I read Uprooted by Naomi Novik and was floored by it. The best way I
could describe it is as such; it’s the best version of a story you’ve
read 100 times before. It’s familiar, but new. Comfortable, like a
blanket, but itchy enough so that you never actually get comfortable.
Beautiful and dangerous.
To be the steward of Huginn and Muninn isn’t a glamorous job for your average witch, but getting all the news direct from the raven’s mouth does satisfy one’s need for gossip. (Posting early for self portrait day as well).
When she decided to use her Nana’s old oven, she never thought that the sludge spirit who lived, mostly dormant, at the bottom of the oven would say hello. Turns out, its been lonely since Nana, a devoted kitchen witch, passed away.
She roams the shores, ever looking for her lost love who should have worn the sweater she so lovingly made him. The ghosts howling on the winds and tides do little to ease her pain or lessen her search.
What’s really shocking about alchemy is the fact that anyone, even witches, thought it a viable school of thought. While it was an interesting experiment, she prefers to keep “science” and magick separate. Like church and state.
Moira used to hate that her mother made her live by the old ways. Practically nobody wore those hats anymore and there were definitely more efficient ways gardening (hydroponics anybody?). But having breakfast among the plants and breathing in the mountain air is somehow irreplaceable. Just now is Moira understanding why her mother raised her the way she did.
On Kupala Night the rest of the girls are content to leap over fires and float wreaths of flowers onto the lake to seek fortune in love. But for Yana, the confectioner’s apprentice, to look after the halvah and make sure it sets smooth in the bowls is task enough. Little does the town confectioner know that she uses magic to make her job less worrisome.
The dream was to be the best lightning witch this side of the Atlantic, but the first time she heard the screams in the night from the element she controlled, she didn’t feel that her dream had much validity anymore. However, a calling is a calling, no matter how evil. Wickedness is, after all, relative.
Looked at lots of pictures of beautiful people at Afropunk festivals for inspiration. Perhaps her headphones are enchanted so she only hears what she wants from the cacophony of city life. Unfortunately, my paper and ink didn’t get along this morning so I feel like it’s better to just leave it as it is.