The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland

by Rachael Herron

Genres: Fantasy

Synopsis

Most visitors to Skerry Island see only its lush greenery, picturesque cemetery, and quaint downtown. Yet generations of local women know that on Skerry, their benevolent witchcraft is at its most powerful.
  
Beatrice Barnard doesn't believe in magic. She definitely doesn't believe the predictions of the celebrity psychic who claims that she will experience seven miracles and she will die. The prediction seems not only woo woo, but also, frankly, mean. And as it turns out, her husband is cheating on her. Bea, now in desperate need of solitude, flees to Skerry Island, off the Pacific Northwest coast—taking her husband’s birthday vacation by herself. Immediately upon arrival, she finds her life on the line as a rogue woodchopper blade almost kills her. Her survival is almost like a miracle.
 
And then things get more miraculous when she discovers her twin sister, whom she never knew about, and her mother Astrid, who supposedly died when Beatrice was two-years old. Astrid and Cordelia reveal that Beatrice (given name Beatrix) is an immensely powerful witch who can commune with the dead, like all Holland witches. When their twin magic is joined, it shines like a beacon on the Velamen family, whose malevolent spirits are locked in an age-old struggle for magical dominance over the Hollands.
 
Beatrice doesn't know what to believe, but she begins to fear that the seven predicted miracles may occur, and that her imminent death will rip her away from her rediscovered family. Beatrice resolves to learn everything she can about her own power, in the hope of saving herself. But when her niece, Minna, goes missing, Bea's own life suddenly seems much less important. Beatrice must join her mother and her sister to save Minna even if she dies in the process.

Release date: August 19, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 416

Sample

We are all interconnected at the cellular, molecular level. That’s what Spirit gives us. That’s what Spirit wants us to know. That, and that email as a form of communication is overrated.

—Evie Oxby, keynote at Dreamforce

The first tortilla chip Beatrice Barnard bit into was so stale, it didn’t even crunch. Nachos on a ferry should have been a good idea. They sure seemed like a good idea—Beatrice imagined gooey, bright orange cheese melted over jalapeño slices, beans, and salty chips—but the reality, when it arrived in its red paper tray, sailed right past disappointing into disgusting. The chip smooshed between Beatrice’s teeth like a greasy piece of damp cardboard, and if the ferry hadn’t been so crowded, or if there hadn’t been a stranger sitting across from her at the small table, Beatrice might have spat the food from her mouth back into the container. But instead, she swallowed the chip, regretting every life choice that had led her to eating this, starting with marrying Grant, the man who was supposed to have been sitting next to her now. Instead of starting his birthday trip and suffering through these chips with her, Grant was probably at this moment having limber, rambunctious sex with Beatrice’s ex-friend, Dulcina.

Dulcina had once confided to Beatrice that she was so flexible, she’d modeled for art students as a nude contortionist to pay for law school. No words existed in any human language that could express how very much Beatrice wished she didn’t know that fact about Dulcina.

Thank god Dulcina and her perfectly dew-kissed face wasn’t here right now. Beatrice had wrestled at the break of dawn with a dull eyeliner and dried-out mascara in the musty back bathroom at her father’s house. But now, after flying nearly three hours from LAX to Seattle, and a forty-five-minute delay at the ferry landing, she could feel that her eyeliner had melted into the corners of her eyes, and she couldn’t bring herself to care whether her wan skin was shine-free.

Beatrice poked again at a suspiciously gooey chip.

Her soon-to-be ex-husband, Grant, was a health freak who didn’t believe in chemicals in food. He’d been the whole reason Beatrice had ordered the snack-counter nachos today. How, exactly, did someone not believe in chemicals? Chemicals were life. Literally. That was like not believing in gravity. But somehow, his dedication to “clean eating” had been such a point of pride with him that, out of respect for his preferences, Beatrice had eaten carefully, too.

At some point on this trip, Beatrice would get a McDonald’s cheeseburger, by god. Maybe two. And she’d love every minute of eating both of them. With a large fries. And a Coke. No, a chocolate milkshake, extra-large, followed by two apple pies. All of it ordered from the drive-through, eaten in the parking lot, like an actual human being.

The teenage boy Beatrice had bought the nachos from walked past her table carrying an empty tray. “Hey! How’s your food treating you?” He’d been so excited when Beatrice had ordered. The nachos are my favorite. On shift, I get to eat one order a day!

