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Mama Mags said that was horseshit, and that wickedness was like beauty: in the eye of the beholder. She said proper witching is just a conversation with that red heartbeat, which only ever takes three things: the will to listen to it, the words to speak with it, and the way to let it into the world. The will, the words, and the way.
That temper will get you burnt at the damn stake, Mama Mags used to tell her. A wise woman keeps her burning on the inside.
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?
Every woman draws a circle around herself. Sometimes she has to be the only thing inside it.
The wayward sisters, hand in hand, Burned and bound, our stolen crown, But what is lost, that can’t be found?
Bella informs her that this is the precise reason why women’s dresses no longer have pockets, to show they bear no witch-ways or ill intentions, and Juniper responds that she has both, thank you very damn much.
The rules aren’t written down anywhere, but the important rules rarely are.
But she should have known no man ever loved a woman’s strength—they only love the place where it runs out. They love a strong will finally broken, a straight spine bent.
She thought survival was a selfish thing, a circle drawn tight around your heart. She thought the more people you let inside that circle the more ways the world had to hurt you, the more ways you could fail them and be failed in turn. But what if it’s the opposite, and there are more people to catch you when you fall? What if there’s an invisible tipping point somewhere along the way when one becomes three becomes infinite, when there are so many of you inside that circle that you become hydra-headed, invincible?
Red sky at night, witch’s delight. Red sky at morning, witch’s warning.
That’s all magic is, really: the space between what you have and what you need.”
Roses are red, Violets are blue, The Devil will pay, And so will you.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Georgie together again.
Ring around the roses, A pocket full of posies, Ashes, ashes, We all rise up.
How many miles to Babylon? Threescore miles and ten. Can I get there by candlelight? There and back again.
There is a house down in Orleans they call the Rising Sun. It’s been the ruin of many a woman, By God I won’t be one.
She begins to believe that the words and ways are whichever ones a woman has, and that a witch is merely a woman who needs more than she has.
