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The magic of the night was over. Come and gone in the space of a breath. She wondered if there was any left.
“Sebastien, I have to go.” “I know you do.” He spoke close to her ear, and kissed it. “Remember me, Ursule.” She could barely speak for the pain beginning to swell in her chest. She choked, “I could never forget.”
The realization struck her like a blow. He wouldn’t fight them. No one would fight them. She was utterly alone in this battle.
A strange feeling crept over Morwen as she stared at the unwashed crone with her shining black eyes and white smile. It was a sense of recognition. Or premonition.
“Knowing things makes you powerful, Morwen. You will learn that as a female, there are few enough sources of power.”
“That may be. It’s not the point. Ynyr is your familiar spirit.”
“Love is an illusion, Morwen. It doesn’t last. It can’t be trusted.”
Irene clicked her tongue. “Morwen, you’re old enough to understand something about men! They like women to look beautiful, to have good manners, to bear their sons. They don’t expect them—they don’t want them—to have minds of their own. Women must never argue, never cause scenes, never—never feel.”
“Then you see. Your father, like most men, is terrified of a woman who doesn’t fit his ideal of womanhood, because he doesn’t know how to control her. You need to remember that any frightened man is a dangerous one.”
“I will tell you the truth, though, Morwen. I rather like a man to be afraid of me. It’s my reward for keeping the craft alive.”
What had happened was bad, but the world at this moment was inundated with bad things. It was sad, but there was sadness all around her. She had done what she had to do. She hadn’t been detected. She would have to be grateful for that, and carry on. She must. If she succumbed to remorse, she would never recover. Phillip needed her, and Thomas, and her father. Her queen needed her. Her country needed her. There was work to do. She dared not think about anything else.
The witches burned baskets of herbs and boxes of candles. They stood by the hour, chanting in the smoky room, all through the first days of June. They took breaks only for food and sleep, and only when they could no longer work without them. On the final day, they emerged rumpled and exhausted from their labors, almost too weary to climb the stairs.
When Honeychurch learned of her plan to go into France, he fussed at her for a full fifteen minutes, until she put up her hand to stop him. “Honeychurch,” she said firmly, “we’re at peace now. The war is over in Europe.”
I love that this guy's name is Honeychurch
It was an odd sensation to realize there was no one who could forbid her going. She was her own mistress. She was the lady of Sweetbriar, the last of her line.
“Véronique,” he murmured. “I am from Brittany, you know. My people were Romani. Gitans.”
but she could decipher enough to see that there was something called Lammas bread, which was to be broken into four pieces to set at the cardinal points. After the ritual, those fragments of bread would have special influence, blessed as the first fruits, meant to nourish and strengthen the community for the winter ahead.
Lammas bread is real, with a real recipe. I looked it up. Now I'll have to make it
Like true country people, they loved watching the countryside change with the seasons. They savored the trees turning green in the spring. They saw the summer flowers blossom, fade, and drop. They exclaimed over the autumn colors, gold and red and rust. They watched the leaves fall, and the fields turn sere, to be purified by winter. The wheel of the year turned once, twice, three times. They were happy enough.
“Véronique, you must listen to me. You, my aunt, our grandmothers—they were women of power. Men fear such women. They might not put you to the flame, as they once did, but they will not hesitate to harm you in other ways, ways that can make your life unbearable.”
I felt my mother’s spirit with me as I worked on this book, and I’m deeply grateful for her influence. The entire experience of creating A Secret History of Witches has been magical.
I love Philippa Gregory’s historical fiction. The gothic novels of Daphne du Maurier and Mary Stewart always enchant me, and I read them closely to see how the authors create characters the reader cares about, and how they construct such irresistible plots.
OH MY GOD!!! The way I told everyone this book reminded me of reading Philippa Gregory books!
I also admire the ongoing story of Sue Grafton’s detective character, Kinsey Millhone, and I’ve read every single book in the series.
ME TOO!! One of my favorites!
