Bones of Revenge and Reckoning (Shattered Ever After)

1. Renata

Chapter 1

Renata

Nine-years-old

Christmas is a few hours away, and I can’t sleep. I’m so excited. I asked Santa for a bicycle. I’ve wanted one for the past two whole years and asked and asked, and one never came. I know why. It’s because I’m a bad girl. Mamma always says this. I’m a bad girl, the bad sheep. I’m sure that is what I heard them calling me. The bad sheep. I don’t really know what it means, but I don’t want to be the bad sheep anymore.

I’ve been such a good girl this year. I did everything that was asked of me. I did everything right. I wore the scratchy dresses Mamma puts me in and let her curl my hair into ringlets. I didn’t play with toy soldiers and instead tried to be interested in my dolls. I didn’t argue back, which Mamma hates more than anything. And I tried not to argue with stupid Nico, but that was the hardest part.

I’ve done good deeds too, which Father Angelo talks about a lot in his long sermons. I didn’t even fidget in church.

Then, at school, we all wrote a letter to Santa, and the teacher said if we’ve been good, we might get what’s on our lists. My list had only one word on it.

Bicycle.

The minute I hear the maids open the curtains in the large drawing room, I shoot up out of bed.

As I hit the landing, I see I’m not the first. Nico is there. I smile sweetly. I’ve also tried very hard this year not to be angry at my little brother. Even though he makes it really difficult because he looks at me like he wants to hurt me. And I think he really would, if he were bigger. He always has a sneaky smile on his face, like he’s thinking of ways to upset me. As I’ve been a good girl, he’s had to try even harder to annoy me.

“Merry Christmas, Nico.” My smile is as sweet as honey. I don’t think our parents are up yet to hear me, but Santa hears everything.

“Eat slugs,” he replies.

I sigh and roll my eyes.

“Nico, be nice to your sister,” Mamma says on a yawn as she appears behind him.

Nico is younger than me but not by much. I once overheard Nonna say that’s because he was an accident, and it was a bad thing he came so soon after me. I don’t understand what that means, but Nico is bad, so maybe that’s why.

I’ve been told too many times that I’m not the usual little girl, playing with dolls and trinkets, but I do like some girlish things. Toys are so boring. I love Mamma’s paints, though, that she puts on her face, and her shiny baubles. Mamma always looks so pretty, and I like to dress up like her, except I’m not allowed. The last time I played with her paints, I got told off by Babbo.

I liked the way the red looked on my lips, but Babbo got so angry.

He called me a word I don’t know. Puta something. I know it was a bad word by the way he said it, face all scrunched up and twisted, and then Mamma scrubbed my face so hard my cheeks burned.

She isn’t wearing the paint this morning, but she’s still pretty.

Babbo comes out of their room, scratching his head and mussing his hair. Mamma immediately smooths it down. Mamma always likes for us to look our best. She makes me wear scratchy dresses a lot, even though I prefer pants like Nico gets to wear. If I’m good, and it’s Saturday, she might let me wear my jeans. Sunday is the scratchiest day as I have to wear my church dresses, and they are the worst.

We descend the stairs, and Mamma ushers us into the large dining kitchen. We eat here in the morning and in the dining room for other meals. Although Mamma has a lot of help, she mostly cooks the evening meals. Not breakfast, though. Angelina makes that, and she’s serving up now.

I take my seat, bouncing with excitement. I want to see the gifts in the drawing room. Just a peek.

“Mamma, please may I use the bathroom?” I ask.

She purses her lips but nods. “The downstairs one, and do not go into the drawing room.”

“Yes, Mamma.” I race from the table and go to the small, downstairs bathroom. I pretend to use it, just in case Santa is watching the house. I don’t think he can see inside bathrooms, but if he saw me go in, I better try to take the right amount of time. Maybe, even at this late stage, he can take gifts back.

After I’ve washed my hands, I exit the room and head back to the kitchen, but along the way, I tiptoe to the drawing room and peek in.

My heart stops and then does a somersault of giddiness. There, in the corner, wrapped in paper, is a bicycle shaped present. Oh, it is such a pretty shape. I clasp my hands to my heart, and my mouth stretches into a giddy smile.

I try to wipe it off so Mamma and Babbo don’t know I peeked.

I take my seat at the table, but I’m too excited to eat.

Babbo narrows his eyes and looks at me over the edge of yesterday’s paper. Anything to avoid making conversation with the family. “Renata, eat something. You’ll waste away.”

“If she’s not hungry, let her nibble.” My mother shrugs. “She’ll stay a nice weight in life if she doesn’t see food as pleasure and instead as sustenance.”

