The flashlight’s beam went askance. Eileen was crouching, meeting Murphy’s eyes. “Hey. Listen the hell to me. You’re not the spare tire, Murph. You’re the goddamn engine.”
Murphy opened her mouth to talk back, but Eileen didn’t allow it. She threw her arms around Murphy, dragging her into a hug. Then Claire was holding them, squeezing tight, and though it was impossible, Murphy was sure: She could feel their two hearts beating in time with hers.
She knew her house was small. She knew Mom was trying her best and might still fail. She knew Dad would always be dead. She knew Eileen and Claire would leave her one day. But tonight, in a graveyard, Murphy stayed in her sisters’ arms.
The core of their embrace. The engine.
Even when it was over, Eileen kept a hand on Murphy’s arm.
“Hey,” she said. “If you want to be noticed, Murph, if you need help … it’s okay to ask. Say it straight out. I mean, I can be dense. Wrapped up in my brain. Sometimes you need to give me a wake-up call. Just ask.”
Murphy was thinking of Siegfried. She couldn’t talk, because a cry was waiting in her throat. She nodded, and Eileen nodded back, and they hugged again.
This embrace was magic. Not the kind Murphy studied and practiced, but magic just the same. It was real-life magic, because it was made by real people, living real lives, with no illusion or sequins or sleight of hand. With seams showing and rough edges, with curses and scrapes and mess.
Plain, real magic.
The kind that could change everything.
TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS BEFORE
THE TRIO’S TOWER
The tower was Mark’s idea, to begin with.
That summer the Enrights had moved from San Francisco to Rockport, and one of Mark’s first orders of business in their new town was to buy The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas from the Sandpiper Bookshop on Main.
Ms. Haynes from his old school had recommended the book.
“It might be a tad old for you,” she’d said, “but I think you’ll have fun.”
Which, of course, had only made Mark want to read it more. Sure, there were words he didn’t understand and long, winding passages he skipped, but the real meat of the story, and the illustration of three brave men declaring “One for all, and all for one!”—that had kept him riveted. It had first made him realize that he, John, and Pat could form their own brigade.
“We’re the trio,” he told John. “The three of us can face whatever missions come our way.”
Mark was full of vision—a painter of colors, words, and adventures alike.
“What missions are coming our way?” John asked, skeptical.
“We’ll make them up,” said Mark. “We can hold meetings in the tower. It can be our place, just ours.”
This part, at least, John understood. Their parents didn’t go up those spiral stairs—neither their silent, stolid father, nor their constantly angered mother. They remained below, brewing arguments and resentment. Things were especially bad in the summer, when the winds stilled and the house overheated. The summer made their father quieter and their mother angrier. Downstairs were shouts and scoldings, unpredictable outbursts.
The tower, though? It was untouchable.
“It could be our place,” John said, thinking it over. “Not a lot of made-up adventures, though, huh? We could do practical things.”
“Like what?”
“Study for tests.”
Mark made a face. “It’s summer.”
“Well, you can work on your paintings, and I can study.”
“But … it’s summer.”
“I’m studying ahead.”
John was full of plans—plenty of which he hadn’t shared with his brothers. Plans for how he would study so hard that one day he’d get out of this house, away from Mom’s raging and Dad’s indifference, away from the too-tiny streets and chattering mouths at Ramsey’s Diner. He’d leave here for the east coast, where he’d get into a prestigious Boston school. That’s why he studied, even though it was summer, and even though he was “only” twelve. You could never study too much, or too early. Not when you had a goal in mind.
When the brothers told Patrick about the plan, his eyes got wide as full moons.
“The tower’s creepy,” he said.
“We’ll make it nice,” said Mark, coaxingly. “It won’t be creepy if the three of us are there. Anyway, there are all those old books, from the last owner. Could be money hidden in some of them.”
Patrick considered before saying, “It would be a good place to spy. From the window, way up high?”
“Spy?” John scoffed. “There’s nothing to spy on in Rockport, Pat.”