Mama's Bones

Mama’s Bones

The day Mama decides to make Myrtie, the man comes to the door. Honor answers the call of the bell more out of habit than conscious thought, heavy legs dragging her from the closet to the front hall. Mama’s in one of her moods (it’s worse, it’s worse, it’s so much worse) and Honor’s bones ache down to the marrow as a result. She doesn’t smile when she heaves open the heavy oak door.

“We don’t want any,” she tells the man standing on the other side. She distantly notes that he’s dressed like a city man, hair slicked back and in a casual suit. She doesn’t care. “We’re not open for business.”

The man pauses as if taken aback, quick blue eyes narrowing in on her face. “And what if I’m not selling anything? What if I’m not buying anything?”

Honor’s not used to interacting with people. Normally she’d shut the door, but there’s something about this man’s voice that makes her pause. “Then...I don’t know.” No one comes to the door unless they’re selling or buying.

The man nods like that’s an answer. His hair is cut very close to his head. “I have a question for you. If you do me the kindness of answering it, then I’ll give you a reward.”

Honor doesn’t want a reward. She wants this man to leave, wants him off their porch and down the gravel driveway and back to his yellow car before Mama comes downstairs. Her fingers curl around the door. “What?”

“Two questions,” the man says and smiles at her suspicious look. “Two questions actually.” He leans down so that they’re at the same height. He doesn’t have to lean down far. “I’ll ask you one and then you can ask me one, hmm?”

Honor should close the door. She should go back to her closet and tell Mama it was a solicitor. Something makes her keep the door open. “Fine.”

The man’s smile widens like she’s done him a favor. “Let’s start easy. What’s your name?”

“Honor,” says Honor. She cocks her head, mouth turning down into a frown. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Those are your two questions,” the man cautions her. When she doesn’t say anything, he laughs a little. “Fair enough. My name is Thad Baker. As for what I want...I want to know some things about you.” His eyes sharpen as he looks away from her, into the house and to the staircase like he can see up it. “I want to know more about this house.” There’s something moving behind his eyes when he looks back at her. Then, all at once, it’s gone. “But I think I want us to be friends the most, Honor.”

Her brow furrows. Try as she might, she can’t find whatever was in his eyes. She edges a little behind the door. “What’s your second question?” 

“I’m sorry,” Thad says and actually sounds it. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t,” Honor says. She feels her bones hum with tension and the wood of the door dents a little under her fingers. “What’s your second question?”

“Well,” Thad says, rocking back on his heels. “I guess that would be to ask who made you.” He rocks forward. “And with what.”

She stares at him. She can’t tell him. Even though part of her wants to, even though something about him makes her want to, even though--  Mama told her-- Mama told her--

“Honor?” Thad asks, eyes concerned. “Are you--”

She slams the door in his face.

***

Mama makes Myrtie’s bones out of howlite, carves the soft stone into fingers and toes and fixes her skull onto her neck with a mix of Himalayan salt and willpower. She rubs her femurs down with rosemary, curls long strips of white willow bark around her vertebrae, secrets leaves of lavender in hinge and socket joints.

“She’ll be good,” Mama mutters, clawing chunks of clay out of the basin at her side. “This one will be good.” She wraps the clay around the chunk of quartz that will serve as Myrtie’s heart and begins to fashion veins and arteries out of it.

Honor, standing by the door, knows better than to speak. She silently offers Mama another bowl of salt, freshly ground, and then fades to the back of the room. Her bones ache all the time these days, endless pain, but she knows that her fate will come that much quicker if she says anything.

Beneath the floorboards, down in the basement, her brothers’ bones, hematite and tiger’s eye, hum agreement.

***

“Someone came to the door today,” Honor says from her spot behind Mama’s chair. She’s the perfect distance today, a foot to the left and half back. “A man.”

Mama’s long, strong fingers spasm around her fork, chicken falling from the end and back onto the plate. She turns her head just enough so that Honor can see one, sky-blue eye under Mama’s long, black hair. “Who.”

