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She’s asking: Aren’t you tired yet? Of being cast down and cast aside? Of making do with crumbs when once we wore crowns? She’s asking: Aren’t you angry yet?
The police are awfully scarce this evening, which makes me wonder just who’s behind this mess.”
“Well.” Bella sighs. “There were really four musketeers, anyway.”
Juniper wants to write the word girls on a ribbon and strangle him with it.
But I remind you that he was merely a man. Whereas we”—she looks over her spectacles at Agnes and gives her a very small smile—“are witches.”
“Bet the bastards wish they’d just given us the vote when we asked nicely,” says Electa Gage, with no small degree of satisfaction. “Too late now.”
It unsettled Juniper, to own the truth. True, Bella’s cheeks were flushed and her stutter was gone, but Juniper recalled the preacher’s admonitions about man and wife and the natural order of things. She asked Agnes about it one evening and was told in no uncertain terms to mind her own damn business. “What’s wrong with loving somebody, anyhow?” Agnes hissed. “Doesn’t she deserve a little happiness?” Juniper surrendered and resolved thereafter to mind her own damn business.
“The Constitution? What, exactly, do you think the Constitution is? A magic
spell? A dragon, perhaps, that will swoop down to defend you in your most desperate hour?” Cleo straightens in her seat. Juniper doesn’t think she’s ever seen a face so full of scorn. “I assure you it has only ever been a piece of paper, and it has only ever applied to a very few persons.”
“I believe this is yours, if you’ll have it.” Cleo’s voice is less sure now, higher than usual. “As am I.”
Men really ought to try offers of fealty rather than flowers.
“Because my father and mother are adamant in their belief that they raised a son, instead of a daughter.”
It occurs to her that it’s exactly her kind of bullshit luck that she’d finally get her familiar but die before she laid eyes on him.
