The Bone Princess

Chapter 1: Dead Mother's Club

When Tabitha was born, my mom quit her job as prop master at the Boston City Opera, no longer up for the commute, and took over the local puppet theatre in Marblehead. It was a significantly smaller operation, so she had to do everything from props to sets to costumes to making the actual puppets. The basement became her new workspace. From floor to ceiling, her creations crowded the place. Kabuki masks, sugar plum fairies, pirate swords, chandeliers, papier-mâché mice. A white powdered wig from Figaro. A giant pair of shears from The Barber of Seville. A dozen leering day-glow skeletons from a playfully sinister Halloween production. (To the dismay of the old biddies of Marblehead, Halloween around here was a recreational sport, being so close to Salem.)

Someone visiting the basement for the first time might notice each and every one of these things, but they were just noise to me, easy to ignore.

But no one could ignore the Victorian mansion, brooding as it did at the heart of the basement. It was a show-stopper, and all the little assorted bits of this and that strewn helter-skelter throughout the wide, low-ceilinged room seemed to lean toward it. It looked like a thing cut off from its own space and time, like something you'd find surrounded by thousands of acres in the North of England. With fountains and gardens and white-gloved butlers. Only this version put the Goth in Gothic. Mom said it had been a model used to shoot a t.v. pilot in Salem that had been touted as "Dracula" with witches. The show never made it past marketing, but the model-sized mansion became her special side project. She said that she'd started it for Mina but was finishing it for us. Me and Tabitha.

Balancing the plate and glass in one hand, I switched on a floor lamp. My little mouse of a sister bounced to her feet, her light blue dress ballooning around her bony frame.

"How can you see what you're working on?" I asked her, turning on another lamp. She glided over to me, her big blue eyes hopeful. Deprived of sunlight, proper nutrition, and social interaction with other children, she was too small and too thin and seemed younger than she actually was. She was too pale. Note to self: buy kids vitamins.

I handed her the dishes. Her nose scrunched. She carefully set them on the floor, then popped back over to me, eyes even bigger. I mimicked her, opening mine as wide as I could.

"Hmm?" I asked despite knowing exactly what she wanted. Maybe today is the day, I thought. Hoped. Just like I hoped every morning. Her eyes narrowed. I pulsed my gaze even wider and gave her a shrug of innocence. Her nose scrunched again, and she held out her hands, cupping them together.

Today's NOT the day, is what that meant.

I dug into the right pocket of my jean shorts and emptied its contents into her hands. I'd barely pulled back before she thrust her hands forward again. I repeated the action until my left pocket was void and her palms were full.

"That's today's loot," I said. "That's all I got."

She brought her hands closer to her nose, her big bulging eyes carefully examining each item: three silver chewing gum wrappers, two seashells not much bigger than my thumbnail, a twisty-tie from the last loaf of Bunny Bread. A couple of red paper clips. Twine from a broken yo-yo, and two glitter-glue pens, one gold and one pink. Evidently pleased with today's bounty, she returned back to her spot on the floor.

Nope. Today was not going to be the day Tabitha finally spoke.

She hadn't uttered a word since the night. Not to me. Not to dad. Not to the shrink. Not even to the police.

The only thing worse than being the daughter who'd discovered my mom's dead body was being the daughter who might have witnessed her being killed. My mother was murdered on Homecoming Night, junior year. Almost exactly one year ago today.