Burn (Pure #3)(81)

“We don’t know that Partridge did this. We don’t.”

“Kill him,” Mother Hestra says. “Get inside and kill him.”

Pressia shakes her head. “He didn’t orchestrate this new attack. He wouldn’t. He knows us. He cares about us.”

“He’s in charge. This is what happened. These are facts.”

“I have to have faith in him.”

“Deaths only squander faith. They don’t deserve our trust.”

The cooing comes again, louder, more urgent.

“I can’t kill my brother. I won’t. But I will try to get Lyda out.” She remembers the last glimpse she had of Lyda, when they were in the Deadlands about to be executed. Is this where she belongs? In the wilds? If she wants out, Pressia will help her in every way she can. “Have faith in me.”

Mother Hestra’s son wraps his arms around his mother’s waist, holding tightly. She kisses the top of his head. “We will pay,” she says. “When Our Good Mother knows all, we will pay.”

Pressia feels a pulse of anger banging inside of her. “That’s not fair.” She looks at the child. “I can’t ask you to do this.”

The cooing echoes again.

“We will survive. It’s how we were built.” Mother Hestra grabs Pressia’s hand, entwines her fingers. “When you see Lyda, tell her that we worry. She was like one of my own to me. My very own.” Her son looks up at her, and she cups his chin lightly, as if to say, Don’t worry. I love you most.

And then Mother Hestra lifts her hands to her mouth again, and her coo floats into the morning air, reverberating through the woods.





LYDA





GLOWING




Lyda’s dressed as if she’s a wedding guest. Her dress is royal blue taffeta, hemmed to the middle of her shins. She’s wearing high heels that have been stained to match the dress and her blue pocketbook, which only has one thing in it—Freedle, swaddled loosely in a hand towel. She wanted one piece of the outside world with her. Freedle’s a comfort. She knows she’ll need it.

She sits on the sofa, stiffly, next to Chandry Culp, the woman in charge of teaching her to knit. She arranged for all of this and is here with her husband, Axel Culp, and their daughter, Vienna—as if they’re old family friends gathered together for some important public address.

Vienna doesn’t like the dip. “It’s too spicy!” She doesn’t like the carrots. “The texture isn’t realistic!” She doesn’t like the way her mother did her hair. “It’s too fluffy!”

Lyda wants to find the right moment to claim she feels weak and nauseous and politely retire to her bedroom. Honestly, she is tired. She hasn’t been sleeping much. Every time she dozes off, she wakes up minutes later, gasping for breath as if there isn’t enough oxygen in the air, as if she’s suffocating.

Why do they think she wants to watch Partridge marry Iralene? Is this a test? Is she supposed to prove that her relationship with Partridge is over, that all will be as they expect it to be? She feels bullied by the dress and the dip, even by Mr. Culp who walks around saying, “Nice place you got here. Isn’t this nice, Chandry?”

The television is showing the people as they arrive, couples with various titles walking into the church in gowns and tuxedos. There are guards here and there, lining the church. But otherwise, it’s all beautiful—flowers draped everywhere, ribbon, red carpets. Lyda cradles her pocketbook in her lap, Freedle nestled within it.

She feels sick. Yes, she wants to be the one to marry Partridge, of course. But not this way. Not with all of this pomp and grandeur, while knowing how the people on the outside scrape for basic survival. It turns her stomach. She says, “I think I’m going to have to go lie down for a bit.”

“What?” Chandry says. “No, no. She isn’t here yet!”

“Are we expecting someone else?”

Vienna says, “It’s supposed to be a surprise.” She rolls her eyes.

Lyda becomes alarmed. “Who are we expecting?”

“Let me check on her progress.” Chandry rushes to the front door to talk to the guards.

Mr. Culp picks up an empty candlestick holder. “I like this!” he says. “Quite nice!”

Lyda walks over to Vienna. “Tell me who’s coming.”

“I can’t.”

“Please.”

“Don’t you get how surprises work?” Vienna says.

“I don’t like surprises,” Lyda whispers.

“She’s coming!” Chandry says. “She’s coming right now!”

The door is wide open, and the guards stand on either side of it. Chandry steps back and opens one hand dramatically as Lyda’s mother appears in the doorframe.

“Mrs. Mertz!” Chandry says, half-proud and half-relieved.

Lyda’s mother looks small and disoriented. She stands there and blinks. At first, she glances around the room, unable to look at Lyda. This is how it was at the rehabilitation center too. In fact, that was the last place she saw her mother. She was so cold to Lyda, hiding behind her official role as a clinician. But she isn’t in that role now. She’s also wearing a dress—one of the dresses she’s worn to church for years.