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The Year of the Witching Hardcover – July 21, 2020
Alexis Henderson
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Print length368 pages
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LanguageEnglish
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PublisherAce
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Publication dateJuly 21, 2020
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Dimensions6.3 x 1.3 x 9.3 inches
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ISBN-100593099605
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ISBN-13978-0593099605
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Editorial Reviews
Review
“The Year of the Witching is a dark wood ready to swallow you whole with its tense stakes and beguiling prose. Henderson takes witchcraft to its very depths, unraveling the horrific nightmares of bone-deep ideology and devastating oppression.” — Dhonielle Clayton, New York Times bestselling author of The Belles series
“A haunting, unique read I couldn't put down—a story that cuts to the heart.”—Tamora Pierce, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Tempests and Slaughter
“The Year of the Witching tells a universal, timeless story about women's power.” – O, The Oprah Magazine
"Has a classic setup but updates the olde puritanical tale to deal with issues of racism and sexism."--The Washington Post
“Unique and haunting.” –Ms. Magazine
“The Year of the Witching is a very, very good book. It’s unsettling and horrifying, beautiful and incisive, and ultimately, radiantly triumphant… I was torn between wanting to tear through the chapters as fast as possible to see how things resolved and savoring every sentence.” – Smart Bitches, Trashy Books
“The Year of the Witching is Alexis Henderson’s debut novel, but you’d never know it.... The story is enchanting, enticing, enthralling, enigmatic.”–Tor.com
"A thrillingly brisk and bracing tale of magic and power, I loved this book. It takes the best tropes of horror and witchcraft and gives them a refreshingly feminist twist."– S.A. Chakraborty, National bestselling author of The Daevabad Trilogy
"A dark, dramatic tale of oppression and rebellion, ideology and morality, with a complicated, appealing protagonist caught in a Handmaid's Tale nightmare.”- Louisa Morgan, Author of The Age of Witches
"A masterfully eerie, feminist story that binds itself to the reader’s mind and won’t let go." - Shea Ernshaw, New York Times bestselling author of The Wicked Deep
“Creepy, compelling, and compulsively readable…blends the terror of the supernatural with the all-too-recognizable human evils of power and dogma.” — Fonda Lee, Award-winning author of the Green Bone Saga
“Bone-chilling and breathtakingly beautiful…storytelling at its finest." – Rena Barron, author of Kingdom of Souls
“A brutal tale of religion, witchcraft, & patriarchy. The perfect read for fans of The Handmaid’s Tale.” – amanda lovelace, National bestselling author of the princess saves herself in this one
“This book will haunt your dreams.”—Christina Henry, National Bestselling author of Alice and The Ghost Tree
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
From the light came the Father. From the darkness, the Mother. That is both the beginning and the end.
-The Holy Scriptures
Immanuelle Moore knelt at the foot of the altar, palms pressed together in prayer, mouth open. Above her, the Prophet loomed in robes of black velvet, his head shaved bristly, his bloodied hands outstretched.
She peered up at him-tracing the path of the long, jagged scar that carved down the side of his neck-and thought of her mother.
In a fluid motion, the Prophet turned from her, robes rustling as he faced the altar, where a lamb lay gutted. He put a hand to its head, then slipped his fingers deep into the wound. As he turned to face Immanuelle again, blood trickled down his wrist and disappeared into the shadows of his sleeve, a few of the droplets falling to the stained floorboards at his feet. He painted her with the blood, his fingers warm and firm as they trailed from the dip of her upper lip down to her chin. He lingered for a moment, as if to catch his breath, and when he spoke his voice was ragged. "Blood of the flock."
Immanuelle licked it away, tasting brine and iron as she pressed to her feet. "For the glory of the Father."
On her way back to her pew, she was careful not to spare a glance at the lamb. An offering from her grandfather's flock, she'd brought it as a tribute the night before, when the cathedral was empty and dark. She had not witnessed the slaughter; she'd excused herself and retreated outside long before the apostles raised their blades. But she'd heard it, the prayers and murmurs drowned out by the cries of the lamb, like those of a newborn baby.
