Young, cheerful Nanao can’t wait to marry her betrothed, Reito, the young lord of the Byakurenji family. But that changes one night when she is attacked by a vengeful yokai spirit-an ayakashi-leaving her scarred with the mark of a demonic curse. Her cousin Akemi seizes the chance to steal away her fiance, but it doesn’t matter. Reito now finds her repulsive, and Nanao is forced to wear a monkey mask to hide her scar and live the life of an outcast. Years later, she meets Yako, the willful young scion of another noble family. When Nanao’s mask shatters after an accident, Yako sees her face and is drawn to her beauty and great spiritual power. But there’s more to the handsome young lord than meets the eye, and when Yako offers Nanao a way out of her torturous life, the new life that awaits her is filled with more mystery and intrigue that she could ever imagine…
⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 4 out of 5.
One thing I thought this manga did really well was balance not only world building and the rules of society, but also character building. Nanao is a very compelling character, from how her personality has been shaped after years of neglect and mistreatment, to how she starts to flourish little by little after Yako starts interacting with her. She definitely has the most character building and foundation, but you can definitely see how further volumes have paths to build up other characters and relationships. I really enjoyed the emotional depth of the story as well as the little tastes we get of how the different clans and society operates. This is definitely a series I would continue with to see how not only Nanao and Yako’s relationship develops, but also how each character progresses.
“Higher Magic is my catnip. By what dark arts I know not, Floyd has summoned up a wonderful wizard-grad-school slice-of-life, replete with organizing, romance, anxiety, camaraderie, and courage. More please!” —Max Gladstone, NYT Bestselling Co-Author of This is How You Lose the Time War
In this incisive, irreverent, and whimsical cozy dark academia novel for fans of Heather Fawcett’s Emily Wilde series and R.F. Kuang’s Babel, a struggling mage student with intense anxiety must prove that classic literature contained magic—and learn to wield her own stories to change her institution for the better.
First-generation graduate student Dorothe Bartleby has one last chance to pass the Magic program’s qualifying exam after freezing with anxiety during her first attempt. If she fails to demonstrate that magic in classic literature changed the world, she’ll be kicked out of the university. And now her advisor insists she reframe her entire dissertation using Digimancy. While mages have found a way to combine computers and magic, Bartleby’s fated to never make it work.
This time is no exception. Her revised working goes horribly wrong, creating a talking skull named Anne that narrates Bartleby’s inner thoughts—even the most embarrassing ones—like she’s a heroine in a Jane Austen novel. Out of her depth, she recruits James, an unfairly attractive mage candidate, to help her stop Anne’s glitches in time for her exam.Instead, Anne leads them to a shocking and dangerous discovery: Magic students who seek disability accommodations are disappearing—quite literally. When the administration fails to act, Bartleby must learn to trust her own knowledge and skills. Otherwise, she risks losing both the missing students and her future as a mage, permanently.
There was a lot in this book that I liked, it has great representation and is a great example of showing accommodations – which was something I was not expecting at all. That being said, I felt the book did not need to be as long as it was, at times there was just too much and it really dragged the pace of the book down. I did really enjoy the magic in the book and the way it was constructed, but even that sometimes was a little confusing even while being interesting. Overall though the story was fun and interesting and I enjoyed the experience of getting to know Dorothe and seeing her work through everything she needs to do.
Courtney Floyd is a neurodivergent fantasy author who grew up in New Mexico, where she learned to write between tarantula turf wars and apocalyptic dust storms. She currently lives at the bottom of a haunted mountain in the woods of Vermont with her partner and pets. Higher Magic is her debut novel. Courtney has a PhD in British Literature and a penchant for irreverent literary allusions. Her short stories have appeared in publications including Fireside Magazine, Small Wonders, and Haven Spec, and her audio drama, The Way We Haunt Now, is available wherever you get your podcasts. Find her online at courtney-floyd.com.
From the author of The Paper Girl of Paris comes Rebel Girls of Rome, a thrilling and heartfelt dual POV novel about Lilah, a girl looking to reconnect with her grandfather over his mysterious past during a trip to Rome, and Bruna, a queer Jewish woman who escapes the Nazis in Italy and joins the resistance during World War II.
NOW:
Grieving the loss of her mother, college student Lilah is hoping to reconnect with her ever-distant grandfather who refuses to talk about his past. When a fellow student in Italy brings a long-lost family heirloom to her attention, Lilah travels to Rome with her grandfather in the hopes of unlocking his history as a survivor of the Holocaust once and for all.
But as they get closer to the truth—and the possibility of healing through new connections—she begins to realize that some secrets may be too painful to unbury . . .
THEN:
It’s 1943, and nineteen-year-old Bruna and her family are doing their best to survive in Rome’s Jewish quarter under Nazi occupation. When the dreaded knock comes early one morning, and Bruna realizes her youngest brother, Raffa, is missing, her desperate search to find him separates her from the rest of her family irrevocably.
Overcome with guilt at escaping her family’s fate in the camps, Bruna joins the partisan efforts against the Nazis and Italian Fascists. When her missions bring her back to her childhood crush, Elsa, she must decide what it really means to live and love—and if fully embracing herself might be her greatest act of resistance of all. But just as she starts to find light in the darkness, an attack that ends in unspeakable tragedy leaves Bruna questioning her fortitude to survive more than ever before.
