“We are the granddaughters of witches they failed to burn!” Mariketa’s voice broke a little coming through the microphone, proud and righteously indignant. She threw her fist up to rousing shouts of support, echoing against cheap hotel walls.
I was silent, as was my cousin Leanna. We glanced at each other, understanding how dangerous this call to arms was. But all the hundred others heard was an end to our oppression, our grief.
I stood, Leanna following. Quiet came around me with weighty expectancy. My voice was strong and clear. “We are also the granddaughters of women who failed.”