“Um…”

“Oh, no, you don’t like them?” His eyebrows disappeared up into the shag of his badly cut hair. “I made them myself. Usually the steward does it, but he’s out sick, so I tried, but maybe I got them wrong?”

Beatrice shoved a chip in her mouth and spoke around the sogginess of it. “They’re the besht.”

The guy’s smile reset to full wattage. With a happy nod, he shuffled away.

Out the window, a long, blue expanse of water unrolled below the clouds. Kids hurtled through the main cabin to the stairs, which they thumped up and raced back down like raging herds of spooked wildebeests while small clumps of adults chatted and watched the scenery. Some were obvious tourists, like the old man with a camera that looked as vintage as his mustache, while others might have been locals, like the people at window seats who never glanced up from their laptops.

Across the table from her were a woman and her young daughter. Beatrice and the woman had nodded to each other when they’d all sat down, but they hadn’t spoken. The child wore a red polka-dot dress and flipped the pages of a picture book, while the woman kept her head lowered, reading a paperback. The backs of the girl’s heels drummed against the seat, a steady thumping metronome.

Were they traveling away or toward someone? Who was waiting for this pair? Who loved them?

Beatrice’s heart, which had felt stubbornly resilient until that moment, suddenly ached.

Nope, she didn’t have time for unnecessary emotion. Altogether too much of that lately. She shook her head to clear it and clicked the shortcut link on her phone, pulling up the Birthday Trip spreadsheet.

Grant’s requests for his fiftieth-birthday trip had been simple. He’d wanted to golf in Skerry Cove, an expensive course he’d never played off the coast of Seattle, and he’d wanted to bring his favorite people: Beatrice, his teenage sons, and his two best friends.

It had turned out that Beatrice hadn’t been able to book the trip until two weeks after Grant’s birthday, but she’d thought that would work perfectly, since they’d end up traveling on her forty-fifth birthday. Two birthday birds, one convenient vacation stone.

So at this point, had things gone according to her plan, there would have been six of them on this ferry. Grant’s two sons would have ordered and then scarfed these nachos, no matter the chips’ level of squishiness or their father’s level of disapproval. Grant and his friend, Emmett, would have been watching golf on their phones, while she and Dulcina, Emmett’s wife, would have been happily chattering their way to the island.

But two weeks ago, Grant’s law partners had thrown him a surprise party at the office. When it was time for him to blow out the candles, he’d been nowhere to be found. Beatrice had eventually located him in his office, where she’d found Dulcina blowing out Grant’s candles in private.

If Beatrice hadn’t caught them, she still wouldn’t have known that they’d been having an affair.

For seven years, apparently.

Beatrice had only been married to Grant for six.

So now, on her birthday, it was just her on the ferry. No husband, no stepsons, no ex-friends. Just Beatrice and her phone, full of her very well-laid and utterly useless plans. The eyewatering greens fee she’d paid to the golf course was nonrefundable, but as she stared at the decimal amount, she let herself imagine showing up to stroll the fairway tomorrow morning. Would they notice if she didn’t rent a cart? If she carried no clubs? Would they care if she just screamed her way from tee to tee? She had managed to cancel the dinner reservations, but the fanciest suite in the hotel people loved most on Tripadvisor turned out to be as nonrefundable as the greens fee. She’d decided to be a no-show for the whole thing, sucking up the pain of the cost. But then Grant had asked if he could go on the trip. With Dulcina. “I mean, you already paid for it, right?”

It had taken her less than a pained heartbeat to change her mind. “I’m going on the trip. Alone.”

Now, as the ferry hit a swell, Beatrice sighed.

Truthfully, it would have been so much easier not to go on this trip. Staying under the covers of her father’s spare-room bed would have been effortless. She could have done it for the next, oh, thirty or forty years. Easily. But Dad had looked so relieved that she’d decided to do something that didn’t involve crying or rereading Pride and Prejudice for the thousandth time. At some point, she knew she’d have to go “home” to the house she’d shared with Grant, if only to box up the hundreds of books in her towering to-be-read stacks. But she could have put off moving a muscle for quite a while longer.

So here Beatrice was. On the ferry. Alone.

She didn’t even know she’d sighed deeply until the woman across from her looked up from her book and said, “You all right, hon?”