Part historical mystery, part sweeping romance, Jordyn Taylor brings Bruna and Lilah’s stories to brilliant life in this compelling, emotional read in the vein of The Paper Girl of Paris. With dual historical and contemporary POVs—where heartbreak, hope, and finding light in times of darkness are inevitably intertwined—this is perfect for readers of Ruta Sepetys and Monica Hesse.
⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 4 out of 5.
It’s so important for books like this to exist. With so much being erased or forgotten about the Holocaust/World War II, there’s a need for both fiction and non-fiction books that remind us of not only the events that occurred, but the strength of so many different people who fought and struggled through that time. It’s also great to see books set during that time that aren’t necessarily set in Germany or Eastern Europe. The characters were well developed and well thought out in their connections and relationships, in a lot of ways it was easy to connect with them on different levels so they were very relatable. This book was exceedingly well written and paced, and I found myself really enjoying the dual POVs and the story they told.
From critically acclaimed author Shveta Thakrar comes a beautifully imagined contemporary fantasy about two teens, one a believer of magic who yearns to belong, the other a skeptic searching for an escape, who find themselves embroiled in a twisty world of court intrigue when they venture into a forest ruled by yakshas, mysterious woodland spirits drawn from Hindu and Buddhist folklore.
Plant-loving Ridhi Kapadia and popular Nilesh Batra were friends once.
Now, seventeen and alone, Ridhi blends natural perfumes, wears flower crowns, and wanders her local woods, listening for the leafy whispers of her beloved trees. Pleading for the yakshas to admit her into their enchanted forest kingdom, where she knows she truly belongs.
After learning his parents’ perfect marriage is a sham and getting suspended from school, a heartsick Nilesh lands at Ridhi’s doorstep—the last thing either of them wants. So when a pretty yakshini offers him the distraction of magic, the same magic he mocked Ridhi for believing in, he jumps at it.
Furious, Ridhi strikes a bargain with a noblewoman named Sulochana. In return for helping restore her reputation, Sulochana will turn Ridhi into the yakshini she yearns to be—and teach her to divine the trees’ murmurs.
But when Nilesh ends up trapped in the yakshas’ realm, Ridhi realizes the leaves might be telling a disturbing story about the forest her heart is rooted in—one that, even if the two of them band together, threatens to shred the future like so many thorns.
First things first, the writing in this book is wonderful. I felt it was very atmospheric and immediately drew me in, that part I absolutely loved. The story itself did seem to move slowly, though that can be good in more flowery prose, it can also drag the story a bit. That being said, there was a lot to love about the characters, who felt like fully formed individuals. Though I don’t know a lot about Desi or Hindu culture, I still really enjoyed all of the cultural touches. I do feel there could be improvement to make the story pacing a bit better, but all in all an enjoyable read.
Grave birds haunt the cemeteries of Hawthorne, South Carolina, where Spanish moss drips from the trees and Southern charm hides ugly lies. Hollis Sutherland never knew these unique birds existed, not until she died and was brought back to life. The ghostly birds are manifestations of the dead’s unfinished business, and they know Hollis and her uncanny gift can set them free.
When a mysterious bachelor wanders into the small town, bizarre events begin to plague its wealthiest citizens—blood drips from dogwood blossoms, flocks of birds crash into houses, fire tornadoes descend from the sky. Hollis knows these are the omens her grandfather warned about, announcing the devil’s return. But despite Cain Landry’s eerie presence and the plague that has followed him, his handsome face and wicked charm win over the townsfolk. Even Hollis falls under his spell as they grow closer.
That is, until lies about the town’s past start to surface. The grave birds begin to show Hollis the dead’s ugly deeds from some twenty-five years ago and the horrible things people did to gain their wealth. Hollis can’t decide if Cain is some immortal hand of God, there to expose their sins, or if he’s a devil there to ruin them all. Either way, she’s determined to save her town and the people in it, whatever it takes.
Sometimes the dead have unfinished business. “You see it, don’t you, Hollis?” Mr. Royce Gentry’s deep, rumbling voice stamped the air with white puffs. He squatted
low next to my chair and nodded toward my grandaddy’s grave where his coffin was being lowered into the ground. The men, Grandaddy’s dearest friends, slowly filled in the dirt, one mournful shovelful at a time.
Cold frosted the morning dew into a thin white crust that covered the grass. There, off to the side, was a little bluebird, tethered to the earth by an invisible thread. It twittered a helpless, frantic sound as it desperately flapped, struggling to get loose. Delicate and transparent, it looked as if it was made of colored air. Muted, so the hues didn’t quite punch through. It was a pitiful sight, the poor thing trying so hard to get back up in the sky.
A ghost bird, I had first thought when I saw it. Until I looked around and found there were many, many more in the cemetery.
It was a grave bird.
I swallowed hard and pretended I didn’t know what Mr. Gentry was talking about. “No, sir. I don’t see nothing,” I said as I continued to stare at the phantom.
