Burn (Pure #3)(70)

“Three days,” he says. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she says and then, even though her legs feel numb, she takes a step back.

“Hastings has come after you too,” he says. “I’m surprised he hasn’t found you already. He only wants to help.”

She nods.

“Pressia, what if we don’t see each other again? What if this is the last time?” He’s scared. She’s not sure she’s ever seen him look this way.

“I’ll be fine,” she says.

“I know you will,” he says. “It’s just…”

“What?”

“In case there’s a heaven…”

“Don’t talk like that,” Pressia says.

“In case there’s a heaven, I want us to be together there. Joined. Forever.” His eyes search hers. “I’ve never seen a wedding,” he says.

Is he asking her to marry him? She whispers, “I’ve heard they were held in churches or under white tents.”

“What if the forest is our church?”

“Are you asking me to marry you—here? Now?”

“I’ve loved you since the beginning—since the first time I saw you. Why not get married—yes, here and now?” He lifts her hand up and places it on her heart. He then slips his hand between her arm and chest and puts his hand over his own heart. He leans down and puts his cheek to hers. He says, “Will you be my wife forever? Here and now and beyond all of this?”

She closes her eyes. She feels her arm entwined with his, his cheek against hers—both rain-wet and cold. She nods. “I will. Will you be my husband forever?”

He says, “I will.” And he bows his head, kisses her neck, her jaw, her lips.

“This isn’t the end,” Pressia says. “We’re just starting, Bradwell.”

He tips her up off the ground and kisses her again—she feels his lips, his tongue, his teeth.

And she feels so alive that she can barely breathe. She’s happy. This is what happy feels like—it doesn’t have to be about this moment. Happiness can be a promise.

When he sets her back down, she feels heavy.

He turns then and heads back through the woods; the rainy wind gusts his wings a little. She’s going to keep going. But now she knows what she wants: to make it back to Bradwell, to find a beginning.

She walks quickly now, shaking with relief and joy, marching with purpose. She has to find that safe place. She walks for a while, and then a whirring sound zips through the air—a taut zing that ends in a thunk just over her head. She looks up at the tree behind her, and there, lodged deep in its bark, is a thick blade, sharp on all sides.

There are mothers out here. That’s probably why this part of the woods hasn’t burned. It’s been heavily guarded.

Pressia stays low but calls out, “I’m just a girl! I’m friends with Lyda! My name is Pressia, and I’ve met Our Good Mother! I’m alone! No Deaths with me!” But she’s not just a girl—she’s a wife. She’s not alone, even if it seems that way. She has Bradwell, forever.

The forest is silent. She moves behind a tree. Another blade whirs through the air, pinning her coat to the tree behind her. She wants to rip her coat loose and make a run for it, but the mothers aren’t to be messed with. If you defy them, they can retaliate brutally.

She puts the doll head in the air. “What do you want?” she calls into the woods. “I surrender! Okay?” She hopes Bradwell is long gone, that he can’t even hear the echo of her voice. “I surrender,” she says again, and as she says those two words, they seem like the truest thing she’s said in so long. I surrender. I’m tired. Take me in.

Finally, there’s a woman’s voice, sharp and clear. “Get her,” the woman says. “She’s ours now.”





LYDA





BECOMING




Lyda is hidden in her other world. The orb—which is set on the outside world—exists in the nursery now. It’s where she keeps the ash of the burned baby books and the row of cylindrical slats from the baby crib that she’s sharpening into spears. The door stays locked. If anyone asks, she says, “It’s a surprise! For Partridge!”

Partridge has ordered more guards to stand watch at her door. A small army is collected there now. Is he afraid someone is going to attack her? Or is he making sure she can never leave?

She’s worked hard in that small room, and now she lies in bed, clean and sweet smelling, her hair damp from a midday shower. She writes Partridge another letter. She’s written so many she can’t keep track. She gives them to Beckley whenever she sees him—every few days he takes a shift—but he never has any for her.

“What does he say when you give them to him?” she’s asked.

“He smiles and slips them in his pocket—to read later, I guess.”

“I don’t understand why he doesn’t write back.”

“He’s busy. You know—plans.”

Wedding plans. Yes, she knows.

Partridge,

When are you coming back? I am becoming

What is she becoming? She doesn’t know. It seems most honest to just say that she’s becoming. The becoming is what matters maybe more than the result.