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What if a family legacy of witchcraft demanded more than survival—what if it demanded a reckoning? We dive into Kirsten Miller’s The Women of Wild Hill, where two estranged sisters collide with a centuries-old haunting, a thorny prophecy, and a world that keeps pretending it isn’t on fire. The scale is bigger than a single villain; it’s the machinery of patriarchy, wealth, and extraction, and the question is brutal: do you fix a rigged system from within, or do you burn it down and start over?

We compare the intimate vigilante justice of The Change with Wild Hill’s push toward systemic upheaval, unpacking how lineage shifts the story from finding power to stewarding it. Brigid’s death-sight, Phoebe’s healing, and Sybil’s kitchen magic reveal three distinct expressions of agency—one burdened by finality, one built for repair, and one that turns care into strategy. Along the way, we trace the novel’s ecofeminist spine: storms herding the sisters home, a house kept by a wronged ancestor, and "the Old One" nudging fate with wind and quake when humans refuse to listen.

The moral terrain isn’t tidy. We wrestle with prophecy as both guide and cage, with poison as a cure that hurts before it heals, and with the cost of toppling men who are monstrous in boardrooms rather than alleys. Are flawed women still fit to lead a revolution? Can rage be refined into a compass? By the end, we land on a hard truth: solidarity, not solitary heroics, moves the needle, and sometimes the clean solution is the fantasy that keeps everything broken.

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