Burn (Pure #3)(86)

The minister starts to talk, and Partridge is surprised by him. He must have stepped onto the stage while Iralene walked down the aisle.

Partridge knows he won’t remember what the minister’s saying. The lights are suddenly overbearingly hot. Partridge curls his shoulders forward and then rolls them back, as if he’s hoping to stretch the cloth of his jacket a little. His bow tie and cummerbund are both too tight. Why did the tailor have to cinch everything up?

He glances at Iralene, but she’s gazing at the minister, a middle-aged man with a gray-tinged moustache and crowded teeth.

How the hell did I get here? Partridge wonders. He can smell all of the flowers now. They’re overpowering. He glances at Beckley. Doesn’t he notice how hot it is? How strong the flowers smell?

Beckley looks at him, concerned. He whispers, “Bend your knees a little. You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“I’m fine,” Partridge whispers. But he does as Beckley says because he does, in fact, feel light-headed.

Jesus, don’t pass out in front of all of these people, he tells himself. Don’t pass out.

And then it’s time for them to exchange vows.

Luckily, the minister feeds Partridge his lines, which are traditional vows—the ones his parents probably said to each other and then broke.

I’m an impersonator, he reminds himself, impersonating myself.

“To have and to hold,” he says, repeating the minister, concentrating on each word so he doesn’t mess up and the words blur until he gets to the end. “Till death do us part.” Death do us part. Death do us part. This echoes in his head.

Iralene says her vows too. Her lips are red, her teeth perfect and white. She looks at Partridge. “For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health…” And Partridge realizes that Iralene is the one who got him here. Without her, he’d be lost. Without her, his father would have killed him. He hears Beckley in his head. Do you want people to like you just for being you? I’d have guessed you’d have outgrown that by now.

What Beckley doesn’t understand is that people never outgrow wanting to be liked for being who they truly are, especially when they’ve grown up in the limelight or its shadowy edge. It’s all Partridge has ever wanted. Iralene wouldn’t be here if he weren’t Willux’s son, but Iralene loves him. There isn’t anything he’s more sure of in this moment than that. Glassings asked him if he loved her, and he couldn’t answer. People have died because of him—innocent people, ones who could have helped make real changes for good. Gone. What if there’s love between him and Iralene, and love can save them? Isn’t that what’s happening?

But now the minister tells him he can kiss the bride, and as he lifts Iralene’s veil, his heart swells at the clear sight of her face—her beautiful face and the way she’s looking at him in this moment. The music starts up again, and he kisses her and she kisses him back. He then touches her cheek for a moment, and then weirdly, everything seems to stop—all the people, the noise, the lights, the music—and he says, “Thank you.”

“For what?” she says.

“You got me here,” he says. “Where would I be without you?” It’s the truth. Lyda didn’t want to follow him into the Dome, but Iralene’s been by his side every step of the way. She is lovable and deserves to be loved. Is this the next good thing to do after all? Is this what Glassings meant?

Iralene’s eyes fill with tears, and she grabs his hand. “Should we wave to the people now?”

He says, “Let’s wave to the people.”

And together they turn and wave. The crowd is on its feet, shouting and cheering so loudly Partridge feels his ribs vibrating. In this moment, he knows it’s no longer an impersonation. This is real. Undeniably real.





PRESSIA





WEAK




You’ve got good timing,” the guard says, “but we’ve got to go fast.”

A series of doors gust open; the guard shuttles Pressia through each one, and they glide closed behind them. She grips the straps of her backpack—the vial, the formula—so close now. Everything is shiny and polished. The air smells of some strange chemical mixed with something acrid and sweet. “How did you know I was coming?”

“We saw you in the eyes of a dead soldier. He planted a tag.” She reaches up and feels the spot where she’d felt the strange pinch and noticed the rip. He was tagging her? “We’ve been watching your approach while scrambling your whereabouts as they get reported to Foresteed.”

“Foresteed?”

“He oversees military operations.”

“So Partridge didn’t order the attacks. Foresteed did?”

He nods.

Pressia is flooded with relief. She was right. Partridge would never do that.

“We need you in here,” the guard says. “We want you to talk to Partridge.”

“What do you want me to say to him?”

“Tell him he has to do this the hard way.”

“Do what?”

“Start over.”

“And he’s doing it the easy way?”

“There is no easy way. This will be bloody. He has to let it be bloody.”

He leads her into a small room filled with nozzles, as if she’s going to be sprayed to death.