake—and to be able to run away. But this…
As she stared into her reflection, the sense of being cheated of her future heated Beatrix, calling the monster up. She must be seventy, eighty even. She couldn’t stay like this. She had too much to do. Too many plans.
Wait.
Beatrix dropped the mirror and snatched the letter from the desk. To be opened only after your eighteenth birthday.
A weird calm settled on her.
She seemed old enough now, didn’t she?
This time, when she unfolded the message, she tasted the rust of magic. And in a flutter of silver-blue, the symbols on the paper reorganized themselves. They twisted and danced and curled—and when they stopped, a few sentences in English stood out amidst the unintelligible writing.
A shiver went through Beatrix, and she collapsed onto her chair. When she checked her hands, they were wrinkle-free. Her body must have returned to normal. Relief mixed with awe—and confusion. She’d never experienced magic like this.
And the message nagged at her with its cryptic wording. A riddle only she could solve. Beatrix wondered how. Other than her Furie, she kept no secrets and didn’t feel she held power—barely control over the monster. Of course, what struck her most was the ending. “Take Mary Brandt to the Eisid Naraid, and we will reunite.”
Reunite… Reunite. With Mom…
Her chest spasmed. She wished she could work it out with Grandpa, make sense of the inexplicable as they’d done once upon a time. Before his illness.
Beatrix heard the sway of her father’s voice in her mind. Telling her she was crazy too. But no, she’d seen the words transform.
Their truth resonated marrow-deep.
This letter—and its message—were real.
Beatrix held on to the paper, knuckles white.
She’d lost Grandpa. But there was a chance she could get Mom back.
The next day, still puzzled by the letter, Beatrix walked toward Franklin High School slower than usual. The red-bricked building loomed ahead, too large and too stately, the legacy of a mayor who’d overestimated the growth of this town nestled in cornfields. The school was flanked by a parking lot of pickup trucks and an occasional John Deere tractor.
Beatrix wiped the sweat from her hairline with her cuff. The heatwave hadn’t budged, but the electric pulses that clawed at her scalp and cooked her body had nothing to do with the weather.
This heat came from within.
Since last night, the monster had been overexcited, and after hours researching the map and the symbols from the letter with no success, her frustration hadn’t helped quiet it. The only thing she’d gleaned was that the message must contain a spell. 3X May the Words. The phrase with the three times repetition was typical. Even Beatrix knew that. And the setup on the page reminded her of the instructions Grandpa used for charm-casting. She just had to figure out how the spell worked. And its purpose.
“Hey, freak!” yelled someone. “Heard a loser died and got excited it might be you.”
Julie. Of all people.
Beatrix kept walking.
Just a few more feet to the entrance…
Too late.
It happened in fast-forward. First Julie laughed, a cackle that fired up Beatrix’s chest. She spun around, sliding the letter toward her pocket at the same time—but not fast enough. Julie snatched it.
Beatrix snarled as she grabbed for the paper, the monster swirling. She almost tore it from Julie. Almost.
“What’s this?” Julie stepped forward, the letter clutched in her manicured hands. “Did you get your papers? Not illegal anymore?”
I was born here, Beatrix could have blurted out. Again. But there was no point trying to reason. Instead, she charged. With honed reflexes, two guys held her back. They were Julie’s usual minions: both tall, both athletic, both in her thrall.
“Give it back,” Beatrix growled, shaking from rage. “Now!”
Julie ignored her and unfolded the letter. “Listen to this crap, guys. Beloved Beatrix…” She looked up, her lips in a sneer. “Really? Who says that? You couldn’t be any more pathetic if you tried.”
Her audience tittered, and Julie quieted them with a wave as she continued to read the letter aloud. By the time she got to the forbidden words, Beatrix had bargained with the devil for the chance to choke her.
“Awww,” Julie mocked. “I get it. A love letter from your mom from the crazy house. I thought she’d killed herself so she didn’t have to look at you.”
Beatrix stepped on one of her captor’s feet. She elbowed the other in the side. A third guy, a big lineman, dug into her forearms to imprison her. She fought him off, and in his zeal, he tore her backpack strap. The bag plummeted, spilling books.
Julie laughed, turned the letter around. “What’s ‘May the words’?”
“Shut up!” Beatrix said, freeing herself with a well-placed knee. There was a reason some words were forbidden. “Stop!” She might not understand the spell in the letter, but one did not mess with unknown magic.
“What? This? May the words? What does ‘May the words’ mean? More crazy crap. You’re so embarrassing.”