Immanuelle watched as the rest of her family moved through the procession, each of them receiving the blood in turn. Her sister Glory went first, dipping to her knees and obliging the Prophet with a smile. Glory's mother Anna, the younger of the two Moore wives, took the blessing in a hurry, herding her other daughter, Honor, who licked the blood off her lips like it was honey. Lastly, Martha, the first wife and Immanuelle's grandmother, accepted the Prophet's blessing with her arms raised, fingers shaking, her body seized by the power of the Father's light.
Immanuelle wished she could feel the way her grandmother did, but sitting there in the pew, all she felt was the residual warmth of the lamb's blood on her lips and the incessant drone of her heartbeat. No angels roosted at her shoulders. No spirit or god stirred in her.
When the last of the congregation was seated, the Prophet raised his arms to the rafters and began to pray. "Father, we come to Thee as servants and followers eager to do Thy work."
Immanuelle quickly bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
"There may be those among us who are distant from the faith of our ancestors, numb to the Father's touch and deaf to His voice. On their behalves, I pray for His mercy. I ask that they find solace not in the Mother's darkness but in the light of the Father."
At that, Immanuelle cracked one eye open, and for a moment, she could have sworn the Prophet's gaze was on her. His eyes were wide open at the height of his prayer, staring at her in the gaps between bowed heads and shaking shoulders. Their eyes met, and his flicked away. "May the Father's kingdom reign."
The Prophet's flock spoke as one: "Now and forevermore."
Immanuelle lay by the riverÕs edge with her friend, Leah, shoulder to shoulder, both of them drunk off the warmth of the midday sun. Yards away, the rest of the congregation gathered in fellowship. For most, the shadow of the Sabbath slaughter had already faded to a distant memory. All was peaceful and the congregation was content to abide in that.
At Immanuelle's side, Leah shifted onto her back, peering into the thick banks of the clouds that loomed overhead. She was a vision, dressed in sky-blue chiffon, her skirts billowing gently with the breeze. "It's a good day," she said, smiling as the wind snatched her hair.
In the Scriptures and the stories, in the stained-glass windows of the cathedral or the paintings that hung from its stone walls, the angels always looked like Leah: golden-haired and blue-eyed, dressed in fine silks and satins, with full cheeks and skin as pale as river pearls.
As for the girls like Immanuelle-the ones from the Outskirts, with dark skin and raven-black curls, cheekbones as keen as cut stone-well, the Scriptures never mentioned them at all. There were no statues or paintings rendered in their likeness, no poems or stories penned in their honor. They went unmentioned, unseen.
Immanuelle tried to push these thoughts from her mind. She didn't want to be jealous of her friend. If there was anyone in the world who deserved to be loved and admired, it was Leah. Leah with her patience and virtue. Leah, who, when all the other children at school had scorned Immanuelle as a child of sin, marched across the courtyard, took her firmly by the hand, and wiped her tears away with her sleeve.
Leah, her friend. The only one she had.
And Leah was right: It was a good day. It would have been nearly a perfect day, if not for the fact that it was one of the last of its kind, one of the last Sabbaths they would have together.
For years, every Sabbath, the two of them had met after the service ended. In the winter months, they'd huddle together in an empty pew at the back of the cathedral and gossip to pass the time. But in the warm seasons, Leah would bring a big picnic basket stuffed with pastries from her family's bakery in the village. On good days, there'd be an assortment of biscuits and sweet breads, scones and cookies, and on the very best days, a bit of honeycomb or jam to go with them. Together, they'd find a spot by the stream and eat and gossip and giggle until their families called them home. Such had been their custom, as though on those long afternoons in the meadow, the world began and ended there at the riverside. But, like most good things Immanuelle knew, their custom was not made to last. In two weeks' time, Leah was to marry the Prophet. On that day, once she was cut, she would no longer be Immanuelle's companion, but his.
"I'll miss days like this," said Leah, breaking the silence. "I'll miss the sweets and the Sabbath and being here with you."
