What do you think?
Rate this book


224 pages, Hardcover
Published June 1, 2018
Whatever the words of the charm, it worked. I was a witch caught in a glass jug, and the light came in like the green of new vetch. A letter stuffed, nose first, into a bottle made for distilling fruits, sent out onto the waves, all white-lipped and roaring. It was the binding of hair and nail and blood, an old earthen animal magic, that kept me there so long. [. . .] I was buried under a hearthstone in southern Wales, near the sea, for two centuries. Toward the end, I could hear the picks and blasts, the ponies dying from dark and strain and soot. The coal nuggets moaned their chants of dead sun and rotten leaves of eons past, when trees were soft-barked and birds and fish were the only creatures with bones.


I held the baby on one arm. I began to dance. Stuart, the man who was really a mask and the ash tree the mask was carved from, began to move the woody joints of his knees. That’s what got the weeds swaying and the owls to pause above us and almost come down to land: Stuart and his slow tree branch dance. It made my hair stand up; it made Blue fold up all four hands and stare.
“This is the only and the last place,” said St. Rosabelle, and rolled over to the lamppost, where she leaned her wood and wimple head and stared up at the piece of the moon. We were so unused to seeing her eyes, they made us uneasy, how dark and how sad they really were. None of us wanted to ask what she had seen, our daughter born of velvet and nave and the longing of holy water.