He gave me a scrutinizing look. He saw the lie in my eyes. But he let it go, for the now anyways.
I was only eleven; I didn’t want to admit I was different. But I knew I was whether I liked it or not and would always be.
I had never so much as uttered a hello to Mr. Gentry until five days before. He’s the one who pulled me from the freezing river and brought me back to life. Not by means of magic or a miracle, but with science: medical resuscitation for thirty-two minutes.
But a miracle happened all the same.
The adults stood around my grandaddy’s grave, murmuring their condolences to my granny and my momma. It was that awkward moment after a funeral is finished where everyone seemed lost about what to do next, but we all knew we were going back to Granny’s house to a slew of casseroles and desserts that would barely get eaten. Two of my distant cousins, bored from the bother of my grandfather dying, kicked around a fallen pine cone over an even more distant relative’s nearby grave. Mrs. Yancey, our neighbor up the road, had just taken my twin brothers home since they were squalling something terrible, confused as to why we would trap Granddaddy in the ground. I watched as Mr. Gentry talked closely to Mrs. Belmont’s son, who was visiting from New York City, but his flirting, normally an immersed habit, was on autopilot as he watched me watching the grave bird. Could Mr. Gentry see it, too?
Mr. Gentry was a Southern gentleman, who put a great deal of care into perfecting the standard. His suits were custom-made from a tailor in Charleston, who drove up just to measure him,
then hand-delivered the pieces when they were finished. It didn’t matter your standing in society, Mr. Gentry treated the most common among us as his equal.
He lived a lush lifestyle, filled with grand parties attended by foreign dignitaries, congressmen and anyone powerful he could gain favor with. Several times a year he traveled across Europe,
something his job as a foreign consultant required of him. His friends, just as colorful as him, lived life to the fullest. A dedicated husband once, until his wife found interest in someone half her age. His two grown daughters, who didn’t respect his choice in who to love, eventually wanted nothing to do with him. I think it left a big hole in his heart and what drew him to help our family out.
In the weeks after the funeral, Mr. Gentry began to fill the empty space in our lives where Grandaddy once stood. It started with an offer to cover the funeral costs, a gesture my granny refused at first, but it was money we didn’t have and desperately needed. Then it was the crooked porch he insisted on fixing. Rolled up his starched white sleeves and did it himself, like hard labor was something he was used to doing. The henhouse fence got mended next. A tire on the tractor that hadn’t run in a year was replaced. Then our bellies grew accustomed to feeling full on fine meals he swore were simply leftovers from his latest dinner party. They were going to be tossed, and we were doing him a favor by taking them off his hands. Beef Wellington, with its buttery crust and tender meat center, so savory I’d melt in my chair from the sheer bliss of a single bite. It felt sacrilegious to eat lobster bisque from Granny’s cracked crockery, but that didn’t stop me from slurping up every last creamy bite. And nothing yanked me out of the bed faster than the sweet buttermilk and vanilla scent of beignets. If a stomach could smile, I’m sure mine did. And often, whenever Mr. Gentry needed his fridge clear.
There’s a bond that comes with somebody saving your life. Our friendship became something built on the purest of love. Where he had stepped into my life and filled the important role my grandaddy had once represented, I helped him heal the ache from being denied the chance to be a loving father.
A few months after my grandfather was put in the ground, Uncle Royce—who he eventually became—took me back out to the church’s cemetery. He sat me down on the graveyard bench, a place you go when you want to sit a spell with the dead. The mound of dirt from my grandfather’s grave had rounded from the heavy rain, slowly melting back into the earth.
He told me what I already knew, that I would be different now after the accident. He knew because the same thing had happened to him.
“You and I share something special,” Uncle Royce started his story. We were two people who had been clinically dead then brought back to life. Lazarus syndrome he said they called
it. Only months ago for me. Near forty years for him.
He had died for twelve minutes. Knocked plum out of his shoes when a car hit him at twenty-two
years old. He says he stood over himself, barefoot, watching them work on his body. He thought he was going to ascend into the bright light but instead was sucked back into his body and woke up a few days later in the hospital.
A chill shivered up my spine: it was almost exactly what I had experienced.
I had felt myself float up and away from the river; I was no longer cold and wet. Sad or scared. An aura of peace enveloped me—or rather became me.
It had seemed like I hovered there forever in that state of infinite understanding. A warmth emanated from above, a light formed from all that came before me.
From the bright light my grandfather’s voice reached out. His gentle words, simply known and not heard, urged me to go back. It wasn’t my time yet. My place was still at home.
In a swooping rush, I was vacuumed back inside myself. I spat up a gush of water. My lungs burned. My body was freezing cold again. And Mr. Gentry was smiling down on me saying, “That a girl. Get it all out.” Far off down the road an ambulance cried that it was coming.
“You know what I think they are?” Uncle Royce said now, pointing to all the birds who were trapped, defeated, most of the color leached from their feathers. I didn’t say anything, still not
wanting to confirm that he was right, that I could see them. I just listened. “I think they’re a kind of representation—a manifestation— of the dead’s unresolved issues.” I didn’t know what
he meant by that, but it sounded heavy and important, and that felt about right.
