Burn (2 page)
“And the airship? Is he just going to let it stay covered by vines out there?”
“The vines are camouflage for now. They’ll keep the airship safe from predators and bands of thieves. It’s why the vines were bred to be carnivorous. A protection.”
Bred to be carnivorous?
Pressia thinks. Somewhere there are laboratories, breeding grounds…
Fedelma reaches out and gently holds Pressia’s wrist—not that of the doll head, no. Fedelma is startled by the doll head, disturbed by the way it’s fused to Pressia’s fist, though she tries to pretend she isn’t fazed by it.
“What are you doing?” Pressia asks.
Fedelma pulls up Pressia’s sweater sleeve, revealing her arm. “See? Your skin has started to turn a bit golden,” she says. “Your food is laced with a chemical that deters the vines—a scent that emanates from your skin.”
Pressia sees it now too. The faintest hue. She pulls down her sleeve. “People don’t like to be poisoned,” she says.
“People don’t like to be choked to death by thorned vines.” This is true. Pressia saw how the vines almost killed Bradwell, El Capitan, and Helmud. “Eat,” Fedelma says, pushing the tray toward Pressia.
“Why won’t anyone tell me about the alarms? What are you afraid of?”
Fedelma rubs her arms as if chilled. “We don’t speak of it.” She walks to the window.
“I’ve heard the howling.”
“The wild dogs are ours. They help keep us safe.”
“Why won’t you just talk to me? Tell me the truth.”
“We’ve never had strangers arrive. We don’t know how to treat them, except as something foreign, maybe a threat.”
“Do I look like a threat?”
Fedelma doesn’t answer. “One of yours has started walking the grounds. I don’t know how he’s gotten permission. He was the one worst off when you arrived. Maybe he hasn’t gotten permission at all and yet he’s out there. I’ve seen him two days in a row now.”
Pressia gets up and walks quickly to the window. “Bradwell?”
Fedelma nods. “He’s a bit unsteady on his feet still since…”
The domesticated beasts have been herded elsewhere, but the children are there—running with balls and sticks. Much of the toys seem new, as do the hats and scarves. Christmas just passed. Did they get them as gifts? They shout and whistle. A few are singing in a small group, making hand gestures in unison.
One little girl in a bright red sweater skirts the edges of the groups. She’s holding a doll to her chest. Pressia imagines herself at that age with her own doll—the one that’s fused to her fist, forever. It was new once—its eyes shone and clicked in unison. To be new. To
feel
new. She can’t imagine…
Another girl walks up to the one with the doll—an identical twin. The two of them link arms and keep walking.
So many children, so few adults. They’re repopulating. They have to. Where’s Bradwell? “Do you see him now?” Pressia asks.
“No,” Fedelma says. “But he’s out there somewhere.”
“I have to go out too,” Pressia says.
Fedelma shakes her head. “You need to eat. You need your sleep. If you’re going to get stronger, you need—”
“I need to see him—with my own eyes.” Pressia walks to the door, which Fedelma forgot to lock behind her.
“No!” Fedelma says. “Pressia! Stop!”
But Pressia’s already through the door and starts running down the hall. She finds a stairwell and pounds down the steps. She can hear Fedelma behind her. “Pressia! Don’t!”
Should she be running while pregnant? How old is she anyway?
Pressia finds a heavy door to the outside.
The air is cutting and damp. She walks swiftly through the field of children, all of them golden.
One group is playing a game where some form a loose circle and the others, inside of the circle, spin and spin.
Look in a looking glass.
Look for a match.
Find yourself! Find yourself!
Don’t be the last!
The children in the ring shout the song, and then the dizzy children start chasing the others, fanning out across the grass.
But others, not playing the game, stop and stare at Pressia. And now that she’s among them, she spots another set of twins. She sees a third who looks identical. She’s never seen triplets before. She doesn’t want to stare at them, though; she doesn’t like being stared at herself.
A boy with jet-black hair says, “Look!” and he points at the doll-head fist. Pressia refuses to hide it.
Fedelma, huffing behind her, shouts, “Quiet, boy! Go on about your play.”
