Burn, Page 2

  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.

  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.”

  Partridge sits back and sighs. He’ll recognize the
se people from political functions, parties, those who live in the apartment building where he grew up, the parents of his friends from the academy. He shakes his head. “I don’t want to sit next to Iralene this time. Don’t get me wrong. I like Iralene. I respect her. But they’ve got to get used to the idea that we’re not going to get married. Every time they see me with her, it’s going to be harder to explain that I’m with Lyda.” On Christmas Eve, Partridge and Lyda kissed a little. He put his hand on the soft skin of her stomach where the baby is just starting to grow. “I’m going to be a father. Lyda and I are going to get married. We have to introduce this idea and undo my father’s lies.”

  Hoppes shakes his head and his fatty jowls wag. He’s taken over managing Partridge’s image. “We’re working on a story that will set this all right. We’ve got a plan. But it’s just too soon. My staff is working diligently. Trust me.”

  “How about the truth?” Partridge feels a surge of heat run through him. Lies were how his father operated. He told the people fairy tales so they could sleep at night—tales of a world divided into Pures and wretches. “How about the goddamn truth for once?”

  Foresteed sets his fists on the table and stands up, leaning over Partridge. “The truth is that you knocked someone up and you’re engaged to someone else. Your concubine’s set up in a nice place to keep her quiet—like father, like son.”

  “I’m not anything like my father.” Partridge stares at Foresteed, waiting for him to back down but Foresteed doesn’t. He glares at Partridge as if he’s begging him to take a swing.

  Purdy breaks the silence. Scratching the back of his head, he says, “I just don’t get why you wouldn’t be interested in a girl like Iralene. She was made for you.”

  “Literally,” Partridge says.

  “Well, she’s a real catch,” Purdy says. “Sometimes you’ve got to rely on someone else to hold up a mirror. Am I right, fellas?”

  Hoppes says, “Yes, of course.”

  Foresteed nods.

  Partridge feels tight pressure in his chest. “I’m in love with Lyda. I’m not going to be peer pressured into falling out of love, okay? So why don’t you keep your goddamn opinions to yourself?”

  Purdy raises his hands in the air. “We’re going to work this out. It’s going to be okay!”

  He hates this most of all—defensively chipper smiles that cover up all the lies. He can’t take it anymore. His chest feels like it could explode. He leans forward. “I know the truth. And I am going to lead with the truth. My father was the biggest mass murderer in history,” Partridge says. This is the truth he’s held in for a long time. It feels good to warn them. He feels powerful for once. “The people know this, but they pretend they don’t. They’ve all been handed a lie, and they’re living by it. It’s got to be eating at them. They have to be ready to acknowledge it. It’s the only way to move forward.”

  “Jesus,” Hoppes says. He’s taken a handkerchief from his pocket and presses it to his upper lip and forehead.

  “To what possible end?” Foresteed asks, his eyes wide with astonishment. “I mean, do you want the wretches and the Pures to walk hand in hand into a beautiful tomorrow?”

  “Would it hurt to prepare for the time when we leave the Dome and start making a life for ourselves out there? I mean, how about a little compassion for the survivors?” Partridge and Lyda have been writing out plans, simple things they can start to do to improve lives on the outside—clean water, food, education, and medicine. “We can really impact their lives for the better.”

  “Isn’t that noble,” Foresteed says.

  Partridge can’t bear his condescension.

  Purdy says, “Let’s slow down a minute.”

  Partridge is sick of putting things off, avoiding conflict. Now is the time. He shifts his tone, tries to sound as calm as possible. “Look, I’ve been thinking about this. What would be so wrong with a council, made up of people from the inside and people from the outside?” He, Lyda, and Pressia could all be on that council—plus Bradwell and El Capitan. They could make real progress.

  “God.” Foresteed walks to the door, checks to see if it’s locked, and then sits back down at the table.

  “What’s wrong with a council? What’s wrong with some progress?” Partridge says. There has to be progress. This is why he handed himself over to the Dome in the first place. This is why he killed his father—to push for something hopeful.

  “No, no, no,” Hoppes says quietly. “These are your people, Partridge, the people of the Dome. They like normalcy, consistency. You can’t barge into their lives and start ripping things up.”

  Partridge feels like flipping over the table. He crosses his arms on his chest to try to contain his pounding heart. “Why not? Maybe it’s the only way we’re going to be able to rebuild.”

  Foresteed laughs.

  “What’s so funny?” Partridge hates Foresteed with a sudden rush. His face flushes with anger. It’d be better if Foresteed punched him or at least argued—but to laugh at him?