I could see it, in a way. Granddaddy had been mad at me before we went off the bridge. I’d stolen a gold-colored haircomb, complete with rhinestones across its curved top, as pretty as a
peacock’s feathers, from Roy’s Drugstore. When Granddaddy found out, he had yanked me up by the arm, angry that the preacher’s granddaughter would shame her family in such a manner.
He was scolding on the truck ride home when I started crying about not having pretty things like the other girls at school. He paused his lecture for a minute, and I could tell this bothered him; I could see the way it saddened his eyes. He was the preacher at a poor country church where shoes were often scuffed, clothes mended instead of replaced, and a good meal was something scarce. Family and Jesus were what was important. I found I felt small next to all the wealthy girls who attended the big, fancy church with their new shoes, their starched dresses, the silk ribbons in their hair. It made my poverty stand out, and I didn’t like it.
Then Granddaddy said envy was one of the seven deadly sins, and I was setting myself up for a lifetime of grief by wanting others to love me for what I had instead of who I was. Shame welled over me, whether he intended it to or not.
I was crying something fierce, but I knew he was right.
But hard lessons aren’t easy to accept. Instead of apologizing or even letting him know I understood, I told him I hated him. Screamed it as loud as my young lungs could. Couldn’t say who it shocked more, him or me. I wished those words back into my mouth as soon as they were out.
But it was too late.
A construction truck crossed the road on our right, not waiting long enough for other cars or paying enough attention. It smashed into the side of our truck and pushed us over the railing
and off the bridge, down into the Greenie River.
“You should tell him you forgive him,” Uncle Royce said, pointing to the mound of earth under which my grandaddy now lay.
“Forgive him?” Clearly, he didn’t understand. I was the one who’d stolen something, who’d made my own grandaddy so ashamed, so disappointed. I was the one who’d spewed words of hate in our last moments together.
I had survived, and my grandaddy was dead.
If I hadn’t have stolen that comb, he never would have come to town to fetch me.
He never would have died.
“He doesn’t want you to think it’s your fault. He feels bad he scolded you so severely over stealing that haircomb.”
I turned my head slowly toward Uncle Royce. He couldn’t have known about the comb: no one did. “How do you know about that?” I said on whispered breath, almost too faint to hear.
He looked me straight in the eye. “Because his grave bird
At the end of a difficult day, the haughty but purehearted rich kid Arisu found his only solace in the voice of another girl his age, who hosted a livestream under the pseudonym “Apollo.” Then, one day, the broadcasts stopped. Arisu has dedicated the years since then to finding Apollo’s true identity, and he’s narrowed it down to one particular high school. He transfers in as a student and figures it’ll be a cinch-but then discovers it could be any of the girls in the broadcasting club! And the real Apollo isn’t talking for reasons of her own! These four girls have no use for Arisu’s personality, but they each harbor dreams of using their voices to build a career, and they sure could use his money… Can the blunt and blustering Arisu buy his way into the club’s good graces, and find the real girl attached to his dream voice?
⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 3 out of 5.
I found this start to a manga series really cute, but a bit too over the top for me. I like the overall premise with Arisu trying to locate Apollo and found his reminiscing about their conversations really heartfelt, but then his reasoning for wanting to locate her kind of ruins that. His attitude towards life and his place in his family is just a bit much, but I do like the setup so far of his interactions with the girls in the broadcasting club and getting to know who they actually are a good progression and very authentic. It’s cute and a bit goofy and I hope as it continues it gets a little deeper into the more heartfelt matter as their relationships develop.
From creator Ileana Surducan (Nor’s Holiday) comes The Lost Sunday—her Eisner Award–nominated, all-ages tale about the need for free time in the midst of our busy, everyday lives.
Nina lives in a dusty town haunted by the six angry wolves of the week—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Each day brings never-ending chores and drudgery. Legend speaks of a seventh day to rest—Sunday—but everybody knows an evil witch stole it and keeps it locked away. When Nina finally says enough is enough, she sets out on an ambitious quest for rest, but will she be able to vanquish the witch and bring back the lost Sunday?
Inspired by old folklore and fairy tales, this story shines a magical light on a present-day burnout and the importance of leisure. A great read for kids and adults alike!
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 5 out of 5.
I was utterly charmed by the whimsy of this story. The inspiration from old folk tales is definitely present, but the art style and storytelling are unique to themselves. It was such a sweet read as we follow Nina through her explanation of the world she lives in (and the lack of Sundays) and then her subsequent quest to discover what has happened to Sunday and try to get it back. I loved the author’s use of color palettes which perfectly accented the different story beats and plot points, taking the world from a darker place to a vibrant and colorful landscape.
Thank you to Oni Press for the copy of the book through Netgalley. Happy reading!
Modern life means modern solutions, even to supernatural problems. So of course the government would have a classification system, special schools, and licenses for people with mysterious powers—any manifestation of a miracle is enough to be called a “Himiko,” but only those with full certification may use the title of “god.” And high schooler Nagi is in serious need of a god! The death of her grandmother has left her family shrine devoid of the necessary divinity, and her hopelessly shut-in Himiko brother isn’t looking promising. But if Nagi isn’t careful, her search for a god might end with her finding more than she bargained for…
⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 4 out of 5.