“Oh!” Beatrice straightened. “I’m fine.”

“Okay.” The woman had tired eyes and a kind face. “Let me know if she’s bothering you at all.” The little girl’s heels were still thumping steadily against the seat as she turned the pages.

“Not at all. She’s sweet.”

The woman stuck her finger into her own book and leaned forward, and there it was—Beatrice could read it on her face. Small talk, incoming. She’d ask something innocuous about where Beatrice was from, what she was doing on the ferry, and Beatrice did not want to talk about herself. Deflect. “What are you reading there?”

The woman smiled and held up the book. “Evie Oxby’s newest book. Have you read her?”

Of course it was Evie Oxby’s book.

As a Hollywood entertainment lawyer, Grant had his fair share of eccentric clients, but none was higher paid (or more frequently sued) than young Evie Oxby, the Palmist of Palm Springs, who claimed to see and hear the ghosts of strangers. Her latest book, Come at Me, Boo, was still on the New York Times bestseller list twenty-four weeks after its release, and her first one, I Ain’t Afraid of No Ghosts, had sold more than a million copies.

“I haven’t.” That was true, at least.

“She’s so good. I tell you what, I don’t go in for that woo-woo stuff, but she knows what she’s talking about.”

“Mmmm.”

Evie Oxby had been at Grant’s fateful birthday party a few weeks back. That night, she’d looked incredibly young and very pale, as if the weight of the ghosts she claimed she could see in the room was stripping the life from her. It had been a good act, yes. People had flocked around her, hoping that one of her feelings would come through for them, but Evie had just kept quiet, her lips tight and white.

After Beatrice had discovered Dulcina using Grant’s bat to get to third base, she’d bolted straight through the party for the elevator. Her hand had shook as she’d hit the ground-floor button.

“Hi.”

Beatrice had jumped—she’d barely noticed that Evie Oxby was already in the elevator car.

“I’m sorry,” the young woman said to her. “You’ve just had a shock.”

Fuck, did everyone know about Grant and Dulcina? Even his clients? Beatrice hadn’t answered.

The doors opened to no one on the eighteenth floor. She stabbed the button again.

“And I have to deliver another shock, I’m afraid,” said Evie.

Beatrice’s sigh felt like it came from the bottoms of her feet. “Do you really have to?”

“You’re going to experience seven miracles.”

Did she look so terrible that Evie thought that might be a pick-me-up? “Huh. Thanks.” She knew her tone said, I don’t care, and normally, she’d feel bad about that. Not tonight.

But Evie didn’t take the hint. She continued, “And you will die. It will happen very quickly.”

Beatrice sucked in a sharp breath. “Amazing. Well, my night just keeps getting better. Thanks very much for that.”

“I’m sorry.” Evie’s gaze fell to the carpeted elevator floor.

After the doors had finally opened on the ground floor, Beatrice speed-walked to the parking garage without looking back or saying good-bye.

Evie Oxby was known for her directness and her humor, not for being mean, so it had been a weirdly cruel thing of her to say. But the threat of her “prediction” was empty. Beatrice didn’t believe in any psychic kind of magic. What she had believed in, up until that night, was that she and Grant had a strong partnership based on mutual respect.

Now, the woman across from her on the ferry said, “I swear to you. Evie Oxby is always right.”

Sure she was.

Thank god, a text pinged.

Beatrice held up her phone as if she was getting a phone call. “Oops. I have to take this.”

She stood and moved toward the bar area, unlocking her phone with a spark of hope. A birthday greeting? She hadn’t gotten one yet, not even from her father, who normally never forgot.

You there yet?

Beatrice typed back to her best friend, Iris. On the ferry now.

Send proof.

You srsly think I’m still holed up at Dad’s?

PROVE IT.

Beatrice held up the phone and snapped a picture out the window of the blue skies above the water. Then she turned the phone and took a photo of the interior of the main cabin. She sent both. Satisfied?

Is that a fortune-teller? Can’t zoom in enuf.

Beatrice hadn’t even noticed until then, but yes, a young woman with white-blond flyaway curls had placed a red scarf over her table on the other side of the boat. A propped-up hand-lettered sign read, “Tarot Read by Winnie.”

Yes.

Dude, go do it!

If Iris were here, she’d already be dragging her over. Beatrice typed, Not my style, you know that.