I don’t know what the last word means, and I tune out their discussion of my eating habits as my mind goes back to the big, wrapped shape under the tree.

Finally, the meal ends, and we are ushered into the drawing room to open presents.

We open the smaller ones first.

My gaze flickers to the corner where two large presents are nestled behind the tree. The bicycle and a very tall box. Maybe they got Nico the big toy space gun he wanted.

Mamma opens a box handed to her by Babbo, and it’s a sparkly thing to add to all the other sparkly things he buys her. She seems to like it, even though I don’t think this one is as pretty as all the others. It’s a green stone in yellow gold, and it doesn’t sparkle the way the clear stones do that she often gets. She seems to think it is the prettiest, though, as her smile is real, and it warms her eyes.

“It’s very rare,” Babbo says proudly. “Columbian emerald, and the inclusions are spectacular.”

“Thank you, my darling.” She kisses his cheek, and he gives a satisfied smile. The one he shares when we are good; that includes Mamma.

I hate kissing Babbo’s cheek. It’s always scratchy, and he smells of smoke and lemons. I think the lemon scent is the stuff he splashes on his hands and then pats his face with in the morning.

“Time for the big presents,” Mamma says, and I clap in glee.

I run toward them and grab the handles of the bicycle-shaped present. “Can you help me, Mamma?” I ask. It’s so big.

She frowns. “Darling, that’s Nico’s. Yours is next to it.”

“What?” I must have heard her wrong.

It can’t be his.

I’ve been so good, and Nico has been very, very bad.

“The other one is yours, darling.” Mamma comes to me and takes my hand as she grabs the box. “Come, let’s open it together. You’ll love it.”

She grabs the box and pulls it to us. Can a bike fit in that box? I don’t think so.

As she unwraps it, I watch Nico tear the paper off the bike. It’s red. Such a pretty, shiny, bright red.

My head feels funny, like there’s pressure in it as I watch him run his hands over the bike.

“But I asked Santa for a bike,” I say softly.

“Girls don’t ride bikes,” Babbo grunts.

Yes, they do. Many of my friends have bikes. I turn to Babbo. He scares me sometimes, but he’s wrong, and he’s telling a lie. It’s bad to lie. “That’s not true!” I say. “My friends have bikes.”

“Let me put it another way, Rennie. Good girls don’t ride bikes.”

“Look, you’ll love this, darling.” Mamma taps my arm, and I turn to look at the box, which houses a huge doll. It’s almost as big as me.

“She walks,” Mamma says proudly. “You can hold her hand, and she’ll walk with you. She talks too, and you can put paints on her, so you don’t have to use mine.” She smiles kindly.

My eyes are burning. Oh, no. I’m going to cry, and Babbo hates it when we cry. He gets all prickly and mean. Mamma says it’s because Babbo can’t handle emotions, but I don’t know what that means.

“Darling, don’t you like it?”

“I was so good,” I whisper.

“Yes, you were, darling. This is a very nice present.”

“I asked Santa for a bike,” I say. “Maybe there’s a mix up, and that’s mine?” I point to the shiny red object.

“No, darling. That’s Nico’s.”

“Did you ask Santa for a bike?” I ask him, confused.

He laughs. “Tatty.” He uses the nickname for me that I hate. “There’s no such thing as Santa.”

The pressure in my head gets worse. “Yes there is!” I shout.

Mamma’s grip on my arm firms. “Darling, that’s enough. You’re ruining Christmas.”

“He is real!” I shout again.

“No, he’s not, stupid Tatty. The list goes to Mamma and Babbo. They buy the gifts.” My brother smirks at me with an ugly, disgusted look etched on his face. “How can you be so stupid? You’re older than me, and you still believe in Santa. You’re stupid, Tatty.”

“Nico,” Mamma says sternly. “Enough.”

“No, she’s so stupid. No one her age still believes in Santa.”

“B-b-but we all wrote to him. In school.” The tears come now, flowing down my face.

Babbo stands, and his face is red and angry. “Come here, boy.” He grabs Nico by the arm and roughly pushes him forward. “You made your sister cry. On Christmas day.”

“Sorry, sir.” Nico lowers his head, but I can see the smirk on his face.

“I ought to belt you.”

“Not on Christmas, please.” Mamma drags me to my feet. “Renata and I will go upstairs and get ready. Nico, be good. Darling, please. Not today.”

She pulls me out of the room and up the stairs. When we reach my room, she takes the new and super scratchy looking dress out of my wardrobe. “Let’s get this on you, darling.”

