Burn (Pure #3)(101)

Lyda gently opens her bedside table and pulls out her Baby’s Own baby book. She sees her writing. I crave. I crave. I crave. The words cover page after page. It’s all she’s ever written inside of it.

The margins are bare. She turns the book sideways and writes along the edge of the outer margin just what Pressia told her she’d write to Bradwell—a coded message: Our lives aren’t accidents. This is the beginning, not an end. Do what you have to do. And she draws a rough picture of a swan floating on a ripple. She may have sounded like she’d lost it last night, but she was still thinking clearly—about the next step and how to get there. She was wildly heartbroken, but there’s no wildness to it anymore. Now she feels a sharp relentless ache. She knows what must happen. Pressia might not be sure it’s time to take down the Dome, but Lyda is.

She rips the edge of the paper that she’s just written on. She let Freedle loose last night, and now she clicks her tongue softly, calling for him. She hears ticking and then a whir of his wings, and moments later he alights on her open palm. Lyda whispers, “Once upon a time, Pressia’s mother set you loose to find her daughter. And you did. This time, hopefully Cygnus will get you all the way out of the Dome, and you will have to find Bradwell and give him this message.”

She lifts one of Freedle’s wings, and through the thin casing of his light body, she can see the inner mechanisms. Lyda rolls the long thin message and fits it into the cicada’s body, but she leaves a small tail—a little bit sticking out, something one of the others on the outside might notice.

The cicada opens his fine metal wings, flaps them, lifts from her hand, and flits around the room.

Lyda opens the closet door. She pushes through the maternity dresses, their hangers squeaking along the rod, but when she gets to the back of the closet, reaching for her handmade armor of woven hangers, there’s nothing. It’s gone.

Did they come in last night and take it? Have they known it was here all along? She feels invaded, betrayed—and stripped of the thing she’d made to protect herself.

She hears two voices in the hall talking quickly, urgently. Lyda presses her ear to the door. She recognizes Chandry’s voice—high-pitched and whiny—and the guard’s bass. She imagines Chandry coming in, pawing through her clothes, and ripping out the armor. It’s probably already been thrown away.

The voices stop. There’s a squeaking noise, something rattling along the wood floors—something on wheels? And then there’s banging in the nursery. She knows what’s happening. They’re tearing it all down.

The noise wakes Pressia, who stirs and sits up.

Lyda presses her finger to her lips.

“What’s going on out there?” Pressia asks.

“It’s Chandry Culp. She’s the one who’s teaching me to knit and, well, trying to teach me how to be a good mother. She’s taking apart the nursery. She’s breaking it down.”

“Your mother ordered Beckley to get everything in the nursery replaced.”

“My mother,” Lyda says. “She has the proof they’ll need to put me away after they take the baby from me. My mother will report that I’m certifiably crazy. Maybe I am.” She sits down next to Pressia on the bed.

“No,” Pressia says. “Don’t say that.”

“Girls!” It’s Chandry’s shrill voice. “Girls, come out here now!” Is Chandry going to make Lyda take the nursery apart—as punishment?

Lyda clicks her tongue for Freedle again, who peddles through the air.

“Freedle!” Pressia says.

“He’s fine!” Lyda says, and she quickly cups him and puts him in the pocket of her sweater. “Best to keep him hidden.”

Pressia grabs Lyda’s hand. “Is there a way?”

Lyda knows what she’s asking—is there a way out of here? “There’s always a way.”

They step into the hall. The door to the nursery is open enough to see Chandry in a shiny blue pantsuit, leaning over a large rectangular bin on wheels. She’s picking up a bundle of hand-whittled spears. The orb is gone. Chandry has been hard at work too. She’s a little breathless and perspiring. She’s muttering to herself angrily. “What a pretty mess we’ve made! What a pretty, pretty mess!” When they appear in the door, Chandry looks up. “You!” she says to Pressia. “Start helping!”

“And me?” Lyda asks.

“Someone reported the orb’s broken. A repairman is here.” Lyda looks at Pressia. She remembered to tell the guard! “He wants to know what’s wrong with it exactly,” Chandry says. “Personally, I don’t think you should have access to that orb anymore! But does anyone ask my opinion? No! No they do not!”

“Okay,” Lyda says. “I’ll go check on him.”

“And then come right back here. You have been wicked. Do you understand me? Wicked. And it has to stop!”

“I promise,” Lyda says. “No more of it!”

Chandry gives a final nod, and Lyda walks quickly to the living room. There, at the dining room table, is Boyd, wearing a gray jumpsuit, working on the orb. “You came so quickly!” Lyda says.

He stands up and smiles. “Always at your service.”

“Have you fixed it?”

“I’m working on it,” Boyd says. “It’s a wiring issue, I believe.” There’s nothing wrong with it at all, so does this mean he knows he’s been called for a different reason?