“Thad Baker,” Honor says, looking straight ahead. Mama doesn’t like it when Honor looks at her. She says that Honor did something to the sea glass she used, something to make it pale and unnerving. “He looked like he was from the city.”

The life falls out of the room, the air turning stale, the color draining from the walls, and the warmth fleeing. Mama’s fork bends and snaps in her hand and she drops both parts onto her unfinished dinner. “That--that nodamngood man!” She jerks to her feet, chair flying back with the force of it. The wooden back hits Honor and she cries out before she can stop the sound.

“I’m sorry,” Honor says immediately. Her chin hurts from the blow and something metallic is sitting heavy on her tongue. She looks at the floor, crystal heart bang, bang, banging in her chest. 

“You,” Mama says, “are too close.” She sweeps around Honor and out of the dining room. Honor hears her take the stairs, still cursing Thad Baker, and stomp across the wooden floorboards to her room.

Only when she hears Mama’s door slam shut does Honor allow herself to sit down.

Her bones throb.

***

The next time Thad Baker rings the bell, Mama hisses at Honor to go to her closet and answers the door herself. Honor feels her legs take her further into the house, past the room where Myrtie’s bones lie,  past the stairs to the basement. She opens the closet door--the one right off the kitchen--and climbs in, folding herself down under the hanging dresses Mama gave her.

“--what right you think you have, coming here,” Mama says. Her voice is echoing down the hall as she raises it. Honor can almost picture how Mama’s hands must be curling around the doorframe, how her mouth must be turning down at the corner’s, how her long, black hair must be swinging.

Thad Baker says something back, something soothing and so low that Honor can’t make out the words.

“Fine,” Mama says after a moment. “Just a minute.”

There’s the sound of the door closing. Honor expects Mama to go upstairs or to Myrtie’s room where she’s been spending more and more of her time. Instead she hears two sets of footsteps move towards the kitchen.

Towards her.

“I do appreciate your cooperation, Nicole,” Thad Baker says. He sounds like he did all those days ago when Honor opened the door. Kind and relaxed with an underlying strength that tells Honor that he’s like Mama. Powerful.

Mama snorts and glides past Honor’s closet. “Like I have a choice.”

“That’s true,” Thad Baker says. His footsteps slow and stop outside her door, almost like he knows she’s in there. She stops breathing, one hand pressed tightly to her mouth as she watches the shadows under the door. After a long, tense moment he follows Mama into the kitchen. “You understand the...situation, though?”

“Situation,” Mama repeats. The magic in the air writhes; Mama is upset. “Interesting choice of word.”

“Apt,” Thad Baker corrects. Wood scrapes over linoleum and cloth shifts. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a glass of water?”

Mama doesn’t answer, but there’s the sound of cabinets opening and closing. Normally Honor is in charge of drinks and food in the house, but Mama doesn’t call for her. It makes Honor anxious and she shifts so that the top of her head brushes the hems of the summer dresses.

“Thank you,” Thad Baker says. Honor hears him swallow and set the glass on the table. “Let’s talk the Alchemist’s Conventions of 1753.”

Honor’s brow furrows. What? 

“I know what the Alchemist’s Conventions are,” Mama says. That makes sense. Mama knows everything.

“That is part of the situation,” Thad Baker says. There’s a ringing sound like he’s tapping on his glass. “The Council has reason to believe that you’ve violated them within the past half century. Quite a few times.”

Mama’s voice is very cold. “Reason to believe. Sounds like you don’t know if I did or not.”

“Did you?”

Mama doesn’t answer.

Thad Baker sighs. “No, we can’t prove it, but we have enough to warrant some...supervisory action.” A zipper slides and paper rustles. “I need to ask you some questions. Yes or no answers.”

“I don’t have to answer,” Mama says. “What does supervisory mean?”