As she hands it to me, the pressure in my head explodes, and I scream and tear at it with all my might. Something rips, and the sound is so loud in the quiet room.

Mamma’s face goes tight, and her lips tremble. “Renata, what did you do?”

“I hate the scratchy dresses. I hate the doll. I wanted a bike!” I shout at her. “I was so good, Mamma. So good. Nico has been bad all year, and he got my present.”

“It’s not your present. Babbo doesn’t want you riding bikes.”

“Why not? My friends do.”

“You are not like your friends, darling. You’re special. You are so pretty.” She smooths a lock of my dark hair behind my ear. “You have a very important role. You know we aren’t like other families, don’t you?”

I shake my head, confused.

“We have more than them. A bigger house. More cars and staff. We have a dynasty to maintain, Renata, and you will play an important role in that. You’re too young to understand, but when you’re old enough, I will explain. One day, though, you’ll marry a man, like I did Babbo, and you’ll have babies. If you run around in pants, climb trees, and ride bikes, then the best men might not want you. Those things aren’t what nice girls do.” Her pretty lips narrow in that tight line they take when she’s angry. “Your friends might play on bikes, but that isn’t what good girls do and frankly, darling, we might have to talk about whether they are good people for you to spend time with or not.”

I didn’t get a bike, and I might lose my friends? This is the worst Christmas ever. The pressure that exploded is back. It feels like something is burning in my chest and pressing in my head. I need to do something to make it go away.

“Is it true about Santa?” I ask, sniffling through the tears.

“Yes, darling.”

“But then … who brings the presents?”

“Babbo pays for them, and I buy them.”

“And you got my list?”

She nods. “Darling, you’ll thank me one day. One day, you’ll have a man in your life wealthier and maybe even more powerful than Babbo.”

“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.

“I hate you,” I say.

“That’s a sin,” he replies. “Now, go play with your dollies like a good girl.”

He makes a rude gesture at me that we’re not allowed to make and walks out of the room. Five minutes later I hear the door open, and I look out my window to see Nico riding his shiny new bike.

The pressure is so intense, I think my head will explode.

I wander out of my room and find myself in Mamma’s dressing room. I look at all her things, all so pretty and shiny, like she is, and I want to hurt them. I can’t. If I hurt Mamma’s clothes, Babbo will definitely take his belt to me.

Mamma always says I’m his favorite because he doesn’t spank me the way he does Nico, and he also sometimes sits me on his lap. I don’t care. I want to be Mamma’s favorite, but she loves Nico the most.

Mamma with her perfect face, and her clothes, and shiny things. Mamma always gets what she wants. Always . Today she got the green stone. I hate her.

Hate.

On her dresser are all her paints and potions, the ones she smears on her face. With a roar of rage, I pick up her hairbrush and start to smash them. The boxes crack, the bottles burst, and the colors splash about, dust covering the dresser and some even getting on the cream carpet.

Satisfied that I’ve ruined all her pretty things, I return to my room. The pressure is gone.

I fall asleep on the bed, the day grey and sad now. I have no interest in my doll, and I just want Christmas to be over.

The shaking wakes me. Is there an earthquake?

“ Wake up .”

I open my eyes to see Mamma shaking me. She’s being so rough my teeth rattle.

“You vicious little witch,” she hisses.

I’m confused, and then I remember with a sick lurch. Her paints. I smashed them. It felt good at the time, but now I feel awful.

“I’m sorry, Mamma,” I say. I mean it too.

“You’re evil, Renata.”

Those words send a chill down my spine. Evil is very bad. It’s a strong word, and the priests say it is the worst thing. I can’t be evil. I’m a child. Children aren’t evil. The nuns said so.

“I’m not evil, Mamma.” I shake my head.

“Yes, you are. You smashed it all up and ruined our carpet. I’ve cleaned it so that Babbo doesn’t see it. God knows he’d somehow blame Nico, and your poor brother would bear the brunt. There is something wrong inside you, Renata.” Her eyes are shiny with tears. “I think the devil touched you. My own child.”

She crosses herself, and my eyes widen in terror. The devil has been near me? Touched me? Does he come at night?

I’m so scared all my skin goes cold and prickly.

“Mark my words, I am going to get you out of this house.”

She turns and stalks to the door.

“Mamma, stop,” I cry out. “Where would I go?”

“You’ll go away. To school. A place where bad girls go to board and be taught how to behave. It will be for the best all around.”

Mamma doesn’t say things she doesn’t mean. Not like this. It is no idle threat.

She sighs. “It will do you good.”

That’s when I know she’s very serious.

She closes the door softly behind her, and I’m left alone in my room, crying.