Kirsten Hill Quotes

We topple tyrants, right wrongs, and restore the earth. We are the oracles who tell the future. We are the temptresses who taste the apple. We are the women who balance the scales.

Of course, true love is far rarer than people believe. Like truffles and ambergris, most make do with lookalikes or imposters. Perhaps that's for the best. Real love is a force of nature that most human beings--- even witches--- aren't strong enough to withstand.

I have been around for a very long time, and I've eavesdropped on many a learned man. The truth is, women will always confuse them. Witches or not, they're not sure how we work. Women are clearly in league with nature. Even our cycles follow those of the moon. We create life out of little and intuit things that men don't. We terrify them because we posses powers they aren't able to plunder. Because they'll never be able to do what we can, they decided long ago to declare us inferior.

A good witch knows that there's far more to a forest than its trees. Beneath the surface lies another world--- a world most people don't know about and few ever see. Down there, in the dark, the wood giants talk to each other. Fungal webs the size of whales send tiny mushrooms to scout the surface. Their carcasses dissolved, animals reassemble into moss and flowers. The world underneath is ignored by most. A good witch ignores nothing. A smart witch looks where no one else dares. She visits places the others shun, and sees all the things they don't care to see. She studies the countless connections between the worlds above and below. She follows all roots to find out where they go. She turns over rocks and sees what wriggles out. Her fearlessness will be rewarded with knowledge, and that knowledge with skill. But a wise woman also knows that the courage to look beneath the surface is often the difference between a live witch and a dead one.

Women choose poison because swords are heavy and we are not taught to use them. We choose it because we have children who need us, and we cannot be careless with our limbs and lives. We choose poison because we have been denied all other forms of redress. It is for these reasons and more that the Old One gave us this gift. It is a testament to women's essential goodness that we haven't turned to poison more often, for it is all around us. Or perhaps we've just been biding our time.

A naked woman sat sunning herself on a nearby rock like a mermaid. Beads of water sparkled like diamonds on her slicked-back hair and bronze skin. A row of pearls appeared when she grinned. Brigid briefly wondered if women like this were the inspiration of seafaring folks' legends. "Harriet?" Brigid asked, though she recognized the woman immediately. There was no one on the Island--- no one anywhere--- who looked anything like her. "I like to swim in the buff. Hope you don't mind." "Not at all," Brigid said. Harriet's nudity seemed so natural that Brigid had barely taken note. She looked back out at the sound. "I saw a whale out there a few nights ago." "I saw one this morning," Harriet told her. "She's a friend of mine. I've known her for years." Brigid stared off across the endless expanse and imagined the whale out there, keeping watch beneath the waves.

Kirsten and Paige push me to the bunny hill and work patiently alongside me for two hours, instructing me on various novice techniques that go by precious names like “making pizza slices” and “cooking French fries.

What are we?" "We are priestesses of the Old One. Defenders of the ancient ways. Guardians of the earth, air, and water. Protectors of all living things. Summoners of storms. Huggers of trees. Avengers of the innocent. Punishers of the guilty. Or, if you prefer to keep things simple, you might call us witches.

Ivy and Rose's favorite spot in the cottage was the library, and there were trinkets and talismans hidden behind all the books they loved most. Those numbered in the hundreds, and they were rarely without one. Back in those days, no one cared if girls went to school, so Ivy and Rose were free to learn what they thought was necessary. If Ivy discovered the diary of a medieval botanist--- or a dusty grimoire with ancient symbols scribbled in the margins--- she could go an entire week without speaking. No one in her family minded at all. Rose, whose taste in books leaned toward romance and poetry, was happy to speak for the both of them.

It had been clear from the beginning that both of Ivy's thumbs and all eight of her fingers were green. Plants thrived in her presence. When she and Rose were infants, Sadie planted the window boxes outside their nursery with star jasmine. Within months, the plants had taken over that side of the building and infused the estate with their magical scent. When the girls were old enough to be set free outdoors, Rose headed straight for the wildflower meadow, where she crafted daisy crowns and gathered garnishes for Sadie's cocktails. Ivy made a beeline for the garden. For the rest of her youth--- and long afterward--- that was where she spent her days. She knew exactly what plants enjoyed each other's company. And she could easily resolve any conflicts that arose between them. By the time she was ten, no one else dared go near Ivy's garden. Even the deer and rabbits that wandered freely across the estate knew better. Not everything Ivy grew was meant to be eaten.