Immanuelle shrugged, plucking at blades of grass. Her gaze followed the path of the river down the sloping plains and through the reeds, until it spilled into the distant forest and disappeared, devoured by the shadows. There was something about the way the water trickled through the trees that made her want to get up and follow it. "Good things end."
"Nothing's ending," Leah corrected her. "Everything's just beginning. We're growing up."
"Growing up?" Immanuelle scoffed. "I haven't even bled yet."
It was true. She was nearly seventeen years old and she'd never once had her flow. All of the other girls her age had bled years ago, but not Immanuelle. Never Immanuelle. Martha had all but declared her barren months ago. She was not to bleed or be a wife or bear children. She would remain as she was now, and everyone else would grow up, pass her by, and leave her behind, as Leah would in a few short weeks. It was only a matter of time.
"You'll bleed one day," said Leah firmly, as though by declaring it she could make it so. "Just give it time. The sickness will pass."
"It's not sickness," said Immanuelle, tasting the tang of lamb's blood on her lips. "It's sin."
What sin specifically, Immanuelle couldn't be certain. She had wandered astray too many times-reading in secret, in breach of Holy Protocol, or forgetting to say her evening prayers and falling asleep unblessed. Maybe she had spent too many mornings daydreaming in the pastures when she should have been herding her sheep. Or perhaps she hadn't demonstrated a spirit of gratitude when being served a bowl of cold dinner gruel. But Immanuelle knew this much: She had far too many sins to count. It was no wonder she hadn't received the Father's blood blessing.
If Leah was aware of Immanuelle's many transgressions, she made no mention of them. Instead, she waved her off with a flourish of the hand. "Sins can be forgiven. When the Good Father sees fit, you will bleed. And after you bleed, a man will take you up, then you will be his and he will be yours, and everything will be as it should be."
To this, Immanuelle said nothing. She narrowed her eyes against the sun and stared across the field to where the Prophet stood among his wives, offering his blessings and counsel to the gathered faithful. All his wives wore identical dull yellow dresses, the color of daffodil petals, and they all bore the holy seal, an eight-pointed star cut between their eyebrows that all the women of Bethel were marked with on their wedding day.
"I'd rather tend to my sheep," said Immanuelle.
"And what about when you're old?" Leah demanded. "What then?"
"Then I'll be an old shepherdess," Immanuelle declared. "I'll be an old sheep hag."
Leah laughed, a loud, pretty sound that drew gazes. She had a way of doing that. "And what if a man offers his hand?"
Immanuelle smirked. "No good man with any good sense would want anything to do with me."
"Rubbish."
Immanuelle's gaze shifted over to a group of young men and women about her age, maybe a little older. She watched as they laughed and flirted, making spectacles of themselves. The boys puffed out their chests, while the girls played in the shallows of the creek, hiking their skirts high above their knees in the streaming current, careful to avoid drifting too far for fear of the devils that lurked in the depths of the water.
"You know I'll still come visit you," said Leah, as though sensing Immanuelle's fears. "You'll see me on the Sabbath, and after my confinement I'll come to you in the pasture, every week if I can."
Immanuelle turned her attention to the food in front of them. She picked up a hunk of bread from the picnic basket and slathered it with fresh-churned butter and a bloody smear of raspberry marmalade. She took a big bite, speaking thickly through the mouthful. "The Holy Grounds are a long way from the Glades."
"I'll find a way."
"It won't be the same," said Immanuelle, with a petulant edge to her voice that made her hate herself.
Leah ducked her head, looking hurt. She twisted the ring on her right hand with her thumb, a nervous tic she'd adopted in the days following her engagement. It was a pretty thing, a gold band set with a small river pearl, likely some heirloom passed down from the wives of prophets past.
"It'll be enough," said Leah hollowly. Then, more firmly, as though she was trying to convince herself: "It will have to be enough. Even if I'm forced to ride the roads on the Prophet's own horse, I'll find a way to see you. I won't let things change. I swear."
