More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
As her grandmother would say, Wo gibt es hexen, gibt es geister. Where there are witches, there are ghosts.
The demon wondered if the charismatic pastor wasn’t touched by madness. (A faint buzzing that sounded in his ears each time the preacher opened his mouth suggested as much.)
Religious folk could be so deliciously predictable. He could set his watch by their hypocrisy. (And he did.)
By knot of one, my spell’s begun. By knot of two, it will come true. By knot of three, so may it be. By knot of four, this power I store. By knot of five, my spell is alive. By knot of six, the spell I fix. By knot of seven, the future I’ll leaven. By knot of eight, my will be fate. By knot of nine, what’s done is mine!
Women who found themselves in trouble were left to their own devices or, worse yet, to quackery. Mail-order medicines under the guise of vegetable compounds, regulating elixirs, and an assortment of pills (renovating, periodical, Catholic, and lunar) promised to “restore female regularity, remove weakness of the stomach, dissolve unwanted uterine growths.” While clever language allowed their makers to avoid the long arm of Mr. Comstock, there was no assurance a product would make good on its boasts.
She’d explained the duties of a witch as thus, “A shepherdess sees to the care and feeding of her flock, a seamstress sees to the cut of a lady’s dress. Witches see to things best sorted by magic: sorrows of the heart, troubles of the mind, regrets of the flesh. This is what we do. That is who you are.”
“Buds, berries, leaves, and roots . . . keep a girl healthy, wealthy, and loose!”
Would the day ever come when she’d no longer be unnerved by the sound of something shattering? Even
Fearing she might cry, Beatrice bowed her head and turned away, thinking how hard good-byes were even when you knew they weren’t forever.
she’d taken it upon herself to investigate just what was happening at Tea and Sympathy. After hearing rumors about the pair of women who resided above the place—one who made potions, one who practiced palmistry—she’d stationed herself outside the shop door to watch their comings and goings and to spy through the windows. She’d been shocked to see a rather large bird (a raven, she guessed) always hopping about the place, doing as it pleased. How menacing! How unsanitary!
(Had the bird pecked it out?!)
Ha!
It is a witch’s greatest triumph to lure God’s daughters away from family, hearth, and home. HOW does she do it? By touting intelligence over righteousness, books of black magic over the Bible, superstition over faith, fashion over modesty, politics over prayer. Crafty in her dealings,
If you’ve ever seen a witch, you’ll know that they always have one black eye. No matter what color their eyes was before, when they get to be witches, one eye goes black.
Not a day had gone by since Johnny’s death that she hadn’t blamed herself for it. She should’ve believed the signs when she first saw them and not let him walk out the door. There’d been talk of other women in her family having similar visions,
The very thought that he’d brought her to the point where she’d taken her own life aroused a passion and longing in his heart unlike anything he’d ever known. This, he thought, is what it means to be holy. Falling to his knees, he began to utter a prayer of thanksgiving.
It haunted her still. That’s why she was chasing after her Moth now. She wanted to tell her daughter everything she’d left unsaid and, more important, the things she’d witnessed since she’d gone beyond the veil.
The wall between the men’s and women’s rooms was built like a fortress, and solid bars covered the windows—they’d been put there by the proprietors to protect the girls’ honor. Instead they’d served as a death sentence.
Isn’t that always the way, Mrs. Fisher had thought, man’s fears causing him to do things that lead to far greater sins.
“I don’t want to hear of you doing that again. Never trouble trouble until trouble troubles you.”
If a woman of social standing dares to speak of what can be felt but not seen, or unwittingly mutters to herself under her breath, why, it’s off to the doctor to have her head examined! I suppose by confessing my experiences to you I’ve given you my trust, dear Doctor. I hope you’re the man I think you to be.”
“A skeptic is only interested in being right. I’m only interested in finding truth.”
May my mind be free from worry, my eyes clear of tears. May my heart be filled with calm instead of fear. In times of darkest turmoil, may the light of hope shine bright, Fueled by the knowledge that all will soon be right.
“My offer stands,” Eleanor said. Whether their hearts were entwined or not didn’t matter, her mother had never turned away a woman in need. That is who we are. This is what we do.
There was a dullness in her eyes that said she was resigned to be more child than woman, more possession than partner in her marriage.
“He’s coming,” she whispered. “He’s coming for her.”
“I make it a practice not to fancy anyone: it’s a horrid way to live.”
Does the lightning choose the tree, or does the tree call to the lightning?
Adelaide’s voice sounded in Beatrice’s head. You are Beatrice Dunn. You’re a witch. You’re not to be trifled with.
Eleanor caught her breath as she counted how many women were on the list. Sixteen out of twenty this week alone, all under thirty years of age.
She’d never thought of writing as an act of defiance, but those two marks proved it to be so.
Surveying them, he thought, Who knew that Hell was so close by? He was glad he hadn’t told Adelaide of his plans. She’d witnessed enough horror for one day.
In his long existence he’d brought about the demise of many witches merely by encouraging man’s hate, man’s greed, man’s hubris, man’s intolerance. Taking down these new witches would require careful consideration and planning.
Time was growing short, and she’d grown quite fond of Brody. His was a kindness that never felt forced or insincere.
Ray Bradbury once wrote, “A Witch is born out of the true hungers of her time.”
