Burn (Pure #3)(3)

Everything. About her mother and father? About the past? Bartrand Kelly was one of the Seven. He was friends with her parents when they were all young. He knows more about her parents than she ever will. It seems incredible to her now that she ever hoped to find her father here. She misses him even though he’s a stranger to her.

“And the airship? Is he just going to let it stay covered by vines out there?”

“The vines are camouflage for now. They’ll keep the airship safe from predators and bands of thieves. It’s why the vines were bred to be carnivorous. A protection.”

Bred to be carnivorous? Pressia thinks. Somewhere there are laboratories, breeding grounds…

Fedelma reaches out and gently holds Pressia’s wrist—not that of the doll head, no. Fedelma is startled by the doll head, disturbed by the way it’s fused to Pressia’s fist, though she tries to pretend she isn’t fazed by it.

“What are you doing?” Pressia asks.

Fedelma pulls up Pressia’s sweater sleeve, revealing her arm. “See? Your skin has started to turn a bit golden,” she says. “Your food is laced with a chemical that deters the vines—a scent that emanates from your skin.”

Pressia sees it now too. The faintest hue. She pulls down her sleeve. “People don’t like to be poisoned,” she says.

“People don’t like to be choked to death by thorned vines.” This is true. Pressia saw how the vines almost killed Bradwell, El Capitan, and Helmud. “Eat,” Fedelma says, pushing the tray toward Pressia.

“Why won’t anyone tell me about the alarms? What are you afraid of?”

Fedelma rubs her arms as if chilled. “We don’t speak of it.” She walks to the window.

“I’ve heard the howling.”

“The wild dogs are ours. They help keep us safe.”

“Why won’t you just talk to me? Tell me the truth.”

“We’ve never had strangers arrive. We don’t know how to treat them, except as something foreign, maybe a threat.”

“Do I look like a threat?”

Fedelma doesn’t answer. “One of yours has started walking the grounds. I don’t know how he’s gotten permission. He was the one worst off when you arrived. Maybe he hasn’t gotten permission at all and yet he’s out there. I’ve seen him two days in a row now.”

Pressia gets up and walks quickly to the window. “Bradwell?”

Fedelma nods. “He’s a bit unsteady on his feet still since…”

The domesticated beasts have been herded elsewhere, but the children are there—running with balls and sticks. Much of the toys seem new, as do the hats and scarves. Christmas just passed. Did they get them as gifts? They shout and whistle. A few are singing in a small group, making hand gestures in unison.

One little girl in a bright red sweater skirts the edges of the groups. She’s holding a doll to her chest. Pressia imagines herself at that age with her own doll—the one that’s fused to her fist, forever. It was new once—its eyes shone and clicked in unison. To be new. To feel new. She can’t imagine…

Another girl walks up to the one with the doll—an identical twin. The two of them link arms and keep walking.

So many children, so few adults. They’re repopulating. They have to. Where’s Bradwell? “Do you see him now?” Pressia asks.

“No,” Fedelma says. “But he’s out there somewhere.”

“I have to go out too,” Pressia says.

Fedelma shakes her head. “You need to eat. You need your sleep. If you’re going to get stronger, you need—”

“I need to see him—with my own eyes.” Pressia walks to the door, which Fedelma forgot to lock behind her.

“No!” Fedelma says. “Pressia! Stop!”

But Pressia’s already through the door and starts running down the hall. She finds a stairwell and pounds down the steps. She can hear Fedelma behind her. “Pressia! Don’t!”

Should she be running while pregnant? How old is she anyway?

Pressia finds a heavy door to the outside.

The air is cutting and damp. She walks swiftly through the field of children, all of them golden.

One group is playing a game where some form a loose circle and the others, inside of the circle, spin and spin.

Look in a looking glass.

Look for a match.

Find yourself! Find yourself!

Don’t be the last!

The children in the ring shout the song, and then the dizzy children start chasing the others, fanning out across the grass.

But others, not playing the game, stop and stare at Pressia. And now that she’s among them, she spots another set of twins. She sees a third who looks identical. She’s never seen triplets before. She doesn’t want to stare at them, though; she doesn’t like being stared at herself.

A boy with jet-black hair says, “Look!” and he points at the doll-head fist. Pressia refuses to hide it.

Fedelma, huffing behind her, shouts, “Quiet, boy! Go on about your play.”

Pressia heads toward the stone tower; she needs to get a better view. These kids remind her of what things might be like in the Dome. The breathable air, the lack of deformities, scars, and fusings. She wonders where her half brother, Partridge, is now. He turned himself back in to the Dome. Is he finding people who will help him find a way to take over his father’s reign? Will he remember those suffering on the outside? Will he do the right thing? Is Pressia doing the right thing, imprisoned here, wasting precious time? Will Bartrand Kelly be true to his word?