Page 4 of Bones of Revenge and Reckoning

“What does powerful mean?” I ask.

“Power is everything, my darling. The thing which matters most in the world.” Her eyes glance down, and when she looks back up, they are like huge pools of sadness. “We can’t have it, you and I.”

“Why not?” I whisper. If it is the thing which matters the most, why can’t I have it? Like the bike, it’s another thing I’m being told is not for me.

“Because we are girls. But we can get close to power and use it. That is what I will teach you to do, my darling. Then when you have your babies, you’ll have some of your own leverage.”

I don’t know what that long word means either. I hate playing with dolls, though, and I don’t like babies. I was given one to hold last month, and it smelled of poop and sick, and it scrunched up its red face and screamed. All the women looked at the screaming, poopy thing like it was magical.

“I hate babies,” I say passionately.

Mamma laughs. “That’s only because you’re still one yourself. When you get older, you’ll think they are the best thing in the world.”

I swear then on my very God-given soul that I will never let her be right. She is wrong. I don’t want babies or scratchy dresses. I want to ride bikes, and wear jeans, and run in the sunshine.

“You’ll thank me when your prince comes along, darling.” She pats my cheek, and I look at her as something fierce and new burns in me.

Hate. It’s a bad word. We shouldn’t hate things, or so our Sunday School teacher says. Right now, I hate my mamma. I hate her pats on the cheek, the scratchy dresses she puts me in, and her perfection. I hate the way she thinks I’m like her. I’m not.

She walks out of the room, and a moment later, Nico pokes his head around the door. “If you ever ride my bike, I’ll tell Mamma. Or I’ll cut off your hands. If you have no hands, then you won’t be able to eat, and you’ll die.”

“No one cuts off people’s hands, you stupid … stupid…” I trail off.

“Oh, they do. Babbo cuts off heads,” he says this proudly.

“No, he does not.”

“So does.”

“Does not.”

Nico rolls his eyes at me.

“Did you ask for a bike?” I whisper.

His face tightens. “No.”

“What did you ask for? A space gun?”

He shuffles his feet as if he’s uncomfortable. “A painting set.”

“A what?”

“Painting set. Canvas, paints, you know.”

Nico is quite good at art.

“You didn’t get it,” I point out.

“No. It’s not what boys do.” He shrugs.

“Are you sad?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I might not have got what I wanted, but I got what you wanted.” He pokes his tongue out at me.

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