“It means that we know you’re making another one,” Thad Baker says. He pauses, letting that sink in, and continues. “It means that the Council has tasked me with seeing that proper protocol is followed.” The paper shuffles and something heavy hits the wood. “Are you making another one?”

“No,” Mama says through gritted teeth.

Honor blinks as the crack under the door floods with red light. She reaches out to touch it, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. She looks at the wood door like she can see through it. What was that? It smelled like magic.

“So that means yes,” Thad Baker says mildly. There’s a scratching sound. “Noted. The attempt at a lie is also noted.”

The air, for one terrifying moment, turns blistering hot in Honor’s cupboard. She gasps, hands flying to the walls as if she could break them down before she’s burnt to a crisp. Outside, Mama’s voice is still so, so cold. “I didn’t give you permission to soothsay me.”

If Thad Baker heard Honor, he doesn’t show it. “I don’t need permission under the Alchemist’s Conventions. Do you currently have an active one?”

The heat dims reluctantly, like Mama is trying to restrain herself.

“Nicole,” Thad Baker says and now there’s bite in his voice. “Answer the question or I will be forced to compel you to answer it.” He lowers his voice. “You know I can.”

Honor’s eyes widen. She doesn’t think Thad Baker knows what he’s getting into. No one makes Mama do anything. No one.

“You always were no damn good, Thad,” Mama snarls. There’s the sound of her drumming her fingernails on the table. Tap, tap, tap, tap. “How’s it feel to be the Council’s dog?”

“It feels fine,” Thad Baker says. “Answer the question.”

“Yes,” Mama says. Electricity crackles and all of Honor’s hair stands on end, sticking to the dresses above her. “Damn you, I do.”

Green light glows under the door and is gone before Honor can blink. Again she can smell something like magic, though not like any she’s ever smelled before. Mama’s is earthy and tingly, sometimes fiery when she’s upset. This type smells like citrus and something flowery. Roses?

“Uh huh,” Thad Baker says, scratching something else down. He sounds unimpressed. “Is it true that you’ve had more than one active at a time before?”

Wood scrapes across the linoleum again and Mama’s footsteps storm across the kitchen. “Do you think I’d have more than one active at a time?”

“I think a smart witch wouldn’t dare chance it,” Thad Baker says pleasantly. “Are you getting more water? Mind filling up my glass?”

It doesn’t sound like Mama makes any move to fill up his glass. “I’d consider myself a smart witch.”

The gap under the door shines green. Honor is faster this time, ready for the flare of light. She touches it with her fingertips and gasps as the magic tingles up her arms, sinks down into her bones, eases her aches and pains. She brings her hand up to her face to see that the pads of her fingers are glowing that same green. 

“That didn’t answer the question,” Thad Baker is saying outside the cupboard. There’s a long pause and Honor’s wonder fades as the tension grows. Finally the man sighs. “I won’t force you, Nicole, not this time. But I expect you to submit to supervision. Just until it’s done.”

“Fine.” Mama walks back across the kitchen, past the table where Honor thinks Thad Baker is sitting and to her closet. She throws open the door and Honor blinks light out of her eyes. “Honor. We have a guest.” Mama reaches down and grabs her by the arm, yanking her out of the closet.

Thad Baker is sitting at the table. He’s dressed the same as when she saw him first: in a light brown suit that matches his slick backed hair. He’s carefully putting a small pile of paper back into his messenger bag. He smiles when he sees Honor. “Honor! Nice to see you again.”

“Hello,” she says and tries to duck behind Mama, suddenly shy. Mama doesn’t let her and the grip on her arm tightens until Honor can feel her bones creak.

“Show Mr. Baker to the guest room,” Mama commands. Her eyes, the color of Honor’s but not, are very hard as she looks at Thad Baker. “He’ll be staying awhile.”

***

She puts Mr. Baker in the room overlooking the driveway. It’s dusty and there are traces of its last occupants: a pack of drawing pencils, a pair of binoculars by the window, a photograph of a beetle, and half a closet of boy’s clothes.