Pressia heads toward the stone tower; she needs to get a better view. These kids remind her of what things might be like in the Dome. The breathable air, the lack of deformities, scars, and fusings. She wonders where her half brother, Partridge, is now. He turned himself back in to the Dome. Is he finding people who will help him find a way to take over his father’s reign? Will he remember those suffering on the outside? Will he do the right thing? Is Pressia doing the right thing, imprisoned here, wasting precious time? Will Bartrand Kelly be true to his word?
“You shouldn’t be out!” Fedelma shouts after her. “You’re under strict orders to recuperate! If Bartrand Kelly knew about this, it wouldn’t be good. Are you listening? Are you?”
Pressia runs the rest of the way to the tower, her lungs stinging from the cold. She takes the small circular staircase two steps at a time, pulling herself up the handrail with her good hand. She presses the side of the doll’s head to her chest, as if it can hear her pounding heart.
The tower is round with a peaked roof. The narrow windows are just casements—no glass. The wind tunnels in. The stone is cold and weathered, with patches of slick moss. She stops at one of the casements and looks out—rolling fog, another view of the airship. The vines rustle and the airship seems to bobble a little. Are the vines digging in so deeply that the ship itself is shaken by them?
Will they ever get out of here? Without the airship, it’s not possible.
She moves quickly to the next casement—a few beasts, the kind she can’t name, nosing grass near a stony ledge.
She hears Fedelma’s boots on the stairs. Pressia turns and there Fedelma is, breathing heavily.
“Should you be running after me in your condition?” Pressia says.
“Should you be out running around in
your
condition?” Fedelma counters. They both left the main house without coats. Fedelma clamps her arms on her chest, atop her belly. The wind whips the fine hairs that have spun loose from the two pointy buns on top of her head.
“Why do you think
I’m
sick?” Pressia asks. “Bradwell, El Capitan, and Helmud—they were the ones who almost died. Not me.”
“They’re sick from the thorns’ puncture wounds, but your case is more serious, in some ways. You’re sick of heart.”
Pressia’s startled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But she does. Her pain is inside of her like a heavy stone that has been laid on her chest. Guilt, loss, betrayal. She moves to the next narrow window and looks out. She sees only sky and earth and distant trees. An ash eater is crawling up between the tightly wedged stones. She nudges it with the tip of her finger.
“You have to heal within,” Fedelma says. “It takes time.”
Pressia’s eyes fill with tears. The weight feels so heavy it’s hard to breathe. It brings pressure to her lungs, sharp aches inside of her chest.
“Kelly wants to see you today. All of you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I’m not supposed to have told you.” She sighs. “He’ll help you, but he’ll want something in return.”
“What?”
Fedelma dips her head to a window. It’s quiet for a moment, except for the children playing in the field and the wind. “There’s the one you’re looking for,” Fedelma says, and she steps back from the window. “Have a look.”
Pressia moves quickly.
Bradwell is walking downhill through the tall grass. Three pairs of massive wings are hunched on his back, dovetailing at his boot heels. The tips of the wings drag behind him. He’s not used to the weight of the wings, and the harsh shifts of wind push him. The wings make him ungainly, clumsy, and tentative—almost like a colt trying to get used to new legs.
Fignan, ever loyal, follows him, the black box of his body suspended on his spindly legs connected to his wheels, which flatten a narrow swath of grass behind him.
She remembers the syringe in her shaking hand and how she injected each of the three small birds embedded in his back. He wanted to die on his own terms. She robbed him of that. Still, he’s alive. Her heart thrums in her chest. She can’t apologize for saving him, no matter what. She can’t.
And he’ll never forgive her for that.
He stops, and for a moment, she wonders if he can feel her eyes on him. But he doesn’t turn toward her. He looks up at the sky—birds wheeling overhead. He’s still pale from the loss of blood, but his jawline is sharp, his eyes steely. He takes a deep breath, which broadens his chest. As he watches the birds glide, one of his wings twitches, almost imperceptibly.
Turn. Turn and look at me
, she urges him.
I’m here.
But he hunches again and keeps walking into the wind.
I
t rises in his throat.
I killed him.
Sometimes he even opens his mouth as if he’s really going to tell someone.