This was a really fun start to a new series. In it we follow Nagi who considers herself pretty normal, while being surrounded by the not so normal. After an incident on her way to school; however, she gets an invitation to God School. For someone who believes she has no special powers or talents this is quite a shock. The first volume explores the key characters at the school that she encounters as they try to figure out just why she is there and what her powers may be. The different personalities clash at times, but it’s fun to see how they come together and how Nagi works to fit in and also survive. It will be fun to see where this series goes.
This graphic novel follows a girl who learns more about friendship and family as she journeys across the fantastical land of Lirrin to tend to its majestic animals.
Lu dreams of being a great adventurer, just like her ah-ma, who is a world-renowned geozoologist. Ah-ma has traveled far and wide, researching unique animals like dreamy cloud-jellies, enormous sunfish, and playful mossgoats. There’s nothing Lu loves more than reading Ah-ma’s letters about her quests, even if she and her mom struggle to understand the Cylian language Ah-ma writes in.
But when Ah-ma’s letters suddenly stop, Lu becomes worried. So when a nearby town needs a geozoologist, Lu decides to go on the journey to find Ah-ma. She charts a course with the help of Ren, an old friend turned new travel buddy.
As they follow in Ah-ma’s footsteps, Lu begins to discover the complex relationships between geofauna—and between people. What stories has Ah-ma never told her? And what’s Ren hiding from her?
⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 4 out of 5.
This was such a fun adventure of a graphic novel, but it also had so much depth to it. We follow Lu and Ren as they go on an adventure to not only follow in Lu’s grandmother’s legacy, but also to attempt to locate her as it has been some time since Lu heard from her. They both come from very different families with different dynamics and expectations, which leads to some misunderstandings between the two along the way. It’s also a story about finding your own path rather than trying to mold yourself after someone else and touches on grief as well. I felt there was a really good balance of the beautiful art style, delightful creatures and heavy topics that were explored.
A nautical archaeologist searching for sunken treasure in Positano unearths a centuries-old curse, powerful witchcraft, and perilous love on the high seas in this spellbinding new novel from the New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Apothecary—perfect for fans of The Familiar and The Cloisters. Haven Ambrose, a trailblazing nautical archaeologist, has come to the sun-soaked village of Positano to investigate the mysterious shipwrecks along the Amalfi Coast. But Haven is hoping to find more than old artifacts beneath the azure waters; she is secretly on a quest to locate a trove of priceless gemstones her late father spotted on his final dive. Upon Haven’s arrival, strange maelstroms and misfortunes start plaguing the town. Is it nature, or something more sinister at work?
In 1821, Mari DeLuca and the women of her village practice the legendary art of stregheria, a magical ability to harness the power of the ocean. As their leader, Mari protects Positano with her witchcraft, but she has been plotting to run away with her lover, Holmes – a sailor aboard a merchant ship owned by the nefarious Mazza brothers, known for their greed and brutality. When the Mazzas learn about the women of Positano, they devise a plan to kidnap several of Mari’s friends. With her fellow witches and her village in danger – and Holmes’s life threatened by his connection to the most feared woman in Positano – Mari is forced to choose between the safety of her people and the man she loves.
As Haven searches for her father’s sunken treasure, she begins to unearth a tale of perilous love and powerful sorcery. Can she unravel the Amalfi Curse before the region is destroyed forever? Against the dazzling backdrop of the Amalfi Coast, this bewitching novel shimmers with mystery, romance, and the untamed magic of the sea.
Along a dark seashore beneath the cliffside village of Positano, twelve women, aged six to forty-four, were seated in a circle. It was two o’clock in the morning, the waxing moon directly overhead.
One of the women stood, breaking the circle. Her hair was the color of vermilion, as it had been since birth. Fully clothed, she walked waist-high into the water. A belemnite fossil clutched between her fingers, she plunged her hands beneath the waves and began to move her lips, reciting the first part of the incantesimo di riflusso she’d learned as a child. Within moments, the undercurrent she’d conjured began to swirl at her ankles, tugging southward, away from her.
She shuffled her way out of the water and back onto the shore.
A second woman with lighter hair, the color of persimmon, stood from the circle. She, too, approached the ocean and plunged her hands beneath the surface. She recited her silent spell on the sea, satisfied as the undercurrent grew even stronger. She gazed out at the horizon, a steady black line where the sky met the sea, and smiled.
Like the other villagers along the coast tonight, these women knew what was coming: a fleet of pirate ships making their way northeast from Tunis. Winds were favorable, their sources said, and the flotilla was expected within the next day.
Their destination? Perhaps Capri, Sorrento, Majori. Some thought maybe even Positano—maybe, finally, Positano.
Given this, fishermen all along the Amalfi coastline had decided to remain at home with their families tomorrow and into the night. It wouldn’t be safe on the water. The destination of these pirates was unknown, and what they sought was a mystery, as well. Greedy pirates went for all kinds of loot. Hungry pirates went for nets full of fish. Lustful pirates went for the women.
On the seashore, a third and final woman stood from the circle. Her hair was the rich, deep hue of blood. Quickly, she undressed. She didn’t like the feeling of wet fabric against her skin, and these women had seen her naked a thousand times before.