Are you a good witch or a bad witch?" asked Rose, who had recently devoured The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. "I'm not sure," Sadie replied. "Is a thunderstorm good or bad?" Rose's nose wrinkled. It was a ridiculous question. "Neither," she said. "It's nature." Sadie shrugged. "So am I," she said.

In the attic, the three discovered an entire rack of evening gowns representing every fashion trend of the twentieth century. Brigid chose a strapless black cocktail dress that Sadie had worn. Phoebe found a flowing white Halston that Flora purchased back in the seventies. And Sibyl chose a gold-beaded flapper dress that had belonged to her great-great-grandmother, Rose. Liam sent a car to fetch them for the party. Gathered in the foyer, it was the first time they saw each other in their formal wear. Brigid's eyes were smoky and lips scarlet. Her red hair fell over her bare shoulders, where blue veins were just visible beneath violet-tinged skin. Phoebe's skin glowed with no assistance from makeup, and she wore her hair in a crown of braids woven through with a golden ribbon. Sibyl was where all the Duncans traits met. She was light and dark, glamorous and natural. Her red curls formed a bloom around her lovely face. The Three looked, very much, like a trio.

She'd been so quick to believe the worst of her sister. Now Phoebe knew why. She'd wanted to. Her entire life, Phoebe had defined her place in the world in relation to Brigid. She was the sweet one. The easy one. The healer. She needed Brigid to be the bad sister in order for her to be the good one. But she'd mixed up their roles. She'd been wrong about everything. Brigid saw her sister start to crumble. "Hey, Phoebe, don't lose it," she said. "It's all in the past now. I just wish I'd killed that bitch when I had the chance. The fire ants would have been the perfect solution. No open casket." Her sister's kindness destroyed the last of Phoebe's defenses, and the tears finally broke through. "I'm sorry," she blubbered. "I'm sorry for blaming you for Mom's death, and I'm sorry for believing your stepmother. I'm fucking awful." "Yeah," Brigid said, pulling Phoebe into her arms. "You're a real asshole. But you're also my sister, and I'll always love you.

Your stepmother told me that you weren't interested in helping me!" Brigid snorted. "You spoke to Sienna Laguerre? When?" "Right after you turned eighteen. I sent you a letter you never answered, so I got the attorney to give me your dad's phone number, and when I called your stepmother answered." "My stepmom? You mean the monster who tortured me every goddamned day until I got my first movie gig and moved the hell out of her house? The stepmother I haven't spoken to since that happened? The stepmother who was the inspiration for the life-sucking demon in the first film I wrote?" Phoebe pulled in a deep breath and held it. "Fuck," she sighed as she set it free. Sibyl was right. She'd been an idiot to listen to Brigid's stepmother.

You know a lot more about the Duncans than I ever did." "Ironic, isn't it?" Sibyl asked gleefully. "Given that you told me fuck all." Phoebe groaned. "Are you really going to start again?" Sibyl spun around. "Oh, I'm sorry. You thought I was done? Not even close. I grew up in the middle of Texas. I was the only kid with hair like this for hundreds of miles. Maybe you wanted me to be normal, but everyone else thought I was a fucking freak. The least you could have done was let me know I came from a long line of freaks who might have to save the world." "I said I was sorry," Phoebe said. "My childhood was no walk in the park either, for your information." "Oh my god! This isn't about you, you raging narcissist! I can't believe Brigid lived with you for sixteen years and didn't murder you!

There was that billionaire in Manhattan got attacked by birds. The spider bites out in the Hamptons. And some guy in Texas was just eaten by feral hogs." "Mother Nature's gone serial killer," his colleague quipped. It sounded to Brigid like nature had finally gotten around to addressing a parasite problem. But for once, she held her tongue.

