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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?
Like a girl with a lit match, finally shown something she can burn.
words and ways waiting among the children’s verses; power passed in secret from mother to daughter, like swords disguised as sewing needles.
She understands that the Women’s Association wants one kind of power—the kind you can wear in public or argue in the courtroom or write on a slip of paper and drop in a ballot box—and that Juniper wants another. The kind that cuts, the kind with sharp teeth and talons, the kind that starts fires and dances merry around the blaze.
Beatrice isn’t listened to very often. She finds it makes her heart flutter in a most distracting fashion.
Beatrice rubs her thumb along the spine of her notebook, stuffed full of her most private thoughts and theories, her wildest suppositions and most dangerous inquiries. Her own heart, sewn and bound.
She didn’t think throwing down the tyranny of man would take so many meetings, but apparently it does.