“Oh,” Mr. Baker says when he sees the clothes. “Is this your room?”

“No,” Honor says and goes to change the sheets. “I’ll put new covers on before sunset, don’t worry.”

“It’s alright,” Mr. Baker says. There’s the smell of citrus and roses and, suddenly, the dust is gone. Mr. Baker, when she turns, is smiling kindly at her. “No need to make a fuss since I’m the one intruding.”

Honor’s brow furrows. She wants to ask why he’s intruding, what are the Alchemist’s Conventions, why does Mr. Baker’s magic smell different than Mama’s? Instead she nods and heads for the door.

“Wait,” Mr. Baker says, stepping quickly in front of her as if to block her way. He holds his hands up in a peaceful gesture. “Nicole isn’t expecting you to be done for a while, right? Why don’t we have a little chat.”

Honor cocks her head. “Are you trying to keep me from leaving?” 

“Yes,” Mr. Baker says immediately. “I, wait, no. I’m asking you to stay.” He studies her. “If I ask you to stay, would you leave?”

Honor feels like the question is a trap. The dark thing is back in his eyes and she recognizes it now. It’s the look in Mama’s eyes when she’s choosing bones, something hungry and full of teeth. It makes Honor shiver. “No.”

Mr. Baker seems...disappointed? He sighs and drops his arms, walking past her to his bag. “Well then, let’s chat.” He reaches in and pulls out a stone. It looks like obsidian to Honor, but heavier. When she closes her eyes, she can feel it pulsing against her bones, insistent. Like water. Like waves.

“What is that?” she asks, opening her eyes to look at the stone. She nearly bites her tongue off a second later; Mama is always telling her not to ask questions and she’s already asked one.

“It’s something for conversation,” Mr. Baker says. His lips quirk upwards as he drops it on the desk. “A conversation starter.”

“Okay,” says Honor. She still doesn’t understand, but Mama says she wouldn’t even if she did ask questions all day. So she stands still and presses her hands behind her back, waiting.

“Now,” Mr. Baker says, “when did Nicole make you?” He pulls out the desk chair and sits, leans forward so his elbows rest on his knees. “When’s your birthday?”

“In winter,” Honor says. Mama says that’s why Honor isn’t any good. Winter is a dying season, not good for the sort of life Honor is supposed to have. “It’s been two winters since.”

The stone on the desk glows pure white. Mr. Baker turns to look at it, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. After a moment, they ease back down and he clicks his tongue. “I shouldn’t have expected for it to work on something like you. The morality was always the tricky part. Foolish.”

That makes something in Honor’s stomach turn though she doesn’t know why. “Sorry.”

Mr. Baker shakes his head. “Not your fault. But it’s not much of a conversation starter if it doesn’t work, is it?” He flicks the stone and turns back to her. “I don’t suppose you’d just agree to tell me the truth?”

“I don’t have any reason to lie,” Honor says because she doesn’t.

Mr. Baker’s gaze sharpens. “What if your mother told you to?”

“Then…,” Honor says slowly, “I suppose I would.”

Mr. Baker’s smile is sharp, too sharp. “That’s what I thought.” He turns to the desk and the glowing stone on it. “You can go now.”

Honor goes. She thinks she just failed, somehow, though she doesn’t know how. She hopes that Mr. Baker won’t tell Mama.

***

The next day, Honor watches Mama carefully for any sign that Mr. Baker told her about their conversation. To her relief, Mama eats her breakfast in silence, completely ignoring her guest, and doesn’t seem angry with Honor for asking Mr. Baker so many questions. She clears the table as soon as they’re done eating and goes to do the dishes.

“You start work early,” Mr. Baker says. 

“It’s eight,” Mama says like Mr. Baker is an idiot.

“So it is.” He raises his voice. “Thank you for cleaning up, Honor.”

She startles and turns, eyes wide. Before she can think of anything to say, Mama snorts.

