“Samford kept journals for Lily throughout her childhood. When we realized she couldn’t move on her own, she had started crawling. The door was open from bringing in groceries one afternoon, and she just froze there at the threshold. For two years, we kept her inside. Then one day, she grabbed my razor in the tub and cut her thumb. Ink came out, not blood. Swirling black with the soap. Samford collected a few drops before her cut closed up. I didn’t know what he was going to use them for until I was tending to the sheep the next evening and Lily came waddling out. I couldn’t cut her, so he always did. I don’t know how he managed. He would prick her finger with a needle, even as she screamed.”
Penelope watches an osprey on the windowsill.
“When Lily was old enough to hold a pen, we taught her to write for herself. But your curse’s power doesn’t come from paper, it comes from blood. Fromyou. Over time, Lily learned to write for herself without pen and paper. Like a muscle that takes growth and practice to function properly. The inkinsideher grew strong enough to execute her thoughts. Lily was so adept at controlling herself without writing, the power she wielded when shedidput pen to paper ... Like Samford, she discovered how to use her words to createanything.
“And for her, that became normal, and she lived like anyone else. Until she met Thomas. Due to her mystical creation, Lily tried and tried but could never conceive. On top of that, Thomas was a serial cheater, so she was furious, foolishly in love, and desperate for a baby. So she did like her da and wrote herself one. Wallace. A couple of years later, Thomas had his hundredth affair, only to find out that the woman was pregnant. He promised to start a new family with her. Instead, he woke up a few months later to find an infant on his and Lily’s doorstep. That day Lily found out about Thomas’s plan to leave her, and she adopted a new son. Baby Sam, named after her da, my love, Samford. Through it all, she drove herself crazy with her writing. Her poems were fragmented, directionless, every word detrimental to her mental health. Still, she loved the high that poetry gave her.”
“But if we can’t procreate,” Nelle says, “how did Quill have Eleanor?”
“Bianca was already pregnant when they married. Eleanor became Wallace’s life and soul. He visited me once during that time, and he was happier than I’ve ever seen him. I thought, optimistically, that he could escape the cycle that had overtaken my husband and daughter.
“Then he called with the news of the fire. I’d dealt with grief all my life, but nothing unexpected. Samford was sick for years before he passed, and I wasn’t surprised by Lily’s death after her repeated suicide attempts. But what happened to Bianca and Eleanor tore out my heart.And Wallace ...” Penelope sips her tea. “He didn’t like losing control. He learned that about himself when his brother died. So he never fell in love again, never associated with anyone else. He created you, and you were precious to him. He knew, as long as he kept his journals with your ink, that your life was insured. That you could never leave. Wallace convinced me it was all for your benefit, but I should have seen through his lies. God, he forged those letters foryearsbecause he didn’t want me to know you.”
Nelle crosses her knees. “You never tried to call? To visit?”
“He forbade it.”
“And you didn’t think that was strange?”
“I thought it was Wallace,” Penelope says. “I will not make excuses for him—he is a bad man—but you have to understand that he was broken from the start.”
“Bullshit, he isn’t acharacterwith his life plotted out for him.” Nelle leans back into the sofa, arms crossed. “He chose what kind of person to be.”
“No, he’snota character, but he’s also not human.” Penelope sets her tea down with a clink. “The sooner you understand that, the easier your life will be. What Samford’s mother inflicted on him was acurse. It should have never happened. No one can handle that much power without hurtingmanyother people.”
James sits up. “You’re saying Nelle should have never happened?”
“No.” Penelope stares out the window at the loch dressed in morning gray. “I want you—both of you—to fully comprehend the precariousness of Nelle’s situation. She comes from a line of death and struggle, most of it caused by that damned curse. You can strengthen yourself and learn how to function in the real world, but it’ll be difficult. A road lined with suffering. There’s only one way to end it. Quill knows it, too.”
“And that way is what?” Nelle laughs coldly. “Kill myself?”
“There are alternative—”
Nelle squeezes her mug of tea. “I can’t even look at you right now.”
James glares on her behalf.
Penelope stands. “I’ve said what I came to say.”
“Then you should go,” Nelle says. “Thank you for the tea. We’ll be out of the cottage by tomorrow.”
“Nelle, I don’t want to upset you. I only want you to be aware—”
“I’m well aware of what you want now, thank you.” Nelle grips James’s thigh. “Please go.”
Penelope shuffles to the door. Before she steps out, she says, “I had someone drive your rental car up here from my house. Keys are in the kitchen drawer.”
Nelle’s face is dead. “Thanks.”
“Find me when you’re ready.” The door shuts. Penelope’s tiny footsteps fade on the flagstones.
At the window, Nelle watches her go, clutching the sheer curtain to her chest. Silver beads cling to her bottom lashes.
“It’s not all bad news.” James nudges her shoulder. “Did you hear what Penelope said about your power being a muscle? With enough practice, you’ll be able to function like a normal person.”
Nelle glowers out the window. “No, she’s right. I’ll never be a normal person. You know what Quill was, what Lily was. I don’t stand a chance.”
Something Penelope said circles back to his mind.Broken from the start.Is that Nelle? Doomed because her blood is ink and her father is a sociopath? But she is light, silver, air. He can’t imagine death and destruction following in her wake. He cradles her hand like a baby bird.
