The Daughters of Temperance Hobbs by Katherine Howe
English | 2019 | Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 6.9 Mb
The Daughters of : Connie Goodwin is an expert on America’s fractured past with witchcraft. A young, tenure-track professor in Boston, she’s earned career success by studying the history of domestic healing arts—women’s home recipes and medicines—and by exposing society’s threats against women fluent in those skills. But beyond her studies, Connie harbors a secret: She is the direct descendant of a woman tried as a witch in Salem, an ancestor whose abilities were far more magical than the historical record shows.
When a hint from her mother and clues from her research lead Connie to the startling realization that her beloved fiancé’s life is in danger, she must hurry to solve the mystery behind a hundreds’-years-long deadly cycle to save him.
“She’s very upset,” Janine said, in a mild tone that reminded Connie that Janine had stepped in when she, Connie, lost her own advisor to a devastating illness just as she was beginning dissertation research. In the background, a nose blew, and weeping continued audibly.
“He can’t stay on to see her through the exam?” Connie said. Outside a breeze kicked up, rattling dry maple leaves against her office window like loosened teeth.
“He’s moving onto a boat.”
“There’s no one else on faculty who can do it? What about someone in religious studies?” Connie’s hand found her forehead and pinched an eyebrow.
“I’m not asking you to be her advisor,” Janine pointed out. The radiator under Connie’s office window rumbled to life. Like I did for you, Janine didn’t say. “Third reader. Second, at most.”
“Isn’t Thomas a lecturer now? Can’t he do it?”
Thomas Rutherford had been Connie’s undergrad thesis student when Connie was in grad school. He was now a lanky postdoc, half a foot taller (who knew boys still grew in college?), and as pale and studious as ever. Connie still met him for lunch, on occasion.
“You know that won’t do her any good when she goes on the job market,” Janine said. “She’ll need a professor. For her letters.”
“But—” Connie picked up the pencil from her desk and pressed her thumbnail into it, digging a crescent into the wood.”