Burn (Pure #3)(4)

“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.





PARTRIDGE





GRIEF




It 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.