Burn (Pure #3)(79)

“But sir!” The tailor’s not finished.

“Good enough,” Partridge says.

He walks down the hall and slowly pushes open Glassings’ door. The room is well lit. Glassings has pillows propped behind his back, but as the swelling has gone down some, he looks sallow and gaunt.

Partridge knows that Glassings probably won’t wake up, and even if he does, he won’t be lucid enough to give him any advice. But still, he pulls the chair close to the bedside and sits down. “I’m getting married,” he whispers. “What do you think of that?”

Glassings’ eyelids flutter.

Partridge puts his hand on top of Glassings’, which is cold and dry. “Tell me what to do,” he says. “I’m scared.” Cygnus was supposed to stand with him. Glassings promised him that. “Cygnus is a bunch of cowards, aren’t they? Where are they now? Sitting in their apartments staring out at the streets?” Partridge pushes back in his chair. He rubs his new pinky.

Glassings starts to cough, his chest heaving, and it’s as if the pain of his broken ribs wakes him up. His eyes are just watery slits. Partridge says, “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Glassings’ eyes lock on Partridge’s. He nods to Partridge, as if wanting him to come closer. Partridge leans forward. “What am I supposed to do?” he says.

“The next good thing,” Glassings whispers, “and the next good thing after that. If each is a good step, you’ll move forward.”

“I’m marrying Iralene. It feels like the wrong step.” He’s desperate. He needs Glassings to tell him what to do. He feels like he’s been careening out of control toward a cliff and that Glassings could tell him how to hit the brakes.

Glassings stares at Partridge. He’s quiet for a moment. “You don’t love her?”

“I’m supposed to be marrying Lyda.”

Glassings narrows his gaze. “Answer the question.”

Maybe Glassings is telling him that he should love Iralene. Would that make things better, safer, clearer? He was so sure of himself at that mic telling the truth, and now he’s drowning in doubt. Most of all, he no longer trusts his own judgment. Partridge wants to tell him he doesn’t love Iralene, but he thinks of holding her up and spinning her around, the fake sun shining on her hair. “It doesn’t matter who I love. My life isn’t mine.”

“Again,” Glassings says, “you didn’t answer the question.”

“What if I don’t know?”

“There are things you should simply know.”





PRESSIA





HOLLOW REED




Before Pressia even opens her eyes in the morning, she thinks of Bradwell’s kiss. This is how it’s been every morning since she last saw him. She remembers the feel of his wet lips against hers, his skin, the hardness of his muscles against her chest as he lifted her off the ground and the silkiness of his wings. She wants to stay in that reverie, but she hears a small cough, and when she opens her eyes, she’s startled by a child’s face staring at her. She grips the backpack, which she sleeps with. She’s on the pallet the mothers offered her on the cold ground inside of a small tent. The light is hazy. It’s early morning. The mothers have told her they’ll help, but they haven’t said how or when. A hand ruffles the child’s hair. Pressia looks up and sees a woman looking at her. There are words burned into one cheek, backward, but she can still read them: THE DOGS BARKED LOUDLY. IT WAS ALMOST DARK.

“Mother Hestra?” She recognizes her from the last time she saw Partridge and Lyda—in the subway car locked underground.

Mother Hestra nods. “I’m here to take you in.”

“In where?” For a moment, she thinks that Mother Hestra is going to bring her to the Dome, but that makes no sense.

“To Our Good Mother,” Mother Hestra says. “Now. No time to waste.”

In a few minutes, Pressia has the backpack on again and is following Mother Hestra through the woods. Mother Hestra limps, weighted on one side by her child, but she’s oddly agile. Pressia is eating a small hotcake that was cooked over a fire back at the camp. The air is still smoky. The rain has stopped. Pressia knows she has to try to convince Mother Hestra to let her go, but how? She starts with common ground. “Was Lyda taken? One of the mothers told me she was taken into the Dome.”

“You’ve heard no word from her?” Mother Hestra says.

“How could I hear from her?”

“She’s on the inside with Partridge. He’s your brother. He has ways. Doesn’t he?”

“I don’t even know if she went in on her own or was taken. Last I heard, she was going in with Partridge.” They cross a small brook, jumping from rock to rock.

“She has her own life. She made her own decision. She wanted to stay.”

“And then they took her? Against her will?”

Mother Hestra stops. She breaks off a hollow reed and whistles into it—a low, sad note—and then she hands it to her son, who fiddles with it joyfully.

“It was during battle. We attacked the Dome. Didn’t you hear?” Mother Hestra says as they begin moving again through the trees.

Is this why the Dome has fired back? “Is the Dome getting retribution, then? Is that what these killings and fires are about?”