Immanuelle wanted to believe her, but she was too good at spotting lies, and she could tell there was some falsity in Leah's voice. Still, she made no mention of it. No good would come of it anyway: Leah was bound to the Prophet, and had been since the day he first laid eyes on her two summers prior. The ring she wore was merely a placeholder, a promise wrought in gold. In due time, that promise would take the form of the seed he'd plant in her. Leah would birth a child, and the Prophet would plant his seed again, and again, as he did with all his wives while they were still young enough to bear its fruit.
"Leah!"
Immanuelle looked up to see that the group that had been playing in the river shallows was now drawing near, waving as they approached. There were four of them. Two girls, a pretty blonde Immanuelle knew only in passing from classes at the schoolhouse, and Judith Chambers, the Prophet's newest bride. Then there were the boys. Peter, a hulking farmhand as thick-shouldered as an ox, and about as intelligent, the son of the first apostle. Next to him, with eyes narrowed against the sun, was Ezra, the Prophet's son and successor.
Ezra was tall and dark-haired, with ink-black eyes. He was handsome too, almost wickedly so, drawing the stares of even the most pious wives and daughters. Although he was scarcely more than nineteen, he wore one of the twelve golden apostle's daggers on a chain around his neck, an honor that most men of Bethel, despite their best efforts, went a lifetime without achieving.
The blond girl, Hope, who had called to Leah, piped up first. "You two look like you're making the most of your day."
Leah raised a hand to her brow to shade her eyes from the sun, smiling as she peered up at them. "Will you join us?"
Immanuelle cursed silently as the four sat down in the grass beside them. The ox boy, Peter, began rummaging through the contents of the picnic basket, helping himself to a hearty serving of bread and jam. Hope wedged herself between Immanuelle and Leah and immediately began prattling on about the latest gossip of the town, which largely centered on some poor girl who had been sent to the market stocks for tempting a local farmer into adultery. Ezra claimed the spot across from Immanuelle, and Judith flanked him, sitting so close that their shoulders touched.
As the conversation wore on, Immanuelle did her best to make herself small and unassuming, willing herself invisible. Unlike Leah, she didn't have a stomach for socialities. In comparison to the grace and charm of Hope, Leah, and Judith, she suspected she looked about as dull as one of her sister's corn-husk dolls.
Across the picnic basket, Ezra also sat in silence, his ceremonial dagger glinting in the sun. He seemed distracted, almost bored, not even bothering to nod along to the conversation as his gaze scanned the distant plains, east to west, then back again. He watched the horizon like he was looking for something, and Immanuelle couldn't help but wonder what. Ezra hadn't had his First Vision yet and wouldn't until his father's life was coming to an end. Such was the way of succession-a young prophet's rise to power always meant the demise of his senior.
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Product details
- Publisher : Ace (July 21, 2020)
- Language : English
- Hardcover : 368 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0593099605
- ISBN-13 : 978-0593099605
- Item Weight : 1.26 pounds
- Dimensions : 6.3 x 1.3 x 9.3 inches
-
Best Sellers Rank:
#65,418 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #711 in Occult Fiction
- #1,374 in Dark Fantasy
- Customer Reviews:
Customer reviews
Top reviews from the United States
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Alexis writes magic and her words not only flow easily but are sewn together with an invisible string that leads your eyes from chapter to chapter, not wanting to ever put it down too soon.
I felt a kinship with Immanuelle as I imagine many women and girls do. Her strength as a character is something we all want to see within ourselves or at least believe it possible!
I give this one 5 stars and can’t wait for more from Alexis Henderson!
The Year of the Witching is set in a fictional puritanical society similar to that of Salem, where women and the POC from the Outskirts are persecuted for witchcraft and other crimes that the men of cloth get away with scot-free. Bethel is a society based in hypocrisy and its history is riddled with untruths. I appreciated how Alexis Anderson told a feminist story in which the main character, Immanuelle, is a strong female who is dedicated to changing Bethel for the better by protecting the vulnerable and punishing those who abuse their power behind the Church.