“Don’t thank her,” Mama says. “She gets distracted easily. Lazy.”

Honor’s bones fill with heat and she goes back to cleaning, head down. Noone says anything while she works and all the muscles in her back knot up from the tension.

After the dishes are done, they all go to Myrtie’s room. Mama has to unlock the door and the smell of her magic rushes over Honor, earth and electricity and something that stings her nose. Mama doesn’t let anyone go into the room ahead of her, sweeping with her head held high.

Mr. Baker whistles when he sees Myrtie, low and long. “You’ve improved, Nicole. Why howlite?”

“For the emotion,” Mama says and then glares at Honor like she’s done something wrong. “All of them have been too self-centered. Howlite is good for listening.”

Honor keeps her eyes on the wood floors and goes to get the bucket of salt. Her bones feel like they’re being pricked and it’s hard not to show it on her face. Luckily, she’s had practice.

Mr. Baker nods like that makes sense. “Looks pretty close to done. What are you doing today?”

Mama crouches down and pulls out a roll of cloth. It’s patchwork, purples and browns and the occasional orange. With a flick, she send it cascading over Myrtie’s white bones. “Skin.”

Honor and Mr. Baker stand back as Mama begins to sew.

***

Honor finds Mr. Baker staring at the door to the basement later that night. She freezes on the stairs down, conscious of Mama’s snoring upstairs. He’s not supposed to be there, he’s not, so she forces herself down the last couple of steps and down the hall.

Mr. Baker looks up when he hears her coming. He nods to the door. “What’s this?”

Honor just stares at him. She doesn’t know if she’s allowed to tell him; she doesn’t know if she wants to tell him. “Can I get you anything?”

“So it’s like that,” Mr. Baker says quietly to himself. He looks at the basement door for a long moment. Honor can feel his magic turning over in his skin like a serpent. Waiting. Finally, he turns a smile on her. “Why don’t we have another chat, hmm?”

Honor doesn’t see any reason to say no and that’s how she finds herself at the kitchen table with Mr. Baker, a glass of water in front of her.

“Do you need to drink?” Mr. Baker asks belatedly. He’s not wearing his suit jacket anymore and his white dress shirt looks rumpled. 

Honor frowns at him. “Of course.” She’s alive. All living things need water.

“Okay,” says Mr. Baker, raising his eyebrows. He takes a sip of his own water, staring somewhere over Honor’s head. He finishes half the glass before he puts it down. “Why don’t we play the questions game, Honor. I ask one and then you can ask one.”

Honor feels like this is another trap. She wants to play, she does, but Mama’s right upstairs.

“Come on,” Mr. Baker says and smiles like they’re friends. “How about this? You can go first. Go on.”

Honor glances towards the stairs and licks her lips. Just for a while can’t hurt. “Why doesn’t Mama want you here?”

“Mama,” Mr. Baker says and shakes his head. “Oh, Nicole hasn’t changed at all.” He straightens, pulling at his shirt sleeves. “Your mama doesn’t want me here because I’m going to tell on her if she does something bad.”

“Bad?” Honor asks. She feels like that didn’t answer her question at all. If anything, she has more questions now. “What could she do that’s bad?”

The look Mr. Baker gives her is one Honor’s never seen before. It’s almost sad, but not for himself. It’s almost like he’s sad for her. “That’s another question. It’s my turn to ask something.  What--”

“Why are you sad for me?” Honor blurts out. She doesn’t care that she’s interrupted him or that it’s not her turn to ask. She needs to know. “You can’t be sad for me.”

“And why can’t I be?” Mr. Baker seems amused for some reason. It makes Honor mad.

“Because,” she says and reaches for her bones. They hum under her attention and something soft, warm, and huge bursts through her skin. She watches as it hits Mr. Baker, rippling through the air, and narrows her eyes. “I’m not supposed to let you be sad for me.”