I killed my father. The leader you love—Willux, your savior—I murdered him.
But then his throat cinches.
He can’t say this to anyone, of course—except Lyda. After he confessed to her, he felt lighter—but only for a short time. He sees her every few days, and he spent the night of Christmas Eve with her, almost a month ago now. Christmas morning they woke up and exchanged small gifts in her beautiful apartment, the one he had set up for her on Upper Two. It was the first thing he did when power was transferred from his father to him. He got Lyda out of the medical center, and now she has people who take care of her—and the baby growing inside of her.
Their
baby.
He’s surprised by how loudly a secret can ring in your head.
I killed him.
It’s not just a secret, though. He knows this. It’s murder. It’s the murder of his father.
Partridge is sitting in an anteroom next to the main hall where he can hear the mourners starting to line up. They’re muffling their grief, but soon enough they’ll let loose. It’ll get loud and stuffy with all of the bodies packing in, and Partridge will have to accept their condolences, all of their twisted love for his father.
Partridge isn’t surprised when Foresteed walks into the room. He’s been the face of the Dome’s leadership for some time, and he attends most of these services. Partridge’s father had used him as a figurehead ever since the start of his deterioration, and surely Foresteed expected to step in as Willux’s replacement upon his death. Naturally, he’s not fond of Partridge.
Foresteed isn’t alone. He’s flanked by Purdy and Hoppes, who work for him. They all say their hellos and sit across from Partridge at the mahogany table. Partridge is wearing one of his black funeral suits. He has seven of them now—one for each day of the week.
“I thought we’d take a minute to talk,” Foresteed says.
“Well, I’d like to know how many more memorial services there are going to be,” Partridge says. It’s like being on tour with his father’s urn—a grief tour. The worst part is sitting through the eulogies. Some of the speakers talk about what his father saved them all from—the wretches, those vile blights on humanity, soulless, no longer human. He’s had to tell himself that he can turn them around—when the time comes. He’s said to Lyda, “When they meet a wretch, like Pressia, everything will change.” But the whole thing makes him sick and anxious.
Foresteed cocks his head and says, “This too much for you? I mean, dealing with your personal grief on top of all this adoration? You sure you can handle it?”
Foresteed is a layered conversationalist—Partridge will give him that. Is he being sarcastic about Partridge’s
personal grief
? Is he hinting that Partridge isn’t grieving enough? Does he suspect that Partridge killed his father? Or is Foresteed simply calling Partridge weak? “I just want to get to the work at hand,” Partridge says, “the work my father wanted me to do.” Partridge puts his chin to his chest and scratches his forehead, hiding his eyes for a moment because they’ve gone teary. Fact is, he killed his father, yes, and he doesn’t regret it, but he misses his father too. This is the sick part. He loved him. A son’s allowed to love his father no matter what, isn’t he? Partridge hates how the emotions come upon him so fast—guilt, fear of being exposed, sadness.
Purdy checks a planner on his handheld.
For someone who lives in the Dome, Foresteed is very tan. His teeth are so shiny they look polished. His hair is stiff as if it’s been misted with hair spray. He says, “The people are still in need of public mourning.”
“How about some
private
mourning?” Partridge says. “Culturally speaking, I think we’re pretty good at bottling our emotions.”
“Your father wanted a public mourning period,” Foresteed says. Sometimes Partridge thinks Foresteed might have hated his father. Always the second in line, he had to be jealous of the power.
“But this service is different,” Purdy says.
“How?”
“I mentioned it in my last report,” Foresteed says. He gives Partridge reports all the time—fat stacks of papers filled with bureaucratic policy updates written in dense, senseless language (“Heretofore the forewith will be presumed to forbear and withstand the aforementioned duties…”). He can’t stand reading them.
“Ah, right,” Partridge says. “I must have missed that part. Can someone fill me in?”
Purdy looks at Foresteed. “We’ve got all the dignitaries and socialites coming in this time,” Foresteed says. “It’s closed to the public. We’ll be broadcasting it, however. Live streaming. We want this one to have the feel of magnitude. The moment when the people truly recognize the leaders of tomorrow, moving into this new phase.”
