What do you think?
Rate this book
672 pages, Hardcover
First published June 7, 2022
Talents. That’s what Dr. Berghast called them. She had seen disturbing things, biblical things: flesh rippling like water, altering the face of a child into another’s; a little boy, laying hands on a corpse and raising it, boneless, into a hulking flesh giant. Two years ago she had listened as a girl of twelve — a bone witch as Dr. Berghast had described her in a letter — whistled a skeleton up out of its coffin and into a clattering dance. The stuff of nightmares. Margaret Harrogate had no such talents herself, thank the good Lord. Nor had her husband any, when he was alive. And the truth of it was, she wasn’t even sure now whether she thought what the children could do was natural or unnatural, a right thing or a wrong one.
One April afternoon in Chicago when she was six she had been caught in a thunderstorm and she had felt something like it then, the electricity helixing all around her. Her mother had run out to her that day and bundled her inside with her swollen knuckles and had toweled her dry while the wood in their basement room hissed in the stove and lightning flashed in sheets over the lake. A scent of burning cedar. Rose-hip tea from Boston in chipped mugs. The oil and grease smell of her mother’s skin, which Alice had not smelled in a quarter century. That. She was crying. She stood in the darkness of that tent and wiped at her eyes with the inside of her wrists. She saw in the blue glow the faces of the men gathered there were also wet with tears and she raised her eyes. The shining boy grew brighter. And then brighter still.
“Thing is”, he murmured, “you waste all this time dreaming of where you came from, cause you know no one comes from nothing. And you tell yourself, if you only knew, then maybe you could see a reason for how you got to be the way you are. Why your life looks like it does. But there isn’t any reason, not really.” He worried the ring at his knuckle, feeling the bite of it.