Because Grant wouldn’t like it?

Ouch. Sometimes it sucked that, in true bisexual fashion, she’d kept her ex as her best friend. Even if Iris never remembered a birthday (even her own), sometimes she knew too much about Beatrice.

Don’t be mean.

His biggest client is Evie Oxby, and he wouldn’t even let you get your tea leaves read at her book release party last year!

She hadn’t told Iris what Evie had said in the elevator. Because it had just been mean. And ridiculous. He didn’t NOT let me. He was right, she’s his client, it would have been weird.

Go get your fortune told.

I will not.

K. He still runs your life. Got it.

Grant had never run her life. If anything, it had been the opposite—he was a great lawyer, but not very good at getting other things done. The day-to-day running of their life had been her job, and she’d done it well.

Said with love, shut up. Even though she knew Iris wouldn’t spontaneously remember her birthday, she still typed, Anything else you want to say to me?

Iris sent a string of kiss emojis.

Beatrice looked over her shoulder. Her seatmate’s gaze had gone back into her book, but what if she wanted to chat some more?

Bathroom it was. She needed to pee, anyway. They were almost to Skerry Island now, the mass of green land drawing closer by the minute, so hopefully she could avoid small talk for the rest of the ride.

Winnie the fortune teller was seated between her and the bathroom. She looked up as Beatrice walked past her table, her gaze bright above the black stars-and-moon T-shirt she wore. “Are you here for your future?”

“No.” Beatrice’s voice was too curt. “Sorry. Just going to the bathroom.”

As she stepped forward, the ferry hit a swell and lurched. Beatrice stumbled, her hip glancing against the table. She grabbed at the back of Winne’s seat, touching the woman’s shoulder with her forearm.

Winnie turned, her eyes large and ice-blue. Her hand whipped out to grasp Beatrice’s. “Beatrix, you’re going to die. Soon.”

When the universe speaks, your one job is to listen.

—Evie Oxby, on Mastadon

Beatrice stuffed down her impatience. She’d already been short with the woman—there was no need to be impolite. “Sorry, but that’s not my name. With respect, I don’t believe in… what you’re doing here.”

“Fuck.” Winnie’s entire demeanor changed as she slumped into the booth, her shoulders dropping. She was older than she’d looked from across the cabin, Beatrice realized, maybe late thirties or even mid-forties.

Beatrice felt an unwelcome surge of sympathy. “Really, I don’t want to—”

“Lord, I hate this shit.” Winnie leaned forward, putting her head in her hands. “I’m moving here, you know that? All my stuff is in boxes somewhere on this ferry. I thought I might get away from accidentally touching people if I left the city. Not have it happen on the damn way here.”

“I’m, um, sorry?” Beatrice itched to step away, to escape. “But you must have heard someone—the ticket taker?—say my name when we boarded, but you misheard. My name is Beatrice, not Beatrix.”

Winnie’s head snapped up. “You’re the one who touched me.”

This woman was upset, and Beatrice had only wanted to go to the bathroom, not freak out a stranger. “Again, very sorry. I lost my balance. I didn’t mean to bother you while you’re doing… this. Telling fortunes or whatever.”

Winnie grimaced. “Reading tarot cards is a good moneymaker, but that’s not my true skill. Look. I have premonitions sometimes when I touch someone. And I got one with you. I get words and numbers and names and predictions.”

“That must be hell on a crowded bus.” Beatrice kept her voice light, but Winnie’s face darkened.

“I don’t go on crowded buses because of this bullshit, and yes, it’s a pain in my ass. But I don’t get them for everyone—only when someone needs to hear something. And I don’t have any idea how to sugarcoat this message, so I’m just going to tell you what I got, okay? It’s like I’m sending you a ZIP file—I’ll tell you what I know, and then it’s up to you to open it and deal with what’s inside.”

This woman couldn’t be serious, could she? Beatrice opened her mouth to protest one last time before walking away, but Winnie looked tortured.

“Fine. Tell me.”

“Your name isn’t Beatrice, it’s Beatrix. I’m sure of that, even if you aren’t. And you’re going to die. Soon. I’m getting the number one but I can’t tell if that’s weeks or months. It feels longer than one day, and shorter than one year.”

