The Witches of New York: A Novel (Ami McKay's Witches Book 1)

From the Inside Flap New York City in the spring of 1880 is a place alive with wonder and curiosity. Séances are the entertainment of choice in exclusive social circles, and many enterprising women--some possessed of true intuitive powers, some gifted with the art of performance--find work as mediums. At their humble teashop, Tea and Sympathy, Adelaide Thom and Eleanor St. Clair provide a place for whispered confessions, secret cures, and spiritual assignations for a select society of ladies who speak the right words, and ask the right questions. When Tea and Sympathy posts an ad that reads, "Respectable Lady Seeks Dependable Shop Girl. Those averse to magic need not apply," seventeen-year-old Beatrice leaves the safety of her village to answer, though she has little inclination of what the job will demand. Beatrice doesn't know it yet, but she has great spiritual gifts, ones that she will come to harness under the tutelage of Adelaide and Eleanor. But not even they can prepare Beatrice for the evils lurking in the darkest corners of the city or give her the courage it will take to face them. --Tara Henley, Toronto Star --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Enchanting...A lyrical, multidimensional version of magic realism that is entirely bewitching. Highly recommended. -- "Booklist (starred review)" McKay has crafted a stunning work that bridges the gap between historical and contemporary women's issues. -- "Kirkus Reviews (starred review)" Skillful worldbuilding, fascinating characters, and a suspenseful plot make McKay's novel an enchanting, can't-put-down delight. -- "Publishers Weekly (starred review)" Wonderfully wicked and deliciously dark, The Witches of New York had me totally spellbound. Reminiscent of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell , Ami McKay has written a book brimming with atmosphere, intrigue, and a cast of mesmerising characters. I loved it. -- " Hazel Gaynor, author of The Girl Who Came Home" --This text refers to the audioCD edition. Ami McKay is the author of two critically acclaimed novels, The Virgin Cure and The Birth House , which was a #1 bestseller in Canada, winner of three CBA Libris Awards, and nominated for the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. Born and raised in Indiana, Ami now lives in Nova Scotia. Julia Whelan , winner of numerous Earphones Awards, won the prestigious Audie Award for Best Romance Narration in 2013 and has also been a finalist for an Audie Award in other years. She was named one of AudioFile magazine's Best Voices of 2010, and two of her audio narrations were shortlisted for the American Library Association's notable recordings of 2010. Her narration of Jandy Nelson's The Sky Is Everywhere earned a place in the first round of 2011 Grammy nominations for Best Spoken Word Album. She is a former child actor who has appeared in multiple films and television shows, most notably ABC's Once and Again . After receiving her college degree, she returned to the film industry and is also a writer. --This text refers to the audioCD edition. New York City in the spring of 1880 is a place alive with wonder and curiosity. Séances are the entertainment of choice in exclusive social circles, and many enterprising women—some possessed of true intuitive powers, some gifted with the art of performance—find work as mediums. At their humble teashop, Tea and Sympathy, Adelaide Thom and Eleanor St. Clair provide a place for whispered confessions, secret cures, and spiritual assignations for a select society of ladies who speak the right words, and ask the right questions. When Tea and Sympathy posts an ad that reads, “Respectable Lady Seeks Dependable Shop Girl. Those averse to magic need not apply,” seventeen-year-old Beatrice leaves the safety of her village to answer, though she has little inclination of what the job will demand. Beatrice doesn’t know it yet, but she has great spiritual gifts, ones that she will come to harness under the tutelage of Adelaide and Eleanor. But not even they can prepare Beatrice for the evils lurking in the darkest corners of the city or give her the courage it will take to face them. --This text refers to the paperback edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. City of Wonders. In the dusky haze of evening a ruddy-cheeked newsboy strode along Fifth Avenue proclaiming the future. “The great Egyptian obelisk is about to land on our shores! The Brooklyn Bridge set to become the Eighth Wonder of the World! Broadway soon to glow with electric light!” In his wake, a crippled man shuffled, spouting prophecies of his own. “God’s judgement is upon us! The end of the world is nigh!” New York had become a city of astonishments. Wonders and marvels came so frequent and fast, a day without specxadtacle was cause for concern. Men involved themselves with the business of making mirxadacles. Men in starched collars and suits, men in wool caps and dirty boots. From courtrooms to boardrooms to the newsxadrooms of Park Row; from dockyards to scaffolds to Mr. Roebling’s Great Bridge—every man to a one had a head full of schemes: to erect a monument to genius, to become a wizard of invention, to discover the unknown. They set their sights on greatness while setting their watches to the drop of the Western Union Time Ball. Their dreams no longer came to them via stardust and angel’s wings, but by tug, train and telegraph. Sleep lost all meaning now that Time was in man’s grasp. In the building beneath the tower that held the time ball, a mindful order of women sat—side by side, row on row, storey upon storey, one hundred young ladies in all, working round the clock to translate the wishes of men to dots and dashes. Transfixed by the steady click-clack of their task, the ghost of Mr. Samuel Morse hovered near. He’d tried to get to Heaven on numerous occasions, but could never seem to find his way past the tangled canopy of telegraph lines that criss-crossed the skies above Manhattan. What he needed was an angel, or better yet, a witch. Someone to translate the knocks and