Belemnite fossil in one hand, she held the end of a rope in her other, which was tied to a heavy anchor in the sand a short distance away. She would be the one to recite the final piece of this current-curse. Her recitation was the most important, the most potent, and after it was done, the ebbing undercurrent would be even more severe—hence the rope, which she would wrap tightly around herself before finishing the spell.
It was perilous, sinister work. Still, of the twelve women by the water tonight, twenty-year-old Mari DeLuca was the most befitting for this final task.
They were streghe del mare—sea witches—with unparalleled power over the ocean. They boasted a magic found nowhere else in the world, a result of their lineage, having descended from the sirens who once inhabited the tiny Li Galli islets nearby.
The women knew that tomorrow, wherever the pirates landed, it would not be Positano. The men would not seize their goods, their food, their daughters. No matter how the pirate ships rigged their sails, they would not find easy passageway against the undercurrent the women now drew upward from the bottom of the sea. They would turn east, or west. They would go elsewhere.
They always did.
While the lineage of the other eleven women was twisted and tangled, filled with sons or muddled by marriage, Mari DeLuca’s line of descent was perfectly intact: her mother had been a strega, and her mother’s mother, and so on and so on, tracing back thousands of years to the sirens themselves. Of the women on the seashore tonight, Mari was the only strega finisima.
This placed upon her shoulders many great responsibilities. She could instinctively read the water better than any of them. Her spells were the most effective, too; she alone could do what required two or three other streghe working in unison. As such, she was the sanctioned leader of the eleven other women. The forewoman, the teacher, the decision-maker.
Oh, but what a shame she hated the sea as much as she did.
Stepping toward the water, Mari unraveled her long plait of hair. It was her most striking feature—such blood-colored hair was almost unheard of in Italy, much less in the tiny fishing village of Positano—but then, much of what Mari had inherited was unusual. She tensed as the cold waves rushed over her feet. My mother should be the one doing this, she thought bitterly. It was a resentment she’d never released, not in twelve years, since the night when eight-year-old Mari had watched the sea claim her mother, Imelda, as its own.
On that terrible night, newly motherless and reeling, Mari knew the sea was no longer her friend. But worse than this, she worried for her younger sister, Sofia. How would Mari break this news to her? How could she possibly look after spirited Sofia with as much patience and warmth as their mamma had once done?
She’d hardly had time to grieve. The next day, the other streghe had swiftly appointed young Mari as the new strega finisima. Her mother had taught her well, after all, and she was, by birthright, capable of more than any of them. No one seemed to care that young Mari was so tender and heartbroken or that she now despised the very thing she had such control over.
But most children lose their mothers at some point, don’t they? And sprightly Sofia had been reason enough to forge on—a salve to Mari’s aching heart. Sofia had kept her steady, disciplined. Even cheerful, much of the time. So long as Sofia was beside her, Mari would shoulder the responsibilities that had been placed upon her, willingly or not.
Now, toes in the water, a pang of anguish struck Mari, as it often did at times like this.
Neither Mamma nor Sofia was beside her tonight. Mari let out a slow exhale. This moment was an important one, worth remembering. It was the end of two years’ worth of agonizing indecision. No one else on the seashore knew it, but this spell, this incantation she was about to recite, would be her very last. She was leaving in only a few weeks’ time, breaking free. And the place she was going was mercifully far from the sea.
Eyes down, Mari slipped her naked body beneath the water, cursing the sting of it as it seeped into a small rash on her ankle. At once, the water around her turned from dark blue to a thick inky black, like vinegar. Mari had dealt with this all her life: the sea mirrored her mood, her temperament.
As a child, she’d found it marvelous, the way the ocean read her hidden thoughts so well. Countless times, her friends had expressed envy of the phenomenon. But now, the black water shuddering around her legs only betrayed the secrets Mari meant to keep, and she was glad for the darkness, so better to hide her feelings from those on the shore.
Halfway into the water, already she could feel the changes in the sea: the two women before her had done very well with their spells. This was encouraging, at least. A few sharp rocks, churned by the undercurrent, scraped across the top of her feet like thorns, and it took great focus to remain in place against the undertow pulling her out. She used her arms to keep herself balanced, as a tired bird might flap its wings on an unsteady branch.
She wrapped the rope twice around her forearm. Once it was secure, she began to recite the spell. With each word, tira and obbedisci—pull and obey—the rope tightened against her skin. The undercurrent was intensifying quickly, and with even more potency than she expected. She winced when the rope broke her skin, the fresh wound exposed instantly to the bite of the salt water. She began to stumble, losing her balance, and she finished the incantation as quickly as possible, lest the rope leave her arm mangled.
She wouldn’t miss nights like this, not at all.
When she was done, Mari waved, signaling to the other women that it was time to pull her in. Instantly she felt a tug on the other end of the rope. A few seconds later, she was in shallow, gentle water. On her hands and knees, she crawled the rest of the way. Safely on shore, she lay down to rest, sand and grit sticking uncomfortably to her wet skin. She would need to wash well later.
Terribly time-consuming, all of this.