“Mm.” This was idiotic. Literally everyone in the whole world was going to die at some point. It must have been the surest prediction to make for anyone, ever. But even though Beatrice—yes, Beatrice—didn’t believe a word of it, the hairs rose on the arms. “And?”

“Not an and. It’s more like a but. You’re going to die soon, but you’ll also experience seven miracles.”

“Oh, come on. Is this a social media trend? Like, is there a YouTube channel where y’all chat about what the hottest predictions will be this season?” Taupe and black are in, along with fuzzy clutch purses, glitter boots, and predicting seven miracles and sudden death.

“Someone told you this already.” Winnie leaned forward. “They did. I can see it in your eyes.”

“No.” The lie felt stupid and dry in her mouth.

The boat lurched again as it turned to move toward the dock.

“If you’ve heard it from two psychics already…” Winnie lifted her hands before letting them drop to the table. “I see numbers in my mind—I can’t explain it or prove it, and I won’t try. But I’ve never been wrong.”

It was the first thing Beatrice could almost understand. “I’m an accountant. I see numbers in my head all day long.”

“You get it, then. I saw the number two floating on the image of a calendar with a red circle around today’s date. So you’ll experience the first two miracles today. Then five more, and…”

Beatrice was good at counting. “Two miracles today. Then five. Then I kick the bucket. Got it.” At least it would make a great dinner party story someday. The ferry thunked as it made contact with its mooring. “Anything else?”

Winnie laced her fingers together and stared at them. “I’m sorry. I am. But maybe, now that you know, you can change some things?”

“Your numbers said I need to change things, too? Like what?”

“Way above my pay grade. Maybe let people know how you feel about them or something?”

Oh, Grant already knew how she felt. “In my brief remaining time? Sounds like I’m going to be busy.”

“Ah, fuck it.” Winnie looked miserable. “I know you don’t believe me. After you receive those two miracles today, maybe you will.”

The woman’s pained face made Beatrice regret her sarcasm. She pulled out a twenty, the price listed on Winnie’s sign. Gently, she slid it across the table. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like a dick. Please take this. I’d pay more at the movies getting popcorn and candy for myself. And if nothing else, this was more entertaining than any movie I’ve seen in a while.”

What we fear seldom comes to pass. Of course, what actually comes to pass would have scared the heelie-bejeezees out of us had we known it was on its way.

—Evie Oxby, in conversation with Terry Gross on Fresh Air

Once off the ferry, Beatrice took a deep breath and pulled up Google Maps on her phone.

No signal. She held it into the air.

“You won’t get cell service most places here,” said the woman who’d been reading the Oxby book. “Skerry is Scottish for ‘island,’ but around here we say it’s Scottish for ‘stuck in the eighties.’ You’ll have Wi-Fi at your hotel, though. Are you at Skerry Cove Lodge?”

Beatrice nodded.

“It’s that way, two blocks, then right on Third.”

“Thanks.” She waved as the woman and her daughter trundled off.

Not a big deal. Seriously, not being able to open Google Maps was not a big deal. But Beatrice’s heart hammered in her chest.

Of course I’m not dying.

Obviously, Beatrice wasn’t about to expire. Real life was run by making good, sturdy plans that were backed up by numbers, and then executing those plans well. Real life was not run by hysterical hunches and random pieces of colorful cardstock wielded by a stressed-out blonde on a boat.

Walk. Move your legs.

It was still a bit too early yet to check in at Skerry Cove Lodge, but her carry-on bag was light. A stroll would do her good.

Skerry Cove appeared to be the kind of adorable that TV producers made whole series about, filled with people bustling about like they were in a Richard Scarry book. Over here a baker, carrying a tray of still-steaming muffins, over there a woman leading a parade of toddlers holding hands. Sunlight streamed through the old trees that lined the sidewalks, and the air smelled like brown sugar and salt.

The whole downtown area didn’t look to be more than seven blocks long, if that. A hand-lettered sign in the window of a general store proclaimed it was the General Store, and the pharmacy was called Your Pharmacy. Maybe you didn’t need a catchy name or a great marketing plan when you were the only game in town? Beatrice passed the Skerry Cove Bookshop, but she wouldn’t stop yet—book shopping in a new town was a pleasure she never missed, even though she loved her Kindle, too. She’d want time and energy for a good bookstore plunge, not to mention the mental bandwidth to work out how many new books would fit in her carry-on to go home.