rappings of his soul, to convey all the things he’d left unsaid. Where could one be found? Were there any left? In a halo of lamplight near the Western Union Building, a prostitute leaned her aching back against the bricks. Lips rouged, eyes rimmed with charcoal, she was waiting for a man. Puffing on a cigarette she’d begged off a stranger, she blew a steady stream of smoke rings in the air. At the edge of her sight, a shadowy figure in the shape of a fine-dressed gentleman appeared—five feet off the ground, coattails flapping in the breeze. Rubbing her eyes, the girl shook her head, thinking she’d had too much to drink. She swore, hand to God, she’d get off the booze one day, not now, of course, maybe in the spring. As the ghost dissolved from her view, the girl flicked the stub of her cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the heel of her boot. Hand in her pocket she reached for a trinket she’d been given by her last john. “A lucky rabbit’s foot,” he’d said, “blessed by a bona fide witch.” “Liar,” the girl had comxadplained when he’d offered her the charm along with half of what he was supposed to pay. “No, no, no,” the john had insisted. “I tell you, she was real . . . a real witch with a very fine ass.” With that, the girl had grabbed the trinket and sent the john on his way. Something was better than nothing. She needed all the help she could get. Stroking the soft fur of the rabbit’s foot, the girl thought of all she lacked. She was tired, she needed sleep, but she wanted more booze. When she glanced at the spot where she’d snuffed out the butt, there was a shiny new dime in its place. Picking the coin off the ground, she wondered if maybe the john had been right after all. Maybe the damn foot was lucky. Maybe the witch was real. Maybe her luck had changed because the john had dipped his willy in a witch and then dipped it in her, leaving behind some strange magic. There were worse things she could catch, she guessed.xa0 In the shadow of the Great Bridge, a young widow knelt to plead with the river. Just after supper she’d spied something terrible in the soapy murk of her dishwater, a vision she’d seen once before, and she’d just as soon forget. Each time she closed her eyes, it came to her again—a man’s face, bloated and blue, gasping for air. The last time she’d seen it, it’d been her husband’s. This time it was a stranger’s. “I understand,” the woman said to the river, touching the surface of the water with a finger. “I know how it feels to be slighted.” She also understood that the river required payxadment from those who wished to cross it. Blood, flesh and bone were what it liked best. The widow didn’t have much of anything to give as an offering—a few pennies, a splash of whiskey, the cheerful tune of an ancient song—but she hoped that if she were gentle, persuasive and kind, the river might change its mind. Was it witchcraft she was plying? She didn’t care so long as it worked. Something had to be done. Something was better than nothing.xa0In the cellar of a modest house on the edge of the Tenderloin, a weary housekeeper lit a candle and said a prayer. Taper in one hand, glass jar in the other, she poured wax around the edge of the jar’s lid to seal it shut. The jar—filled with stale urine, old needles, shards of mirror, brass buttons, bent nails and thirteen drops of blood from her left thumb—was what her wise grandmother had called a “witch’s bottle.” While others might call it humbug, the housekeeper saw the jar and its contents as her last hope to dispel the strange darkness that’d settled in her midst. What else could explain all that’d happened since the master of the house had passed? For weeks she’d been plagued by what she thought was a ghost or, perhaps, a demon, lurking in her room, stealing her sight, shaking her bed, night after night. What did it want? Where had it come from? Why wouldn’t it leave her alone? Prayers, hymns and a desperate stint of almsgiving hadn’t driven it away. She feared the terrible thing wouldn’t rest until it saw her dead. Had she been cursed? Something had to be done. As her grandmother would say, Wo gibt es Hexen, gibt es Geister. Where there are witches there are ghosts. xa0 In a quiet corner of a cozy teashop just shy of Madison Square Park, a magnificent raven sat on a perch, preening its feathers. As the bird tugged and fussed at its wing, three women conxadversed around a nearby table—one, a lady of considerable wealth, the others a pair of witches, keepers of the bird and the shop. “Can you help?” the lady inquired, worry catching in her throat. “I’m at my wit’s end. Something must be done.” One witch answered with a confident, “Of course.” The other humbly replied, “Leave it with us.” The raven cast an indifferent eye upon them. He’d witxadnessed this sort of thing before—the woman, unable to manage her affairs, needed a witch (or two) to make things right. That was all fine and good, but he was more interested in a faint sound coming from overhead, an enchanting jangle akin to when prisms on a chandelier touch. But how could that be when there was no chandelier to be found in the shop? He was certain unexpected magic was afoot. Tea was poured, complaints and concerns heard, sympaxadthy given. Crystal ball and grimoire consulted. Palms and tea leaves read. How pleased the bird was when he noticed the tray of teacakes in the centre of the table had barely been touched. How pleased the lady was when the witches prexadsented her with a small package tied with red string. The lady was sure she felt something move within the parcel. A tiny tremor of mystical vibration, perhaps? A sign of things to come? She’d heard rumours from a friend of a friend that these women could work miracles. She prayed it was true. She wanted to believe. Lowering her voice, she said, “You swear this thing has been touched by witchcraft?” One of the women gave a polite nod and said, “Of course, my dear, of course.” The other replied with a smile and a shrug. “Call it what you like.” The raven simply cocked its head. It was all he could do not to laugh. --This text refers to the paperback edition. Read more