There were some positively spooky scenes set in the Darkwood and the witches were both frightening and captivating. Yet, towards the middle of the book, the story began to drag for me a bit. For one, I wanted more interactions with the witches and more magic. I felt the story stalled a bit until we reached the climax. I also felt the relationship between Ezra and Immanuelle was more of a friendship and I could never buy their romance. Their relationship needed to be more developed and I would have loved to delve more into the relationship between Vera and Immanuelle as well.
Overall, this was a good debut, there were just certain elements I wanted more of.
They stare at Immanuelle with both contempt and fascination. It’s as if they can sense the power that shy beauty will command sometime in the very near future. But it’s the intense eyes of the Prophet’s son that she feels even in her dreams.
Not only is Ezra Chambers the heir to the Prophet, he’s also the most wickedly handsome boy that Immanuelle has ever seen. They both have secrets that no one knows – no one but each other.
Strangely, he’s become her closest confidant and friend. So when Bethel finds itself in the grips of a catastrophic plague, Immanuelle must venture into the Darkwood to stop it. And Ezra is right by her side.
Together, they will shine light into the dark hearts of the so-called faithful and find out just how far they will go to save the ones that they love.
With The Year of the Witching, Alexis Henderson delivers a debut that is both relevant and powerful. She lays down a vast austere landscape then adds characters that radiate extraordinary strength and a hypnotic brand of mysticism. The result is a stunning tale of feminist might and inspiration.
And I can’t wait to see what Alexis dreams up next…
The Year of the Witching is a well paced, well plotted story. Period. Everything else is derivative. Throughout the novel I kept getting the feeling that the author was trying too hard to be original or creative without succeeding. For example, her practice of using alternative words for common nouns such as steed for horse or snuff for tobacco (or weed). Neither really works. Especially since I’ve never heard of someone smoking snuff, you snort snuff not smoke it.
Her world building was poorly thought out. She states that Bethel had been in existence for a thousand years, yet none of their technology seemed to have advanced past the simple western frontier horse and buggy stage. I could see that if the church had forbidden the use of advanced, “foreign” technology, but I saw no evidence for that.
My overall impression is that the author needs to spend more time writing about the world she knows before she ventures out to invent a new one.
Top reviews from other countries

First off I really enjoyed the characters, I loved Immanuelle and Ezra and all the characters who you are ment to love in-between.
I didn't find it that creepy, I can see where people would but it was lacking for me. Although, it still didn't take much away from the book for me, I just wish it was creepier. But then if you've been around long enough, you may realise by now this is definitely an issue that is my own and I am hard to creep out.
The ending was a little rushed compared to the rest of the book which was disappointing but again, not the end of the world for me. It seems to be set up that a sequel may follow, and if that's the case I will definitely be picking it up.
And this is where I struggle with a rating because although there where flaws I was fully immersed in Immanuelle, Ezra and the fate of Bethal and couldn't put the book down.

A bloody tale of betrayal on a group of women whose only crime was all held the lineage. Recorded by the "church" as witches the current prophet holds dominium and his word is final.
The fact that he has hidden what he is doing is what drives these women to make a change. The last living of them is Immanuel, whose father was burned on a pyre and her mother driven to madness, she is the last hope, the strongest and the best equipped. With Ezra, the prophets son at her back they can face anything .... can't they?.

The characters were largely one dimensional and you could spot a "wrong 'un" a mile off. There was no proper development of them, nor the world in which they inhabited. The back story was explained in tidbits but in what felt like an almost semi-detached way, as if the author wasn't sure herself about that to write. The plot was basic and the ending was laughable. Without giving anything away, the big conclusion reminded me in part of the scene from the original Toy Story when Sid's mangled toys come to life to scare him.
What really grated on me was that the author felt the need to basically step out of the story to explain to the reader what was going on, as if we might have missed something. This happened a lot of times, especially when the main character was having an epiphany. It very much like were being given direction as if the author didn't trust us to *get it*.
Wholly disappointing. I finished it but only through sheer stubbornness. Paying 99p for a Kindle copy was the saving grace of the whole experience.