You, Brigid, and Phoebe must begin the revolution." "Brigid?" The name didn't ring any bells. In a flash the serene flower child was gone. In her place was a pissed-off mom. "Oh, for fuck's sake," Flora said. "Your mother didn't tell you about Brigid?" "I guess not," Sybil replied. "Who is she?" Flora shook her head in disbelief. "Your aunt. She uses her father's last name, Laguerre, as a stage name." "Brigid Laguerre?" The shock sent Sybil's mind reeling. "Holy shit. That's why I was never allowed to see her movies? The Queen of the Dark is my aunt?" "Yes, and she'll be here on Wild Hill soon. Your mother will be coming as well." "Good," Sibyl said darkly. "I can't wait." "I'm expecting you to keep the peace when they get here." Sibyl refused with a shake of her head. "Me? Oh, hell no. I have a bone to pick with Mommy Dearest.

Ivy was only a little older than you when Rose died," Flora had reminded her daughters. "She still misses her sister." "She wasn't cursed with the Bride of Frankenstein here," Phoebe muttered. "Fuck you," Brigid sneered. "You're not nearly as perfect as you think, Princess Buttercup.

They may have argued, but over the sixteen years they'd lived together, she'd done everything she could to protect Phoebe. She'd heard other people say they'd be willing to kill for their families. Well, Brigid actually had. And not once--- not once--- had she ever regretted it. You'd think that Phoebe would know Brigid always had her best interests at heart. Or at the very least would give her the benefit of the doubt. But nothing Brigid had ever done was enough to make Phoebe trust her. Thirty years had passed, and the bitch couldn't even be cordial.

Why the hell do you keep blaming Brigid for everything? I wasn't even aware she existed until this afternoon. The ancestors were the ones who told me everything." Phoebe's face drained of blood. "Did they tell you why our mother died?" "Not yet," Sybil admitted. "Flora is going to show us. Then you and I are going to have a long chat, just the two of us.

Staring out from a movie poster on the wall of the dinky town cinema were her sister's two bright blue eyes. Brigid was the star of the summer's blockbuster movie. "That fucking bitch!" Phoebe swore a little too loudly. An old lady gasped and two teenage girls froze in their tracks. "It's my sister!" Phoebe tried to explain. The two teenage girls tittered and hurried away. Nobody in Nowheresville, Georgia, was going to believe that the unkempt daughter of a swamp-living, Haitian-born artist was related to a lily-white movie star. Phoebe bought a ticket to the matinee. There, in the dark, empty theater, she watched her sister lop off zombie heads with a samurai sword and sobbed for ninety-four minutes straight.

Though we both know what happened between us would have broken her heart more than anything Calum ever did." Phoebe's words, delivered so matter-of-factly, cast a chill over the conversation, just as she'd intended. She wanted her sister to know she hadn't forgotten--- and she definitely hadn't forgiven. After thirty fucking years, she was still holding on to her grudge. "Right." Now that Phoebe had made it perfectly clear where she stood on the matter, Brigid rose from the ground. "Well, we've both been brought back here for a reason. I guess we have to work together." "Doesn't mean we have to enjoy it," Phoebe told her.

Every woman in the Duncan family had her own, unique way of communing with the Old One. As a girl, Sadie had simply popped down to the dungeon for a chat with the ghosts whenever she was in need of guidance. Rose would lie on the ground that would one day be her grave and watch the clouds and the birds overhead for messages. Ivy grew herbs that allowed her mind to travel to the place where the worlds met. Flora had always loved fire.

I hope I didn't upset your sister," Liam said. "Don't worry. She'll forget all about it," Brigid said. "She's the sweet one, believe it or not." "Actually, I find that very hard to believe," Liam replied.

Fine. Fuck him, then kill him if that's what you have to do," Phoebe said. "But he needs to be killed." "Aren't you supposed to be the healer?" Brigid said. "Why don't you make yourself useful and get some bandages for our guest's gaping head wound.

You know, just because the rest of us aren't as perfect as you are doesn't mean we're completely useless. Which reminds me--- what the hell did Brigid do that made you cut her off from the rest of her family?" Phoebe hesitated. "Tell me!" Sibyl demanded. "She said Calum didn't kill our mother." Sibyl threw her hands up. "So Brigid was right and you've been punishing her all this time for nothing?" "He was the reason my mother died!" "No." Sybil was adamant. "Flora showed us. She made a choice. It was her decision. Brigid was right all along." "Technically," Phoebe muttered. "What the fuck, Mom! Are you completely incapable of admitting you're wrong?

