Burn (The Pure Trilogy)

by Julianna Baggott

  As she steps up to the altar, attendants perfecting her train, Partridge can see her face behind the white veil. She’s beautiful. There’s never been any denying it, but today she looks even more beautiful, if that’s possible.

  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.

  “Clothes stacked for you. Change fast.”

  “Wait. Who are you?”

  “We’re Cygnus. We can get you to your brother.” He shuts the door.

  Cygnus? Like the constellation? The swan. This all ties back to her mother. She feels, strongly, for just a brief moment, that her mother is with her.

  And she is on the inside. This is it. The Dome. She’s stunned. She touches the white tile, leaving a smear of ash.

  She looks at the nozzles, bracing for water—or poisonous gas?

  Nothing comes.

  She lifts the clothes from the stack—a guard’s uniform, including a holster. She remembers the first time she wore the OSR uniform, how much she loved the puff of the warm regulation jacket even though she hated herself for it. She feels that same twinge here. She shouldn’t be excited to be on the inside. Bradwell would be seething. El Capitan would want to bash the guard’s head in—here to help him or not, the bastard got in. The end. But she’s hopeful. They’ll take her to her brother, who’s innocent. Pressia wants to see the boys’ and girls’ academies with ball fields, the apartment buildings with tidy rooms and bunk beds, the fields and food and fake sun and light and no cold, no suffering, no absolute darkness. But she’s been warned: This will be bloody.

  There’s a small basin in one corner with a bar of soap and a towel. They want her to wash up. Good thing her skin is no longer a gold hue. She dresses quickly, nervously cinching the holster around her waist. She won’t be able to wear the backpack. It will stand out too much. She opens it up, reaches in and pulls out the box. She pops the latch and checks that the vial is intact, the formula in place. She closes the box, slips it under her fitted shirt and tight jacket, and lodges it over one hip, as the clothes are tight enough to hold it in place. She moves to the basin, scrubs her face, her neck, and then she stares and stares at the doll head. In the joy of being inside the Dome, making it all the way here, she’d forgotten this—the doll head’s ash-smeared skin, its small pursed lips, its clicking eyes. She washes its face, rubs the row of plastic lashes and then the doll’s skull, where Pressia’s knuckles are fused beneath the surface. She pats it dry with the hand towel, and the doll head looks fresh and clean, pink cheeked. Could it be removed? Could she be cured here? She steps out of the room, leaving the empty backpack behind.

  The guard hands her a gun like his. She slips it in the holster and raises the doll head.

  “What about this?” she says. But he’s already prepared. He pulls out a bandage roll.

  She lifts h
er arm, and he winds the bandage around the doll head, obviously disturbed by it. He covers it so tightly that for a second, she imagines that the doll won’t be able to breathe. Ridiculous, she knows. He clips the bandage in place.

  “If anyone asks, tell them you were in an accident.”

  She nods, but she feels sick. It was no accident. That’s the whole reason she’s here. This was done to her on purpose. All of the losses, murders, deaths were on purpose. Bradwell would say, Look how fast they’ve hidden the truth.

  The guard taps the side of his face, the same spot of her crescent-shaped burn. “Cover that up,” he says. “Pull some hair forward.” He hands her a cap. “And keep this on.”

  It’s a betrayal. All of it. She’s sickened by it.

  He leads her down hallways. She hears distant rumbling and thinks about the Dusts surrounding Crazy John-Johns. She feels the same vibrations up through the soles of her boots. She’s scared and has no idea what to expect.

  But soon they’re standing by a tunnel, and a train pulls up. It’s a sleek, beautiful machine—so shiny she can see her own reflection. She’s a guard now.

  The doors open. They step inside. The car is empty.

  “Everyone’s in front of their televisions today,” the guard says.

  “Why’s that?”

  He looks at her and then away. “Wedding. Partridge is getting married.”

  “He’s getting married?”

  “Yep.”

  She thinks of Lyda and the baby. Are Partridge and Lyda getting married because it’s mandatory in the Dome if someone gets pregnant? She’d ask, but she’s not sure if the pregnancy is common knowledge. She thinks of her wedding in the woods. Real but not real. Intimate. A secret. The only way it seems like it could exist in her ashen, desolate homeland. But love inside the Dome must be different. Here, falling in love can be an event, a proclamation without acknowledging that everyone you love could die an awful death, that loving someone is an acceptance of impending loss.

  She feels a little dizzy. She grabs the train’s shiny pole, so clean it squeaks when her hand slips. This is my brother’s wedding day, she thinks, and despite everything, she feels happy, maybe even hopeful.

  But at the same time, the train car reminds her of the buried one that the mothers had tunneled down to, its jacked floor and punched windows. Here she smells the lingering perfumes of the Pures’ shampoos, aftershaves, hairspray—a sweetness she remembers from her childhood in the barbershop with its small bottles of tonics and gels. Most of all, there’s the absence of rot and death, smoke and char. It makes her feel giddy and yet also like she might cry.

  She straightens up and says, “Are you taking me to the wedding ceremony?”

  The guard checks his watch. “The reception. The place will be packed with guards. High security. You’ll fit in.”

  “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 p
ulls 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.

  Partridge and this woman, this stranger, wave and then whisper to each other, smiling.

  Pressia grabs Ven’s jacket. “What happened? Who is she?”

  “Iralene,” Ven says. “Willux chose her for Partridge.”

  “But…Lyda…and…”

  Ven shakes his head, and she knows that it’s not just the pregnancy that’s a secret, but Lyda too.

  “I want to talk to Partridge. I want to talk to him now.” Pressia’s furious. What the hell is he doing? Lyda’s pregnant! It’s his child, and he’s still doing what his daddy’s told him to do?

  “I’m trying to get you in close; then you two can maybe find a quiet place—”

  “I don’t care about finding a quiet place,” Pressia says, and she heads into the crowd. She hears Ven telling her to wait, but she keeps going—around tables, cutting across the dance floor, and making a direct line for Partridge.

  The bride has been pulled away by some other guests. Partridge is talking to an older man with a lean, tan face. How do you get tan in a place with no sun?

  Pressia stops in front of them.

  It takes a few seconds for Partridge to notice her, but when he does, his face lights up. “Pressia!” he says, as if this is a happy surprise.

  And for some reason, it’s his joy that infuriates her the most. He hands his drink off to a man nearby, leans forward, open armed, ready to give her a hug, and before she even thinks about it, she lifts her hand to slap him, but her wrist is caught.

  The tan-faced man has a firm grip on her, pulling her in close.

  “Who the hell are you?” Pressia says. “Let go of me.”

  “I’m Foresteed. Nice to meet you, Pressia.”

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “It’s not hard to recognize a well-known wretch like you. You think those bandages are fooling me?”

  “Ease up, Foresteed,” Partridge says, and his grip loosens, and he lets go. “How did you get here? Let’s go somewhere and talk.”