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She felt tired and listless all the time. Often, she was sad for no reason.
They’d said she’d be shocked by the cold of a Massachusetts winter, but the truth was Minerva knew all about New England. She’d lived in it, through the stories of a multitude of writers.
cutting through Briar’s Commons, which the students called the Witch’s Thicket because a witch had supposedly lived there in the time of the Salem trials. Or else the Devil dwelled under a tree. The stories contradicted one another as all good oral narratives must.
She was Minerva, not Minnie or Min or Nini or any other variation. He was smiling, probably thinking it was cute to butcher her name, but she returned his smile with a serious stare.
She preferred to keep her thoughts veiled, to not overshare, and there wasn’t anyone to talk about, not really.
Her energy was exhausted simply by following her everyday routine and maintaining a semblance of normalcy.
That evening in the poplar grove, mad with love, the sweet one I idolized offered me the wild rose of her mouth,”
A true witch is born, the day of their birth marks their path.
Because of the Great Depression, many women found it harder to secure work. If you were married, they wouldn’t hire you. Men were supposed to be the breadwinners, and if you were married and working, you were stealing a man’s job. But I was single, and I knew that there were a few industries that hired women: retail and advertising. The trouble was those places liked to have college graduates. Macy’s demanded it; you couldn’t be a shopgirl there without a degree, it was a posh place.
“A life without luxuries would be terribly dull,” he said. “Once in a while we must have a taste of what we desire.”
Boys could get quite pushy after dances, emboldened by the music and the night air, and their kisses and embraces did not appeal to me.
People were keen to assign Poe’s “The Raven” or Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery” in class, but not so keen to allow the rest of the horror authors a place in academia.
The house, warm and familiar, was now like a house she’d never visited before. A stranger’s house.
they’d played pool and chatted. Well, he chatted. She’d been quiet, as she often was in bars and loud, chaotic places like that.
Alba’s mother said a woman should not fear blood. Blood was a woman’s destiny anyway, each month there was blood between her thighs, so blood from a bird should not frighten her.
She didn’t like talking to people that much. Characters in books she could understand, and complicated academic arguments in papers were no problem. But people…they were a puzzle she couldn’t quite crack. Too much time talking with others took a toll on her.
“The romance of it. It’s as if you’re conducting a secret, passionate love affair. You know every detail about someone, their every word and thought. When you look at their writing, you swoon over a sentence fragment or a turn of phrase. It’s as if, through the mists of time, someone reaches out and touches your hand.”
Sweetness was replaced by impudence as she thought about kissing him instead. What a wicked idea, although the same wickedness was what made it enticing.
She felt that someone sat at the head of her bed and extended a hand, gently caressing her face. She was not afraid. The presence was soothing, the caresses as soft as silk. That shapeless someone lay beside her and drew her close, running a hand down her neck. A mouth pressed against her lips. One kiss, and then another, and another, but all of them butterfly soft.
Time is a treacherous mistress. In our youth it flows slow and deep; the days stretch out endlessly. When we are children, a summer lasts for a century. As we age, the flow of time speeds up. Suddenly, a year vanishes with the snap of one’s fingers. How quickly time eludes us, how easily it tricks us.
We connected because we stood out among the others. Betty was a poor girl trying to move up in the world and I was a Jewish boy from Brighton. And there was the fact that she liked women, and I didn’t find anyone attractive, so that put us in a different spot than others.
He’d come with his coins and ask me questions, he’d fetch ingredients, he’d listen and write in a notebook. So I taught him too, some things I knew. Others he found himself.” “You taught him black magic.” The woman chuckled; a flicker of emotion rippled across her perfect stillness. “There’s no such thing. People pick their path. Some heal bones, others break them.
She remembered when she’d spoken that sentence to him, and she realized the power of such words. Magic wasn’t about powders or birds, like that witch had explained. It was more than the mechanical repetition or a list of ingredients. She’d undone any magic, canceled any wards that might have kept him away,
Stories have a rhythm to them. A beginning, a middle, an end. Mysteries beg for answers, narratives demand conclusions.
Besides, you’re witchborn. You’re worth the trouble.” “I have no idea what that means.” “It means you have an interesting family tree.
