What do you think?
Rate this book


416 pages, Hardcover
First published January 21, 2025
“Faith’s only part of it. There’s more fire in me than blood. You pull on my red-string it’s liable to lead you to Old Scratch himself. You want to be a witch?” Motheater hissed, eyes wide. “For magic, you have to tie yourself to something greater, to a baptism. You bind yourself to power, an old creature, an ancient thing; the Witch-Father, the Devil’s Wife, the Moon Raker, the Drunken Child, the Last Bride. The old witches, the nightly powers. Then you give, and they give back.”
The moths were a Milky Way above them, soft silverine stars dotting the ceiling.
"Ain't about God." Motheater's voice was sharp as sin on a conscience. "This about you. You got your own faith? Your own certainty? The love under you?"
"I think all the Psalms are about love," Motheater said, and Bennie knew that her face was full hot now. "And not about God at all."
Bennie swallowed, her eyes wide. Her hearr was beating faster, caught in between the winds of a blue jay and the ground.
"Because she is at my tighy hand, I shall not be moved."
Kire breathed under their hands. Not with flesh and lungds, and not with air, but the steadiness of a creature at rest, the non-zero movement of all things. It was the ebb of a tide, the wane of the moon, the revolution of the world, ready to break apart if Motheater just gave it the smallest nudge in the right direction. . . .
Kire stepped up, out of its cradle and spread its arms, the many-arms, the many-hands, the shifting cleavage and planes that made up the old titan of the new world, and stretched.
... The storm was still hanging around. Weather wasn't a thing that happened; it was a thing that surrounded you.
{This is a review of an advanced reader copy, made available through NetGalley.}