A sudden shout caught her attention, and Mari sat up, peering around in the darkness. Her closest friend, Ami, was now knee-deep in the water, struggling to keep her balance.
“Lia!” Ami shouted hysterically. “Lia, where are you?”
Lia was Ami’s six-year-old daughter, a strega-in-training, her hair a delicate, rosy red. Not moments ago, she’d been situated among the circle of women, her spindly legs tucked up against her chest, watching the spells unfold.
Mari threw herself upward, tripping as she lunged toward the ocean.
“No, please, no,” she cried out. If Lia was indeed in the water, it would be impossible for the young girl to make her way back to shore. She was smaller than other girls her age, her bones fragile as seashells, and though she could swim, she’d have nothing against the power of these tides. The very purpose of the incantation had been to drive the currents toward the deep, dark sea, with enough strength to stave off a pirate ship.
Lia wasn’t wearing a cimaruta, either, which gave the women great strength and vigor in moments of distress. She was too young: streghe didn’t get their talisman necklaces until they were fifteen, when their witchcraft had matured and they were deemed proficient in the art.
At once, every woman on the shore was at the ocean’s edge, peering at the water’s choppy surface. The women might have been powerful, yes, but they were not immortal: as Mari knew all too well, they could succumb to drowning just like anyone else.
Mari spun in a circle, scanning the shore. Suddenly her belly tightened, and she bent forward, her vision going dark and bile rising in the back of her throat.
This was too familiar—her spinning in circles, scanning the horizon in search of someone.
Seeing nothing.
Then seeing the worst.
Like her younger sister’s copper-colored hair, splayed out around the shoulders of her limp body as she lay facedown in the rolling swells of the sea.
Mari had been helpless, unable to protect fourteen-year-old Sofia from whatever she’d encountered beneath the waves that day, only two years ago. Mari had spent years trying to protect her sister as their mother could not, yet in the end, she had failed. She’d failed Sofia.
That day, the sea had once again proved itself not only greedy but villainous—something to be loathed.
Something, Mari eventually decided, from which to escape.
Now, Mari fell to her knees, too dizzy to stand. It was as though her body had been hauled back in time to that ill-fated morning. She bent forward, body heaving, about to be sick—
Suddenly, she heard a giggle, high-pitched and playful. It sounded just like Sofia, and for a moment, Mari thought she’d slipped into a dream.
“I am here, Mamma,” came Lia’s voice from a short distance away. “I am digging in the sand for baby gran—” She cut off. “I forget the word.”
Ami let out a cry, relief and irritation both. She ran toward her child, clutched her to her breast. “Granchio,” she said. “And don’t you ever scare me like that again.”
Mari sat up, overwhelmed by relief. She didn’t have children, was not even married, but Lia sometimes felt like her own.
She steadied her breath. Lia is fine, she said silently to herself. She is perfectly well, on land, right here in front of all of us. Yet even as her breath slowed, she could not resist glancing once more behind her, scanning the wave tops.
The women who’d performed the spell changed into dry clothes.
Lia pulled away from Ami’s embrace, sneaking toward Mari, who welcomed her with a warm, strong hug. Mari bent over to kiss the girl’s head, breathing in her fragrance of oranges, sugar, and sweat.
Lia turned her narrow face to Mari, her lips in a frown. “The spell will protect us from the pirates forever?”
Mari smiled. If only it worked that way. She thought of the pirate ship approaching the peninsula tonight. If it did indeed make for Positano, she imagined the captain cursing under his breath. Damn these currents, he might say. I’ve had my eye on Positano. What is it with that village? He would turn to his first mate and order him to alter the rigging, set an eastward course. Anywhere but this slice of troublesome water, he’d hiss at his crew.
“No,” Mari said now. “Our magia does not work that way.”
She paused, considering what more to tell the girl. Nearly every spell the women recited dissipated in a matter of days, but there was a single spell, the vortice centuriaria, which endured for one hundred years. It could only be recited if a strega removed her protective cimaruta necklace. And the cost of performing such magic was substantial: she had to sacrifice her own life in order for the spell to be effective. As far as Mari knew, no one had performed the spell in hundreds, maybe even thousands, of years.
Such a grim topic wasn’t appropriate now, not with young Lia, so she kept her explanation simple. “Our spells last several days, at the most. No different than what a storm does to the ocean: churns it up, tosses it about. Eventually, though, the sea returns to normal. The sea always prevails.”
How much she hated to admit this. Even the vortice centuriaria, long-lasting as it was, faded eventually. The women could do powerful things with the sea, yes, but they were not masters of it.
“This is why we keep very close to our informants,” Mari went on. “There are people who tell us when pirates, or strange ships, have been spotted offshore. Knowing our spells will only last a few days, we must be diligent. We cannot curse the water too soon nor too late. Our fishermen need good, smooth water for their hauls, so we must only curse the water when we are sure there is a threat.” She smiled, feeling a tad smug. “We are very good at it, Lia.”
Lia traced her finger in the sand, making a big oval. “Mamma tells me I can do anything with the sea when I am older. Anything at all.”
It was an enticing sentiment, this idea that they had complete control over the ocean, but it was false. Their spells were really quite simple and few—there were only seven of them—and they abided by the laws of nature.