Home. Where was that? Not Dad’s. Not the place she’d shared with Grant. Living with him for six years had never made his house her home.

Later. She’d figure it all out soon.

Later, bookstore therapy might help. But she couldn’t help slowing down just enough to eye the new releases in the window.

The bookshop’s door stood open invitingly. “Hey, there,” the bookseller called from the counter just inside. She was maybe a year or two younger than Beatrice, and wearing a red jumpsuit that complemented the scarlet beads at the ends of her dark twists.

“We got it!” the woman said.

Beatrice scrunched her face into a squint. “Pardon?”

“That new knitting memoir you wanted. It’s in. I just have to pull it from the box; give me a sec?”

“Sorry, you must have me confused for someone else, I think?”

“Oh, my god, you’re a riot. Be right back, don’t move.” Laughing, the woman turned and walked toward the rear of the store.

Weird. Beatrice didn’t have to wait, did she? Of course she didn’t. A weird hard sell, that’s all it was. She strolled another block, passing a violet-scented soap-making shop and a pet-grooming place, which had not one but two short black dogs lazing in front. Both leaped up and wagged their tails when they saw her, as if she was an old friend. Because she wasn’t a psychopath, Beatrice complied with their requests to be petted before continuing down the street.

There must be a café nearby—she could smell coffee beans roasting in the air. It was totally going to be called something like Java Jive or Espresso Express. And yep, there it was on the corner, Java Express (she was so close!), and the extra-hot cappuccino she got from the incredibly friendly barista was excellent.

But it was hard to tell him so, because he hadn’t really stopped talking to her since she walked in. He was one of those people who assume you know exactly what they’re talking about all the time, which Beatrice didn’t mind in the slightest. People like him made being an introvert like her easier. He was medium-height with pale skin, and his big bushy eyebrows danced as he put the finishing touches on the story she hadn’t followed even a tiny bit of.

As he slid her coffee to her, he said, “So I told her that returning all those shopping bags to the store wasn’t going to be an insult, you know? Not like when she mooned the mayor on Christmas Eve, remember? And bonus, she’s helping mother earth!” He bent to the mirrored side of the silver espresso machine to peer at his perfectly groomed eighties mustache (it had to be ironic, right?). “You think?”

The name tag on his chest gleamed gold. Fritz, they/them.

Beatrice recalibrated her brain and said to them, “Sure. This capp is delicious, by the way. The foam is perfect.”

They grinned. “Glad you like it. I thought the doc took you off caffeine, though?”

Ah. She must have a doppelgänger in town—that would explain both the bookseller and this person. Beatrice just gave a half nod and let them interpret it whatever way they wanted. Maybe someone would point out this look-alike to her while she was here, and she’d have an unspoken moment of thinking, Really? I look like her? Once, while visiting London, a British couple came up to her in a restaurant, convinced she was their cousin pretending to put on an American accent because they’d forgotten to send her a Christmas card. Even after she’d showed them her passport with amusement, they’d insisted on showing her the picture of their cousin. Yes, they’d shared pasty white skin and brown hair (without the silver stripe she had now) and brown eyes, but that was it. The couple had whirled off, offended by her insistence on maintaining the lie.

She thanked Fritz, and carried her coffee outside, where the air was warm and the sun danced in and out of bright cloud cover. She slung her carry-on onto a chair in front of the café, and sat, trying to resist the urge to pull out her phone.

Wasn’t this what people did with coffee, just sat around drinking it, as if that was enough of a Thing to Do? In Los Angeles, people usually got their iced lattes to go, and slugged them down while listening to podcasts at double speed and changing lanes without signaling. But in a small island town on an early summer day, when the breeze was scented with sunshine and line-dried laundry, wasn’t there some sort of law that you had to sit down with your coffee and enjoy it leisurely? Sure there was. Even if you were dying.

She snorted and took another sip of the excellent cappuccino. Two miracles coming today? Oh, yeah, she’d be on the lookout for those. Maybe she’d learn that Grant and Dulcina had both been carried away by two giant hawks and dropped into the mouth of an erupting volcano. Count ’em: one, two miracles, right there.

I love Dulcina, Grant had said that terrible night after his party. Through tears, he’d admitted he’d always loved Dulcina, ever since law school. Ten years ago, before Beat. . .