We'll probably have to kill him." "Fine by me," Brigid replied. "While I'm gone, why don't you two figure out which one of you is going to do the honors?" "Funny," Phoebe said. "Wasn't joking," Brigid told her.

There, just as she'd known they would be, were the ancestors. Sadie, the redheaded matriarch, dressed as the huntress in a short white tunic and sandals. Ivy and Rose, the golden twins, one fair and one feral. Lilith, the dark, in her somber tweeds and red lipstick. And Flora, in a gown of flowers that left an alluring scent in her wake.

Then she saw them both as little girls with wicker baskets in hand as they gathered treasures from Ivy's garden. Beautiful beetles with iridescent green wings clung to Brigid's black sundress, and ghostly white cabbage moths fluttered around her head. A ladybug landed on Brigid's nose and she passed it to Phoebe. "Make a wish," she told her sister.

Women like us exist to topple tyrants, protect the earth, balance the scales, and avenge the wronged.

You were traveling through the bloodline and entering each of your ancestors' minds. You know things about all of us now." Lily was right. Sibyl knew where Ivy kept the baking soda. She knew the family recipe for scones, which Sadie had brought over from Scotland. She remembered that Rose had been particularly fond of currant and cream scones, though she'd never seen her eat one.

When men make the ultimate sacrifice, they’re commemorated with statues or celebrated in song. Only the bravest of heroes lay down their lives, we’re told. It takes an uncommon man to give everything he has for a cause. We women do it every day.

When they joined the others in the dining room, they found Ivy at the head of the table. She'd changed out of her robe and into garden overalls and a crisp button-down shirt. Phoebe, wearing a bright yellow sundress, sat on their aunt's right-hand side. Flora floated down next to Phoebe, adjusting her pink kimono as she sat. Brigid pulled out a chair across from her sister. In her black shirt and shorts, she felt out of place at the table, like a mushroom tucked into a bouquet of flowers.

If you want Calum dead, why don't you kill him yourself?" "The Old One made me the healer," Phoebe argued. "She didn't give me your skills." Brigid felt her temper rising. "So my job is to kill while you keep your hands clean? How convenient." Phoebe's heart sank. There was so much at stake and Brigid was making it all about her again. "I can't believe this. You're not going to do anything because you're still jealous of me?" "Excuse me? What?" Phoebe instantly knew she'd pushed it too far. She'd shone a spotlight on something that should have stayed hidden. "I'm sorry," she hurried to say. "Fuck you," Brigid responded. "Here's a little tip, princess. If you want someone to do your dirty work, it's best not to insult them.

When I was eleven, Bessie revealed that my daughter will be The Third. I told Mom. She knew the truth." The two of them had kept a secret from her. "And you guys didn't tell me?" "Of course not! You were always so needy. We didn't want to give you another thing to complain about. But now you know. I'll have a daughter someday. And you won't. The Duncan line passes through me." Brigid couldn't have cared less. What hurt was knowing her sister was trying to injure her. Her anger flared up to fight the cold creep of sorrow. "So you went ahead and left Mom alone on Wild Hill even though you knew she wasn't safe?" "It's not my fault!" Phoebe shouted, though she was no longer so sure.

We both know Mom wouldn't be dead if you had listened to me and killed Calum when you had the chance." Brigid froze. She couldn't even feel herself breathing. She hadn't thought her sister capable of such a low blow. "How can you say that?" "You wouldn't listen because you've always been jealous. You hate that the Old One made you the evil sister." Evil wasn't a word they'd been allowed to use growing up. It was a slap in the face.

Well, first there was Sadie. She came here from Scotland in 1898. She had red hair like Brigid. When she was a girl, she talked to ghosts. And when she was grown, she could summon storms. Sadie was mother to---" "Ivy and Rose." Brigid filled in the blank. "We know Aunt Ivy," Phoebe said. "She's very old." "Absolutely ancient," Flora agreed. "She just turned ninety-one." "She can make anything grow," Phoebe added. "That's right. And Ivy's twin sister was my grandmother Rose. They say she was sweet like Phoebe and could see the future.