For a moment it works; Mr. Baker’s eyes flutter shut and his shoulders slump. Then Mr. Baker blinks as if he’s just waking up, shaking off her influence like it’s nothing.. “Wh--Oh, Nicole. Opal, isn’t it? Yes, opal I think.”

Honor is stiff. “How do you know what my bones are?” They’re not working, just like they don’t work on Mama. Honor’s failed again.

“They have a distinctive taste,” Mr. Baker says. He eyes her like he can see through her skin, her muscles, right to the stone she’s made of. “Interesting. I’d thought opal would be too fragile. Nicole was always good at making impossible things.” His eyes flick up to hers and he grins. “That was your question. Is that why Nicole made you? To make sure she’s not sad?”

“I’m supposed to,” Honor says. She hunches her shoulders. “I’m not very good at it.”

“Not all the things we make do the things we make them for,” Mr. Baker says. It sounds like he’s trying to comfort her. His lip curls as he realizes it and he settles back, retreating. “Your question.”

Honor’s bones hurt even more now that she’s expended her energy. She drags her feet over to the table, sitting across from Mr. Baker without permission. “What are the Alchemist’s Conventions?”

Mr. Baker’s eyebrows fly up. “You were listening. You remembered. Interesting.”

Honor’s hands knit together under the table, fingers twisting. Mr. Baker keeps saying ‘interesting’ like he means something else. The opal in her spine is beginning to chafe under the syllables. Interesting. She’s not whatever he thinks interesting is. “What are they?”

“They’re rules,” Mr. Baker says. He knocks his knuckles on the table. “People like Nicole used to not have any. A long time ago. And they made too many things until they lost control of them. Now we have rules saying that you can’t make certain things from certain materials. Things like that.”

“Mama made me,” Honor says. It’s a fact, one she’s known her entire life, but now she tastes each word. “So she’s an alchemist?”

“Not quite,” Mr. Baker says. “But it’s my question, Honor. Did Nicole make others like you?”

Honor isn’t listening. She looks at her hands under the table and untwists them. Her palms are patchwork, pink and yellow and cream. Healing colors. “I’m not a thing,” she mutters to her palms.

“Honor,” Mr. Baker says. “I asked you a question. Did Nicole make others like you?”

Honor looks up. Her bones are buzzing, something they’ve never done before. “Are you asking if she made other things?”

“Yes,” Mr. Baker says and leans even further across the table.

“Then no,” Honor says. She stands and feels Mr. Baker’s surprise at the speed of the movement beat against her skin. “Mama doesn’t make things.”

She goes to her closet and shuts the door.

***

Honor realizes that Mama is planning to kill her while they’re in Myrtie’s room the next day. There’s nothing overt about it, nothing that wasn’t there before, but she’s been thinking since last night. About the what Mr. Baker said. The Alchemist’s Conventions are about things and Mr. Baker is here to make sure that the rules aren’t broken.

If Myrtie is a thing, then what does that make Honor? What does it make Glenn? Or August?

“What are you going to use for eyes?”

Mr. Baker’s voice breaks through and Honor realizes that he’s moved to stand by Mama at the table. Myrtie is nearly done now, a neatly sewn little girl about as tall as Honor, but bigger. Fluffier.

“Sea glass,” Mama grunts. She’s rubbing at Myrtie’s skin, softening the stitches until they lie flush against the rest. 

Honor reaches up and touches her own eyes: sea glass. She wonders if she and Myrtie will match then, both with sea glass eyes.

“I guess you’ll have plenty of material,” Mr. Baker murmurs. When Honor looks up, he’s staring directly at her. His lips quirk and he turns back to Mama. “After.”

“After,” Mama agrees.

Honor feels her blood run cold, so cold that she’s afraid her bones might shatter. After. She has sea glass eyes. Mama wants Myrtie to have sea glass eyes.

They won’t both have sea glass eyes.

Have you ever had more than one active at one time?, Mr. Baker said.

Proper protocol, said Mr. Baker.

Honor presses her lips together, hands tightening around the salt. It begins to spit and hiss in her hands, popping as her own power floods it.

