A young woman living in a rigid, puritanical society discovers dark powers within herself in this stunning, feminist fantasy debut. In the lands of Bethel, where the Prophet''s word is law, Immanuelle Moore''s very existence is blasphemy. Her mother’s union with an outsider of a different race cast her once-proud family into disgrace, so Immanuelle does her best to worship the Father, follow Holy Protocol, and lead a life of submission, devotion, and absolute conformity, like all the other women in the settlement. But a mishap lures her into the forbidden Darkwood surrounding Bethel, where the first prophet once chased and killed four powerful witches. Their spirits are still lurking there, and they bestow a gift on Immanuelle: the journal of her dead mother, who Immanuelle is shocked to learn once sought sanctuary in the wood. Fascinated by the secrets in the diary, Immanuelle finds herself struggling to understand how her mother could have consorted with the witches. But when she begins to learn grim truths about the Church and its history, she realizes the true threat to Bethel is its own darkness. And she starts to understand that if Bethel is to change, it must begin with her.

“This is a beautiful, powerful, important book, and I hugely recommend it.”—Seanan McGuire, New York Times bestselling author of The Unkindest Tide
  
 “*The Year of the Witching *is a dark wood ready to swallow you whole with its tense stakes and beguiling prose. Henderson takes witchcraft to its very depths, unraveling the horrific nightmares of bone-deep ideology and devastating oppression.” — Dhonielle Clayton, New York Times bestselling author of The Belles series
 
“A haunting, unique read I couldn't put down—a story that cuts to the heart.”—Tamora Pierce, #1 *New York Times *bestselling author of *Tempests and Slaughter

*“The Year of the Witching tells a universal, timeless story about women's power.” *– O, The Oprah Magazine *

"Has a classic setup but updates the olde puritanical tale to deal with issues of racism and sexism."--*The Washington Post

*“Unique and haunting.” –Ms. Magazine 

“The Year of the Witching is a very, very good book. It’s unsettling and horrifying, beautiful and incisive, and ultimately, radiantly triumphant… I was torn between wanting to tear through the chapters as fast as possible to see how things resolved and savoring every sentence.” – Smart Bitches, Trashy Books

“The Year of the Witching is Alexis Henderson’s debut novel, but you’d never know it.... The story is enchanting, enticing, enthralling, enigmatic.”–Tor.com

"A thrillingly brisk and bracing tale of magic and power, I loved this book. It takes the best tropes of horror and witchcraft and gives them a refreshingly feminist twist."– S.A. Chakraborty, National bestselling author of The Daevabad Trilogy
 
"A dark, dramatic tale of oppression and rebellion, ideology and morality, with a complicated, appealing protagonist caught in a Handmaid's Tale nightmare.”- Louisa Morgan, Author of The Age of Witches
 
"A masterfully eerie, feminist story that binds itself to the reader’s mind and won’t let go." - Shea Ernshaw, New York Times bestselling author of The Wicked Deep
 
 “Creepy, compelling, and compulsively readable…blends the terror of the supernatural with the all-too-recognizable human evils of power and dogma.” — Fonda Lee, Award-winning author of the Green Bone Saga 
 
“Bone-chilling and breathtakingly beautiful…storytelling at its finest." – Rena Barron, author of Kingdom of Souls
 
“A brutal tale of religion, witchcraft, & patriarchy. The perfect read for fans of The Handmaid’s Tale.” – amanda lovelace, National bestselling author of the princess saves herself in this one
 
“This book will haunt your dreams.”—Christina Henry, National Bestselling author of *Alice *and *The Ghost Tree

Autorentext

Alexis Henderson is the author of Goodreads Choice Awards finalists The Year of the Witching and House of Hunger. When she's not writing, you'll find her hanging out with her cats or nursing a hot cup of tea.

Leseprobe

Chapter One

From the light came the Father. From the darkness, the Mother. That is both the beginning and the end.

-The Holy Scriptures

Immanuelle Moore knelt at the foot of the altar, palms pressed together in prayer, mouth open. Above her, the Prophet loomed in robes of black velvet, his head shaved bristly, his bloodied hands outstretched.

She peered up at him-tracing the path of the long, jagged scar that carved down the side of his neck-and thought of her mother.

In a fluid motion, the Prophet turned from her, robes rustling as he faced the altar, where a lamb lay gutted. He put a hand to its head, then slipped his fingers deep into the wound. As he turned to face Immanuelle again, blood trickled down his wrist and disappeared into the shadows of his sleeve, a few of the droplets falling to the stained floorboards at his feet. He painted her with the blood, his fingers warm and firm as they trailed from the dip of her upper lip down to her chin. He lingered for a moment, as if to catch his breath, and when he spoke his voice was ragged. "Blood of the flock."

Immanuelle licked it away, tasting brine and iron as she pressed to her feet. "For the glory of the Father."

On her way back to her pew, she was careful not to spare a glance at the lamb. An offering from her grandfather's flock, she'd brought it as a tribute the night before, when the cathedral was empty and dark. She had not witnessed the slaughter; she'd excused herself and retreated outside long before the apostles raised their blades. But she'd heard it, the prayers and murmurs drowned out by the cries of the lamb, like those of a newborn baby.

Immanuelle watched as the rest of her family moved through the procession, each of them receiving the blood in turn. Her sister Glory went first, dipping to her knees and obliging the Prophet with a smile. Glory's mother Anna, the younger of the two Moore wives, took the blessing in a hurry, herding her other daughter, Honor, who licked the blood off her lips like it was honey. Lastly, Martha, the first wife and Immanuelle's grandmother, accepted the Prophet's blessing with her arms raised, fingers shaking, her body seized by the power of the Father's light.

Immanuelle wished she could feel the way her grandmother did, but sitting there in the pew, all she felt was the residual warmth of the lamb's blood on her lips and the incessant drone of her heartbeat. No angels roosted at her shoulders. No spirit or god stirred in her.

When the last of the congregation was seated, the Prophet raised his arms to the rafters and began to pray. "Father, we come to Thee as servants and followers eager to do Thy work."

Immanuelle quickly bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut.

"There may be those among us who are distant from the faith of our ancestors, numb to the Father's touch and deaf to His voice. On their behalves, I pray for His mercy. I ask that they find solace not in the Mother's darkness but in the light of the Father."

At that, Immanuelle cracked one eye open, and for a moment, she could have sworn the Prophet's gaze was on her. His eyes were wide open at the height of his prayer, staring at her in the g…