You're just like your degenerate mother," Sienna told her and turned away to head back to the house. Until that moment, Brigid hadn't fought back. "How would you know?" she called out loud enough for the maintenance men to hear. "You never met my mother, you fucking psycho." Sienna wheeled around, a wide smile on her face, raring to fight. "Go ahead. Speak your mind. You'll be out on the street blowing strangers for Snickers bars by the end of the day." Brigid had heard enough. "Well then, I guess I have nothing to lose." She stood up and pushed her lounge chair to the side. There, beneath it, was a mound of soil she'd first noticed days earlier. She'd spent hours watching its inhabitants, marveling at the complexity of their world. She hadn't wanted to see the colony eradicated, so she'd covered it up with the chair. Now she placed a bare foot at the center of the fire ant hill. Thousands of insects accepted the invitation. Soon they'd formed a thick line that started at her toe and reached all the way to her palm. Sienna watched with amusement. "If you think I'm going to help you, you've lost your mind. You're going to get what you deserve this time." "Am I?" Brigid walked toward her stepmother. She felt each and every ant crawling over her skin, all of them waiting for her command. Suddenly aware that the situation was swinging in her stepdaughter's favor, Sienna took a few more steps back until she reached the edge of the pool. "Don't come any closer, you little tramp!" she hissed. "I'm not a tramp, you dumb bitch, and neither was my mother." The ants were everywhere now. Her face was mere inches from her stepmother's when she smiled, showing off teeth crawling with insects. "I'm a witch.

You're saying that gorgeous little goth girl---" Heidi started. "You think she's gorgeous?" Sienna interrupted. "She's so pale she's purple. She looks like a corpse." Heidi apparently knew better than to argue with the boss. "You're saying that kid had fire ants crawling all over her body and none of them bit her?" "Haven't you been listening!" Sienna screeched. "She's a fucking witch! She said so herself?" "Wild," Heidi said, leaning in with a powder brush. "I don't think I've met a real witch before." Sienna swatted Heidi's hand away and rose from her chair. "Believe me, she's not as interesting as she sounds.

Sadie reached for the vase that stood on the corner of her vanity and plucked a bright yellow flower from the arrangement. "This is freesia. It produces a fragrance that's irresistible to both bees and humans. For thousands of years, women have used the scent of flowers like these to lure lovers. Bees turn the plant's pollen into golden syrup. We can mix that honey together with a few humble ingredients and transform it into cake. Flowers possess some of nature's most powerful magic. And if you know what you're doing, there are ways to multiply that power tenfold, which is very helpful if you're concocting an aphrodisiac." "What's an aphrodisiac?" Rose asked. "A potion you give to someone you want to lust after you." Sadie winked at her. "That doesn't sound fair--- to make someone love you." Her mother reached out and brushed Rose's creamy cheek. "Lust isn't love, darling. And don't worry," she said. "I doubt you'll ever have need of an aphrodisiac.

Then a whiff of orange blossom and patchouli pulled her out of her thoughts, and she opened her eyes. Sitting beside her was the loveliest woman she'd ever seen. Though she appeared to be Sybil's age, her style belonged to another era. She wore her long, strawberry-blond hair in a ponytail that ran along her bare spine. Her crocheted top left several inches of flesh exposed above the top of her denim skirt. A band of freckles covered her nose and stretched from cheek to cheek. She wore a crown of clover in her hair. "Do you know who I am?" the woman asked. The way she was smiling made Sybil think that she should. "No," Sibyl admitted as she slowly transitioned to sitting. "My name is Flora. I'm your grandmother. I've been waiting a long time to meet you.

Brigid couldn't help but be charmed by this clever girl, with her baby doll freckles and wild red curls. She'd clearly inherited all the best of the Duncan clan. Sadie's energy, Rose's warmth, Ivy's optimism, her mother's beauty. According to the last report filed by Brigid's private investigator, Sybil worked three lunch shifts a week at a soup kitchen in her neighborhood. She fed a colony of feral cats near the Brooklyn waterfront and picked up trash in Prospect Park.

The wildflowers she waded through were those she recognized from her youth. Chicory, Queen Anne's lace, and black-eyed Susans. An apple tree she and Phoebe had planted by the pond when they were both small had grown into a monster. Though it was only the middle of June, the branches were dripping with fruit. Rather than red or green, the apples were a purple so deep it almost looked black. Brigid plucked one off the tree and took a bite. The flesh underneath was a brilliant white.

When we catch the flu