This time when Beatrix lunged, the lineman pushed her hard. She staggered back, fighting for balance. It was the rush of power that kept her upright, a current, foreign and dark, that shot her rage up to new heights. In a frenzy, the monster squirmed, and Beatrix shook from the need to stop Julie. Silence her. Push the words back into her mouth—and down her throat.
Beatrix could. If she wanted to.
But she shouldn’t.
She didn’t.
She moved not at all. She stood so still time held its breath.
“I’d tell you to go back to your people, but not even the Latino club would have you.” Julie laughed, the chorus of her friends echoing her. “Just like you, your grandfather was a waste of space.” She said it as if bored, with the most dismissive flick of a hand, and Beatrix’s control cracked.
The Furie rose, flaming her throat and burning her pupils on its way out. Power blurred the scene away. Her skin rippled and her hair sizzled. And when the lineman tried to push her again, he released her with a yelp.
Then came a flash.
A few screams.
The patter of their feet as they ran away.
And a glimpse or two of blood.
When everything righted itself, Beatrix found herself on her back, concrete underneath her, bright sky above. She sat up and took in the scene. Franklin High’s front staircase lay in ruins, split in at least three places. And she was alone. Julie and her gang had scurried away, with foggy memories and a few minutes of their lives erased. But mostly unscathed.
Beatrix bent her head back against the cement and closed her eyes.
Damn it. She hadn’t even made it to first period.
Grandpa would’ve been disappointed.
She knew she should leave—before the cloak hiding her magic wore off. It hadn’t failed. Or else Julie and her friends would have brought an army of teachers to inspect the destroyed front entrance. Instead, they’d swear the stairs were fine when they left. That was the brilliance of Grandpa’s cloak. Not only could people not detect her magic, but for a short time after, they couldn’t even see the results of it. They would in time. By then Beatrix would be far away, and everyone would scratch their heads wondering when and who had taken a sledgehammer to the stairs.
Beatrix scrambled to her feet and began to gather her things. They were scattered among the rubble like trash, pops of color against the grey stone.
Anger still rushed through her, a pulsating ember. Why the hell couldn’t they let her be? She didn’t expect to be friends. Was too old to wish on stars to have any. All she asked was to be ignored. But no. They had to push and push. Today she hadn’t been able to stop herself.
When she caught sight of the letter, crumpled in a bed of petunias, she struggled not to let go again. Her rage tasted bitter, the monster at its worst.
She stuffed it in her pocket, then closed her eyes, waiting to calm down again.
Her head tilted up, she kept her lids shut, the sun on her face too warm and her cotton shirt clinging to her shoulder blades.
“Are you all right?”
Beatrix jumped back. An older boy she’d never seen before stood in front of her, a worried look on his face. She watched every detail of his expression, searching for outrage, for the obvious dismay he should be feeling if he understood the demolition around them.
She found only concern.
“I’m not sure what happened,” he said with a furrowed brow. “Are you hurt?”
Beatrix released her shoulders with relief. So far, the cloak’s blips had been haphazard and sporadic. It was a miracle it hadn’t failed this time.
“I’m fine.” Surveying the scene, she attempted to observe it through his eyes, wondering what he saw, and what he believed had happened. Not reality. At least not yet. For now, all he might notice were her belongings strewn around. But she had to get out of here fast—before truth began to pour through the magical shield as it invariably did. It was a temporary spell after all.
“All’s good.” She bent to collect more of her things, shoving them in the mauled backpack.
“Don’t miss this one,” he said, holding out a paperback. He had a playful smile, more of a half smile, as if he were reserving part of the fun for himself.
Beatrix glanced at the book he offered her, a childhood favorite she’d been rereading the previous night, and the moment she touched the cover, the whispers exploded. Usually, the choir of book-voices was gentle, offering encouragement or a bouquet of pretty words—measured even in their warnings. But now they screamed. They begged. They railed and screeched.
And the stranger noticed something. His grip firm on the book, a few expressions flickered across his face. Shock? Confusion? Curiosity? He settled on amusement and relinquished the volume, his smile widening to a grin.
“I’m William,” he said. “And you are?”
“Would you call me Anne with an e?” As soon as the response snuck out, she froze. Why would she ever say that? How old was she? Ten? And where did it come from? She knew where. The stupid book and the wretched whispers. She wished to disappear. Way to make a fool of yourself.
William didn’t mock, although his lips stretched so far she could have counted all his teeth. His black hair was tousled just so, in a never-heard-of-a-bad-hair-day style. “Anne of Green Gables, huh? Interesting choice. Does that mean if I poke fun at you, you’ll break something over my head?”
