asks.
“Fine,” Partridge says. He has no choice but to trust those around him. They’re all he has. “Let’s see it.”
Beckley nods to the guard, who reaches under the head of the table, perhaps pressing a button hidden there, and one wall breaks into panels and opens, revealing a door.
On the other side of the door could be his father’s secrets. He’s never understood his father. His father was so absent—even when he was in the same room, his mind was working on something else. Partridge doesn’t remember ever having the feeling that his father was actually looking at him. His father was more than aloof. He seemed nearly hollow. But he hadn’t always been like that; there was something about his father—once upon a time—that had made Partridge’s mother fall in love with him. Hadn’t he once been funny? Thoughtful? Maybe even a little vulnerable?
He’s also well aware that on the other side of the door there might be proof that he could offer the people here—proof that his father was the mastermind behind it all, that the people on the outside need their help.
He walks up to the door. “How do we do this?”
“You look into this beam of light for the retinal scan,” the guard says, “and press your hand on this square to check your fingerprint.” The beam is blue and it appears from a small camera-like lens in the wall. The square is made of glass, but it too has a bluish glow.
Partridge leans into the beam. Something inside of the lens clicks. He presses his hand to the glass square, and he hears another series of clicks. Partridge puts his hand on the knob, but the door opens automatically. The room is dark.
Beckley moves forward to usher him in.
“Wait for me outside,” Partridge says. “All the way out. In the hall.”
“Yes, sir,” Beckley says, and he tells the rest of the guards to back out of the room.
Partridge steps just inside the dark room; he can tell that it’s relatively small, and it feels cluttered. From the dim light cast by the war room, he can see that the chamber walls are covered in something that seems to shiver. He thinks of wings—the birds on Bradwell’s back and how, when they shifted, his shirt would flutter.
Is his father’s chamber filled with batting wings? He wants to call this off, back out of the room, but he can’t. He’s gone too far now. They’d know he’s afraid.
It’s not logical, but he feels like he’s about to move into his father’s mind. He always sensed that his father held infinite secrets, that he seemed so absent because there was a version of himself that he refused to share. A secret self.
And Partridge has uncovered so many secrets—destruction, death, so many layers of lies. He doesn’t want to know any more of them.
He shudders then takes a step past the threshold.
Immediately, the lights flicker on. The room fills with light. The door slams shut behind him.
The walls are covered with sheets of paper—hundreds, maybe thousands of them. Some are glossy and thick, others white and papery.
The glossy sheets are photographs, and the papers are covered in his father’s handwriting. Partridge walks to a wall. He sees his mother’s face, poised over a baby swaddled in a blanket. Sedge is at her side, peering at the baby. It’s Partridge, a newborn.
He looks at the paper taped to the wall beside the picture. It’s a letter. It reads,
To my beautiful wife,
I remember you in this moment. Was I there? Do I only have a memory of looking at this photograph? Our lives are layered like this. I miss you still. I miss you always. You’re mine. Don’t forget that. Mine.
Ellery
Partridge moves to the next sheet of paper.
To my beautiful wife…
And the next: To my beautiful wife …
And then he finds one that begins,
Dear Sedge,
What happened? Why did you turn away from me? Why…
Did Sedge ever turn away from his father?
Partridge,
Look at how young you once were. You used to shout and sing when I came in the door,
“Fine,” Partridge says. He has no choice but to trust those around him. They’re all he has. “Let’s see it.”
Beckley nods to the guard, who reaches under the head of the table, perhaps pressing a button hidden there, and one wall breaks into panels and opens, revealing a door.
On the other side of the door could be his father’s secrets. He’s never understood his father. His father was so absent—even when he was in the same room, his mind was working on something else. Partridge doesn’t remember ever having the feeling that his father was actually looking at him. His father was more than aloof. He seemed nearly hollow. But he hadn’t always been like that; there was something about his father—once upon a time—that had made Partridge’s mother fall in love with him. Hadn’t he once been funny? Thoughtful? Maybe even a little vulnerable?
He’s also well aware that on the other side of the door there might be proof that he could offer the people here—proof that his father was the mastermind behind it all, that the people on the outside need their help.
He walks up to the door. “How do we do this?”
“You look into this beam of light for the retinal scan,” the guard says, “and press your hand on this square to check your fingerprint.” The beam is blue and it appears from a small camera-like lens in the wall. The square is made of glass, but it too has a bluish glow.
Partridge leans into the beam. Something inside of the lens clicks. He presses his hand to the glass square, and he hears another series of clicks. Partridge puts his hand on the knob, but the door opens automatically. The room is dark.
Beckley moves forward to usher him in.
“Wait for me outside,” Partridge says. “All the way out. In the hall.”
“Yes, sir,” Beckley says, and he tells the rest of the guards to back out of the room.
Partridge steps just inside the dark room; he can tell that it’s relatively small, and it feels cluttered. From the dim light cast by the war room, he can see that the chamber walls are covered in something that seems to shiver. He thinks of wings—the birds on Bradwell’s back and how, when they shifted, his shirt would flutter.
Is his father’s chamber filled with batting wings? He wants to call this off, back out of the room, but he can’t. He’s gone too far now. They’d know he’s afraid.
It’s not logical, but he feels like he’s about to move into his father’s mind. He always sensed that his father held infinite secrets, that he seemed so absent because there was a version of himself that he refused to share. A secret self.
And Partridge has uncovered so many secrets—destruction, death, so many layers of lies. He doesn’t want to know any more of them.
He shudders then takes a step past the threshold.
Immediately, the lights flicker on. The room fills with light. The door slams shut behind him.
The walls are covered with sheets of paper—hundreds, maybe thousands of them. Some are glossy and thick, others white and papery.
The glossy sheets are photographs, and the papers are covered in his father’s handwriting. Partridge walks to a wall. He sees his mother’s face, poised over a baby swaddled in a blanket. Sedge is at her side, peering at the baby. It’s Partridge, a newborn.
He looks at the paper taped to the wall beside the picture. It’s a letter. It reads,
To my beautiful wife,
I remember you in this moment. Was I there? Do I only have a memory of looking at this photograph? Our lives are layered like this. I miss you still. I miss you always. You’re mine. Don’t forget that. Mine.
Ellery
Partridge moves to the next sheet of paper.
To my beautiful wife…
And the next: To my beautiful wife …
And then he finds one that begins,
Dear Sedge,
What happened? Why did you turn away from me? Why…
Did Sedge ever turn away from his father?
Partridge,
Look at how young you once were. You used to shout and sing when I came in the door,
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