  Hoppes says, “As a researcher, I’d like to explain to you that the ‘lie,’ as you call it—”

  Purdy interrupts, “A term I deeply disagree with.”

  “That ‘lie,’” Hoppes continues, using air quotes, “has created the framework that allows the people to accept themselves, to be able to look themselves in the eye, to love each other, and to go on. If you take that away, well—”

  “Well what?” Partridge says.

  Foresteed smiles. “If you rob them of their lie, they’ll self-destruct. That’s what. How about a little compassion for the people inside the Dome? Huh?”

  The room goes quiet. These men aren’t going to see his side. There are others inside the Dome who are supposed to be on Partridge’s side—the Cygnus—those who had a plan to get him into power, a plan his mother had tried to put into action from the outside. Where the hell are they now? Partridge could use some reinforcements. He can’t even really tell if Foresteed is telling the truth. Does the lie keep these people together or is he just trying to keep Partridge quiet? “I want to see Glassings,” Partridge says.

  “Glassings?” Hoppes says.

  “My old World History teacher.” Glassings is one of the secret leaders of the sleeper cells, part of Cygnus, and the one who got the pill that would kill his father to Partridge. In some ways, Glassings got him into this. He’d like for him to at least show up in his life again.

  “Why do you want to see him?” Foresteed asks. Does Glassings’ name alarm him?

  “I have some questions about world history,” Partridge lies quickly. “It would help to know how some other leaders have led. Don’t you think?”

  “Your father was a great leader. What more could you ask for?” Purdy says, smiling nervously.

  He wants to ask Purdy to schedule a meeting with Glassings, but he doesn’t like the suspicious look in Foresteed’s eyes, so he sighs heavily as if he’s bored. “How many more of these services?” he asks again.

  Purdy reexamines his planner. He taps dates and counts aloud to seven. “That’s it. Seven more memorial services. Not bad.”

  “And then we can roll out the new story—the break between you and Iralene and the news of your new love, Lyda,” Hoppes says. “We’ll broach the baby situation about two months after that.”

  Are they just going to keep putting it off? “The new story about Lyda will go out soon, right? Days, not weeks?”

  “Of course,” Hoppes says.

  Foresteed says, “Just go out there and say your lines, Partridge. Let them show their respects.”

  “Okay, but no Iralene,” Partridge says. “She needs a break anyway. Just send her home, okay?” He worries about Iralene. She’s under a lot of pressure, feeling terribly scrutinized, and she knows that her role is going to change. Partridge has assured her that she’ll always have a place in his life—as a friend—and a respected role in society, but he just doesn’t know what that’s going to look like.

  �
��We can’t make any promises about Iralene,” Hoppes says. “You know that there are a lot of moving pieces here.” He means Mimi, his father’s widow and Iralene’s mother, who can be unpredictable.

  “We can’t be held hostage by Mimi.” Partridge stands up. “I’m in charge,” he says, though he feels nervous saying it. “No Iralene this time. Okay? I don’t want her sitting next to me on live-streaming feed.” Lyda will be watching, won’t she? He imagines her as he last saw her. She was wearing a long white cotton nightgown. She was tired—she’s not sleeping well—but also restless.

  “I feel like a caged tiger,” she told him. “I don’t know how long I can take it. When are you coming back?”

  He kissed her and told her, “As soon as I can. My life isn’t really my own right now, but it will be soon. It’s coming. I promise.”

  “This meeting is over,” Partridge says. Sometimes it’s the little things that feel so good—like calling the end to a meeting. It shouldn’t matter, but he likes that he can flex this muscle and no one can contradict him.

  Foresteed strides to the door, gets there first, and unlocks it. “Allow me,” he says. He opens the door for Partridge. There’s the line of mourners, immaculately dressed. Their heads turn, and they stare at Partridge. He hears a few stifled sobs. They gaze at him expectantly.

  Foresteed claps Partridge on the shoulder, his grip too sharp. He leans in close and whispers, “You’re wrong, you know. Your father wasn’t just the biggest mass murderer in history. He was the most successful. There’s a difference.”

  Partridge puts his hand on the door, ready to walk out of the room. “I won’t live his lies for him. I’m not his puppet, and I’m sure as hell not yours.”

  Foresteed smiles at him. His teeth nearly glow they’re so white. “As if you don’t have lies of your own already, Partridge,” he says so softly only Partridge can hear. “If you’re going to come clean, why don’t you start with yourself?”