She is not a thing.

***

That night, she lies awake in her cupboard, listening to the sounds of the house. The floorboards in Myrtie’s room creak; the windows in there are open to let her dry. She’s almost done.

Upstairs, Mama is snoring the little whistle snores Honor used to count until she fell asleep. She hears Mama roll over in her bed and it echoes down the stairs, bed frame creaking like the floors.

At two am, the stairs also begin to creak.

Honor is already sitting up in her cupboard, knees pressed tight to her chest. She listens as Mr. Baker creeps downstairs, hissing under his breath as each stair protests, each slat of wood groans. He tiptoes down the hall, past Honor’s cupboard, and stops in front of the basement.

She expects him to try the knob or to even kick it down, but he doesn’t. Instead the smell of citrus and roses seeps under her door and there’s a soft click. Honor hears him breathe in the silence that follows. Then he starts heading down.

He’s coming, she whispers to the bones of her brothers. They’re not like her anymore, but they’re there. The tiger’s eye is salty on her tongue, pleasant and warm. The hematite tastes like gun metal and the good sort of earth. They hum back at her.

Honor counts to thirty, breathing in for five and out for five. Then she carefully turns the knob and opens her cover, making sure to breathe on the bottom hinge so that it doesn’t squeak. She crawls across the hall, darting a nervous glance at the stairs, and sits on the third step down to the basement. Then she folds her arms back around her knees and waits.

Thad Baker freezes as he gains the bottom step, eyes locked on her silhouette. When he sees how small she is, how unthreatening, he relaxes. “Honor. You scared me.”

Honor watches him relax and, unseen by him, her lips curl. She looks at the bundle in his arms. One thin, black bone is sticking out. “Those are my brothers. Glenn and August.”

“I see,” Thad Baker says. He makes no move to put them down. “Did you meet them?”

“Are you asking if they were active when I was made?” Honor asks. She feels her bones warm as fury lights in her belly. She’s glad that Thad Baker can’t see her eyes right now. “Mama made Glenn out of hematite. To ground her, she said. To give her some stability.”

Thad Baker stays still. “Did it work?”

“Depends.” Honor stands, but doesn’t step down towards him. “Depends on who you ask. Mama pushed him down the stairs. August buried him down here.”

“So there was two active,” Thad Baker says. He grins and that dark, hungry thing curls up in his eyes. “Got her.”  He takes a step up and freezes as Honor mirrors him, stepping down. “Honor?”

“Mama made August out of tiger’s eye,” she says. Her patchwork arms hang by her sides and she knows that he can see her a little better now. “For clarity and farseeing. But he didn’t see enough and she locked him down here with Glenn’s bones. He died of thirst and hunger, Mr. Baker. Do you know why?”

Thad Baker is silent. Honor continues anyway.

“It’s because we’re not things,” Honor says. She tilts her head to the side, letting her long, black hair swing. She thinks she might cut it off. It’s Mama’s hair. “We’re alive and we need to drink water and eat food.”

“You think you do,” Thad Baker says. “Extraordinary bit of spellwork, but you’re not alive. You’re animated and taught to think like you are human. It’s very interesting, really.”

Honor feels her bones warm more until they’re hot enough she feels like Thad Baker could see them through her skin if he looked. “It’s not interesting.”

The silence stretches between them, a loaded thing. Now that she’s looking for it, Honor can see the irritation in Thad Baker’s face. Like he thinks he’s above talking to her, listening to her.

At her sides, her hands curl into fists.

“Great,” Thad Baker says under his breath, “I should have known she’d make them contrary.” He hefts the bones in his arms higher and takes a step as if he’s going to walk right by Honor. Again, Honor mirrors it.

“What are you going to do with them?” she asks. She can hear her brothers’ bones whispering. Calling to her. Warning her.

“They’re evidence,” Thad Baker says. He takes another step and frowns as she does too. “Honor. Stop.” His voice is very flat. Thad Baker, it seems, is done playing games.

