Excerpt from The Prophets by Robert Jones Jr., plus links to reviews, author biography & more

She didn't take to them at first. Like all children, one was indistinguishable from the other. They blended into a mass of ignorant, pitiful bodies; and they laughed, high-pitched, without reserve, which made them too tempting to ignore. There wasn't a single blade of grass that didn't bend to the sorrow of this place, but these little ones behaved as if it could be openly defied. But by the time hair began to sprout around their sexes, The Two of Them had figured out (maybe not figured out as much as revealed) an ingenious way of separating themselves from the others: by being their own selves. And the split exposed a feeling in her long hidden.

Even now, she couldn't explain it, but her breasts became tender around them, like they should have, but didn't, when she was forced to be Empty's mare. Along with the tenderness of breast came a tenderness of heart. It wasn't simply that they were helpful, that she never had to lift a bucket of water from the well or a log for the fire or a boulder to beat the wash when they were around. It wasn't just that they had never asked anything of her, not even her approval. It might have been that the feeling had nothing to do with them at all, but rather with something they helped her to remember.

She saw something once. Just as the moon had gone as high as it would go, she crept over one night to bring them the food that she had hidden earlier that morning: a strip of fried quail, half an egg, a few apple slices that she mashed into a sauce, no poisons. She moved quietly from the house to the barn. She came up from the backside of the barn and intended to enter from a side door, but it was latched. She heard noises and pressed her ear up against the wall. A moan, perhaps; a gasp; the longest sigh ever. Then she peered through a crack between the boards of the wall. She could only see them because of the moonlight that shot in through the parts of the roof where the planks needed repair. Shadowy figures. From a distance, they seemed to be tussling.

She was certain she saw Samuel bite Isaiah's shoulder in an attempt to be free from his grasp. They tumbled down the haystack, crushing misplaced saddles and frightening wayward crickets into the air. They were naked, sweaty, as twisted together as earthworms, and grunting pig songs. When they had finally come to a stop, their faces were pressed together, held there, seemingly, by their quivering tongues. Then one turned on his stomach. She hurried back to the Big House.

To ease some other pain, surely. Surely.

But what was that flitting around in her head and why had she begun to sweat so? What was she remembering?

Her journey to the barn became nighttime routine. Quietly, she peeked into it, gladly offering her soul for just a sliver of moonlight. She watched them from underneath ladders, behind stacks of hay, or through the jambs of horse-pen doors. She had no desire to interrupt or even to discuss what she saw; simply bearing witness was treasure. For they were as frisky and playful as crows and her proximity made her feel as if she was in the dark sky, suspended upon the surface of their wings. Oh so black. Oh so high. Up there, where there was safety and glow.

But down here, they had better be careful.

She had tried to find a word for what she witnessed. There was none she could think of; at least, there was no word extraordinary enough, particularly not in the tongue she spoke now.

Why aren't they afraid? Maggie found herself asking as she stood in the kitchen, still staring at the barn. She rubbed her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something blink into existence, shimmer, and then fade out as soon as it had arrived. It was the edge of something black. Then, something swirled. With it came the stench. She could only see the outline, but it might have been someone on fire. By the time she reached for a jug of water, it was gone. A spot of dried blood on the floor right where the haint had visited was the only evidence she had that she was not imagining things.

Excerpted from The Prophets by Robert Jones, Jr.. Copyright © 2021 by Robert Jones, Jr.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.