“I would like to see one of those big white bears,” Lia went on, “so I will bring an iceberg here, all the way from the Arctic.”
“Sadly,” Mari said, “I fear that is too far. We can push the pirates away because they are not all that far from us. But the Arctic? Well, there are many land masses separating us from your beloved polar bears…”
“I will go to live with other sea witches when I’m older, then,” Lia said. “Witches who live closer to the Arctic.”
“It is only us, dear. There are no other sea witches.” At Lia’s perturbed look, she explained, “We descended from the sirens, who lived on those islands—” she pointed to the horizon, where the Li Galli islets rose out of the water “—and we are the only women in the world who inherited power over the ocean.”
Lia slumped forward, let out a sigh.
“You will still be able to do many things,” Mari encouraged. “Just not everything.”
Like saving the people you love, she mused. Even to this day, the loss of little Sofia felt so senseless, so unneeded. The sisters had been in only a few feet of water, doing somersaults and handstands, diving for sea glass. They had passed the afternoon this way a thousand times before. Later, Mari would wonder if Sofia had knocked her head against the ground, or maybe she’d accidentally inhaled a mouthful of water. Whatever happened, Sofia had noiselessly slipped beneath the rippling tide.
She’s playing a trick, Mari thought as the minutes passed. She’s holding her breath and will come up any moment. The girls did this often, making games of guessing where the other might emerge. But Sofia didn’t emerge, not this time. And just a few months shy of fifteen, she hadn’t been wearing a cimaruta.
Lia began to add small lines to the edge of her circle. She was drawing an eye with lashes. “Mamma says you can do more than she can,” she chirped. “That it takes two or three of the streghe to do what you can do by yourself.”
“Yes,” Mari said. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Because of your mamma who died?”
Mari flinched at this, then quickly moved on. “Yes. And my nonna, and her mamma, and so on. All the way back many thousands of years. There is something different in our blood.”
“But not mine.”
“You are special in plenty of ways. Think of the baby needlefish, for instance. You’re always spotting them, even though they’re nearly invisible and they move terribly fast.” \
“They’re easy to spot,” Lia disputed, brows furrowed.
“Not for me. You understand? We are each skilled in our own way.”
Suddenly, Lia turned her face up to Mari. “Still, I hope you do not die, since you have the different, special blood and no one else does.”
Mari recoiled, taken aback by Lia’s comment. It was almost as though the young girl sensed Mari’s covert plans. “Go find your mamma,” she told Lia, who stood at once, ruining her sand art.
After she’d gone, Mari gazed at the hillside rising up behind them. This beach was not their normal place for practicing magic: Mari typically led the women to one of countless nearby caves or grottoes, protected from view, via a pair of small gozzi, seating six to a boat. But tonight had been different—one of the gozzi had come loose from its mooring, and it had drifted out into the open ocean. This had left the women with only one boat, and it wasn’t big enough to hold them all.
“Let’s gather on the beach instead,” she’d urged. “We’ll be out but a few minutes.” Besides, it was the middle of the night, and the moon had been mostly hidden behind clouds, so it was very dark.
While a few of the women looked at her warily, everyone had agreed in the end.
Mari stood and squeezed the water from her hair. It was nearly three o’clock, and all of the women were yawning.
She shoved the wet rope into her bag and dressed quickly, pulling her shift over her protective cimaruta necklace. Hers bore tiny amulets from the sea and coastline: a moon shell, an ammonite fossil, a kernel of gray volcanic pumice. Recently, Mari had found a tiny coral fragment in the perfect shape of a mountain, which she especially liked. Mountains made her think of inland places, which made her think of freedom.
As the women began to make their way up the hillside, Mari felt fingertips brush her arm. “Psst,” Ami whispered. In her hand was a small envelope, folded tightly in half.
Mari’s heart surged. “A letter.”
Ami winked. “It arrived yesterday.”
It had been two weeks since the last one, and as tempted as Mari was to tear open the envelope and read it in the moonlight, she tucked it against her bosom. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Suddenly, Mari caught movement in the corner of her eye, something on the dock a short distance away. At first, she thought she’d imagined it—clouds skirted across the sky, and the night was full of shadows—but then she gasped as a dark form quickly made its way off the dock, around a small building, and out of sight.
Something—someone—had most definitely been over there. A man. A late-night rendezvous, perhaps? Or had he been alone and spying on the women?
Mari turned to tell Ami, but her friend had already gone ahead, a hand protectively on Lia’s back.
As they stepped onto the dirt pathway scattered with carts and closed-up vendor stands, Mari turned around once more to glance at the dock. But there was nothing, no one. The dock lay in darkness.
Just a trick of the moonlight, she told herself.
Besides, she had a very important letter nestled against her chest—one she intended to tear open the moment she got home.
Sarah Penner is the New York Times and internationally bestselling author of The London Seance Society and The Lost Apothecary, which will be translated into forty languages worldwide and is set to be turned into a drama series by Fox. Sarah spent thirteen years in corporate finance and now writes full-time. She and her husband live in Florida. To learn more, visit SarahPenner.com.
The Wandering Wordsmith 