“You can’t take them,” Honor says. She fears her bones may ignite. She’ll take the whole building before she lets Thad Baker take her brothers. “You can’t.”

“This is why you’re not real,” Thad Baker says. His expression turns ugly as, once again, he takes another step and Honor mirrors it. They’re inches apart now, face to face. Thad Baker doesn’t back down. “You listen to every order, Honor. You’re not a person, you’re a servant. An automatic one made by a lonely old woman who’s too mean to get anyone she doesn’t make to stay with her!”

“You can’t take them,” Honor repeats. She smells the earth and metal and salt. It smells like blood.

“According to your mama,” Thad Baker scoffs. He’s hungry as he leans into her space, teeth bared. “You’re an automaton.”

“I’m not,” she says, back so stiff that she, for once, towers over him. “And not according to Mama. According to me.” She reaches out, fingernails the same color as the pearly bones inside of her.

Thad Baker’s eyes widen and he finally drops her brother’s bones.

It’s too late.

***

It takes Mama until after breakfast to notice that Thad Baker is gone. Honor is washing the dishes, nails gleaming in the sunlight, when Mama huffs.

“Ran back to the city, I bet,” she says. Her lips curls. “I’ll be finished before he gets back.”

Honor dries the last dish, stacking it carefully on its shelf. She knows that Thad Baker isn’t in the city. “Mama?”

Mama is busy  flipping through her keys, looking for Myrtie’s room. “What?”

“Will you let me see Myrtie be born?” she asks. She’s gotten Mama’s attention; she turns and Mama is looking right at her. She leans back against the counter. “Before you kill me?” If you can.

Mama stares at her for a long, long moment. The air crackles with energy until, finally, Mama throws her head back and laughs.

“Sure,” she says and wipes under her eyes. “That no damn good man is gone for the day. I’ll give you one last miracle.”

She doesn’t notice how dark the sea glass in Honor’s eyes is as she turns back to Myrtie’s door. Honor ghosts across the floor, patchwork arms still draped at her sides. She watches Mama’s hair swing as she unlocks the door, back and forth, back and forth.

Mama doesn’t notice that Honor had cut her own.

Myrtie is dry now, a complete person with a round mouth and sloping nose. Her skin is the color of royalty and nurturing, her bones meant to ease emotional hurt. She’s beautiful and nearly complete. All she’s missing are her eyes.

“Watch closely, Honor,” Mama murmurs. There’s a mean edge to her smile. “This is how it’s done.”

And she brings Myrtie to life.

The first thing to move are the fingers, little taps that echo through the room. Then the toes, wiggling slowly, but surely. Honor watches as her chest begins to rise and fall, a halting pattern that hasn’t found a rhythm yet.

Myrtie sits up, back ramrod straight, and turns her head. Her eye sockets are empty (of course), but Honor can see the confusion and fear on her face anyway.

“Hello?” Myrtie asks. Her voice is higher than Honor’s. Like a bird. “Hello?”

Mama grins at her new thing and says, “Now, Honor, let’s see about those--”

She cuts off on a gasp and a gurgle; the smell of blood fills the air.

Honor drops the kitchen knife as Mama falls, glad that this time is less messy. She feels light as she watches Mama gasp on the floor. Her bones don’t ache.

“We’re not things,” she tells Mama. Mama’s face contorts into a horrible mask of hatred. She dies like that, twisted and awful.

Honor can’t help but feel it’s fitting.

“Who’s there?” asks Myrtie. The fear is building in her voice. “What’s that smell?”

“Nothing,” Honor says. She gently guides Myrtie off the table and around Mama, heading for the door. Her sister is weak in her new body, but that’ll change. There’s room for growth. “I’m Honor. Your name is Myrtie. We’re sisters. We’re alive.”

“Alive,” Myrtie repeats. 

Honor closes the door on Mama’s corpse with her foot. “Yes. Alive.”