More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
“One day, I will be a rose. And I will plant myself somewhere so beautiful that I will never want to leave.” Her mother laughed. “And what if someone wants to pluck you?” “That is what the thorns are for,” she said.
These are the wild women who run barefoot through the meadow, who teach new songs to the birds, who howl at the moon together. Wild women are their own kind of magic.
She rolls her eyes at the thought—yes, she is a grown woman, and is that not magical in itself? To have survived this long, despite the world’s penchant for beautiful dead girls?
But what happens when the girl keeps living, when she ages proudly and defiantly, without abandoning imagination, or stories, or that secret wish to find magic wherever it hides? Well, then the poets would call her a witch.
It is better to be lost in a beautiful daydream than trapped in a dim reality.
Marigold purses her lips. “When will people stop caring so much about love?” Her grandmother pauses and shrugs. “When something better comes along, I suppose.” “Like magic?” she says, wiggling her brows up and down. Althea giggles. “Precisely.”
A Honey Witch provides women with choice—something they are all too often denied.
“What any woman wants for herself is not for you to decide. You would do well to remember that.”
“Well, that’s how all love works,” August says. “You can’t love anyone without the fear of losing them, without the forethought of grief. There is an inherent loss in love, but that does not mean that love is not worth it.”
“Love is worth the risk.”
It has been said that one cannot ache more than they love, that love is all-consuming and more powerful than anything else.
We can’t outrun death, but we can rewrite it.