It travels long past comprehension that The Year of the Witching is a debut novel. Henderson’s voice is steady, sure and adept at conjuring forth realism, stability, believability and passion. The latter invoked in parallel to the reader, who once immersed in this tangible, captivating world, will swell and sway with the events and emotions.
Bethel, on the face of it, seems like an idyllic, utopian community; thriving in the favour of the father. The descriptive language paints this landscape with such a clarity that the experience of which is incredibly visual. You know the simplicity, the wholesomeness of self sufficient existence. You expect the slightly negative, if not malicious, undertone.
(If you are a fantasy fan, this world and timescape will call to your heart for all the familiar gifts it has to offer).
The contrast of the pure being represented by pale skinned, fair haired folk to that of the “outskirters” being renowned for their darker pigmentation and coiling raven locks is very important. It demonstrates the inbuilt ideation that good and evil is represented by light and dark; that dark is threatening— impure even. History has captured Black people as the enemy throughout it’s entirety and this has been reflected, for human consumption, via various different mediums. Sometimes from a racist viewpoint and sometimes in a satirical way that exposes these narratives, causing us to pause and (hopefully) question the foundations of these beliefs and seemingly in-built cultural norms.
Henderson has created characters that are exceptionally raw, relatable and often flawed; characters who highlight the discrepancies between race and status, and the microaggressions faced by those deemed as lesser. I think it’s highly commendable that this theme has been so seamlessly incorporated into a horror fiction about some of THE creepiest witches I’ve faced to date.
And I think it is especially important RIGHT NOW whilst the BLM movement has somewhat quietened on the white front. 𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐬. 𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬. 𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬.
If this book tells you anything, let it be that there is a better way forward. One that combines the minds of all peoples and cultures. Also— this is hecking scary and tense, it gave me goosebumps more than once!

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on October 22, 2020
It travels long past comprehension that The Year of the Witching is a debut novel. Henderson’s voice is steady, sure and adept at conjuring forth realism, stability, believability and passion. The latter invoked in parallel to the reader, who once immersed in this tangible, captivating world, will swell and sway with the events and emotions.
Bethel, on the face of it, seems like an idyllic, utopian community; thriving in the favour of the father. The descriptive language paints this landscape with such a clarity that the experience of which is incredibly visual. You know the simplicity, the wholesomeness of self sufficient existence. You expect the slightly negative, if not malicious, undertone.
(If you are a fantasy fan, this world and timescape will call to your heart for all the familiar gifts it has to offer).
The contrast of the pure being represented by pale skinned, fair haired folk to that of the “outskirters” being renowned for their darker pigmentation and coiling raven locks is very important. It demonstrates the inbuilt ideation that good and evil is represented by light and dark; that dark is threatening— impure even. History has captured Black people as the enemy throughout it’s entirety and this has been reflected, for human consumption, via various different mediums. Sometimes from a racist viewpoint and sometimes in a satirical way that exposes these narratives, causing us to pause and (hopefully) question the foundations of these beliefs and seemingly in-built cultural norms.
Henderson has created characters that are exceptionally raw, relatable and often flawed; characters who highlight the discrepancies between race and status, and the microaggressions faced by those deemed as lesser. I think it’s highly commendable that this theme has been so seamlessly incorporated into a horror fiction about some of THE creepiest witches I’ve faced to date.
And I think it is especially important RIGHT NOW whilst the BLM movement has somewhat quietened on the white front. 𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐬. 𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬. 𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬.
If this book tells you anything, let it be that there is a better way forward. One that combines the minds of all peoples and cultures. Also— this is hecking scary and tense, it gave me goosebumps more than once!


There was a handful of things that I didn't get, like how witches were feared, but many of the general population had a little bit of magic, and that was okay? But, regardless, this was a good wee read, and my only regret is not leaving this read until closer to Halloween!

Reviewed in the United Kingdom on August 26, 2020
There was a handful of things that I didn't get, like how witches were feared, but many of the general population had a little bit of magic, and that was okay? But, regardless, this was a good wee read, and my only regret is not leaving this read until closer to Halloween!
