Burn (Pure #3)(88)

“Are you sure?” She holds up her bandaged fist.

“Injury, remember? Just say that.”

“Accident,” she says. “You told me to say it was an accident.”

“Same difference.”

“Only because neither is the truth.”

The guard looks at her. “What?”

“It was no accident. I’m not just injured.”

“Let’s not get into it.”

“It?”

“You know.”

She feels hot anger coil in her chest. “The Detonations deformed us,” she says. “Mutilated and fused us. Altered us on the most basic level. Even the babies born after the Detonations are mutated. Is that the it you don’t want to get into?”

“I’m one of the good guys,” the guard says defensively.

“Does that help you sleep at night?”

“I don’t sleep at night.” He leans toward the window, his face reflecting darkly in the glass. The train slows. “This is it.” He looks at her. “Are you ready?”

She can’t imagine what she’s about to walk into, much less if she’s ready. “I’m not used to having a choice,” she says.

The doors open.

“From here on out, we walk shoulder to shoulder. Okay?”

“Okay,” she says. “What’s your name?”

“Vendler Prescott,” he says. “Friends call me Ven.”

This is who she’s got on her side. Ven. Shoulder to shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Pressia walks with Ven through some more barren halls. They nod as they walk by an occasional guard. She hears distant music, loud voices. They reach a set of double doors. Ven pauses, glances at Pressia. She nods.

He opens the doors, and there is a huge, beautiful room filled with skirted tables and people in gowns and tuxedos. Waiters whisk around with little cakes on plates. Some of the women seem to be wearing elaborate wigs, with the way the curls are piled on top of their heads. The men have sleek hair, slicked back.

Skin, skin, skin—all flawless.

The children dip under the tables, pick off people’s abandoned cake plates. The floor is covered in silken flower petals.

No one is lurching under the uneven weight of another person. There are no animals, no glass or metal or plastic embedded in their bodies. No amputations, no deep ruddy scars, no roped burns.

No thick coating of soot.

Everything is clean and bright.

And the music is glorious. She’s never heard music like this—so grand and loud and beautiful. She looks up at the high, airy ceiling. Balloons are trapped in the vaults.

This is a wedding—not two people whispering in a forest. No matter how much she and Bradwell love each other, this feels real in a way their wedding never will be.

Ven grabs her arm, and Pressia remembers she’s supposed to be fitting in, not gaping at everything.

They walk along one wall, away from the throngs.

On the dance floor, couples holding hands sway and spin. What’s most astonishing is that it’s better than she ever imagined, and she thought she’d built it up too high, that it would never be able to live up to her imagination.

They pass a cake tiered with columns as if it’s a cathedral. Chandeliers—the crystals twinkle overhead. She remembers the farmhouse dining room and how after the fire, the chandelier crashed into the table, looking like a fallen queen. Where is the proof that these people have been ruled by someone as awful as Willux? She wants Bradwell to see this. A wedding! They still exist! Pures can believe in love so deeply that they can openly celebrate it. Could she and Bradwell ever shake being jaded enough to celebrate love? Of course, weddings are probably common inside the Dome, but to Pressia, it feels like such a bold act of hope.

Why in the world had Lyda wanted to stay with the mothers? This is heaven. Pressia drinks in the music; the sweet, clean air; the children squealing happily. Bradwell, she thinks, see? They’re not all bad. There’s beauty here. There’s innocence and joy. She feels vindicated.

And then she sees Partridge. He’s being congratulated by a bunch of guys his own age. They’ve raised their fluted glasses—is it champagne?—to toast him. She draws in a breath, wanting to call to him, but stops herself. She’s a guard, not a sister.

One of his friends taps his empty glass with his fork. Others join in. Ven stops and waits. A clinking chorus rises up all around them. Partridge seems to be looking for someone—Lyda? Where is she?

“What’s going on?” Pressia asks Ven.

“They’re supposed to kiss. It’s a tradition.”

A kissing tradition? Pressia thinks of the traditions she was raised with. Death Sprees come to mind.

From a flurry of women, a white gown emerges—puffed and lacy, tiered like the cathedral of cake. Pressia’s surprised Lyda would pick such an elaborate and enormous dress, but then she sees the bride’s face.

It’s not Lyda.

It’s a woman Pressia’s never seen before.

The clinking grows louder and louder and shriller.

There must be a mistake.

But then Partridge reaches out for the woman’s hand, and he pulls her in close and kisses her. It’s a quick kiss, but a kiss nonetheless. People stop clinking and suddenly erupt into cheers. Pressia stops breathing.