Page 9 of Flickerstate

Closeness aside, I haven’t told her about my plan to cure Dad. I haven’t told anyone. If my family knows I’m rolling the dice on a long shot—the weird but persistent rumor that Highwall found a cure for possibility wounds and, for mysterious reasons,hidit—I worry I’ll give them too much hope. Then, if I can’t pull it off…

But Jo’s been snappy and sullen since I applied to the Academy. We need to hash it out. I stare at the art posters taped over my bed—Zao Wou-Ki’sFire in the Sky, Caravaggio’sCrucifixion of St. Peter—and take a couple deep breaths. “Okay. What’s wrong?”

Her head jerks up. She has pale skin like Dad’s. It blotches red when she’s upset. Right now, her skin is very blotchy, and the blotches are very red. “What’swrong?”

“Mom and Dad can’t afford to send us both to Saint Cat’s. This is our best option.”

“I don’t care about SaintCat’s, Norah. Dad coulddie. Are you even going to be here when he—he needs you, and I need—I—” Her mouth contorts, her eyes glistening.

Damn it. I could never handle Jo crying. I have to fix it. I have to fix this for her. “Have you heard,” I blurt, “that there might be a cure for possibility wounds in Highwall’s Archive at the Academy?”

Jo sits in confused silence, punctuated by her wet breathing. “…What?”

“Access to the Archive is restricted, but some Academy students are allowed in. I need to be a student there, Jo. I need to get into the Archive.”

Hope dawns across her face. “You’re going to cure Dad?”

“If I can—”

“You have to,” she says quickly. “Please. Dad can’t—you have to.”

I swallow. No going back now. “I will. I promise.”

***

The narrow staircase from our attic room lets out into the kitchen, a cube with worn linoleum flooring and a popcorn ceiling. When I step onto the linoleum—I’m getting Jo a glass of water; big feelings make her thirsty—I nearly collide with Mom.

Eavesdropping.

Way too late, I think about acoustics. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough.” Her face is haggard. “Norah, Highwall wouldn’t have hidden a cure for possibility wounds. Not unless the cure hadsome monstrous cost.”

Her doubt infuriates me. It’s the exact doubt I’ve been repressing since I heard the rumors about the cure. “You don’t know that.”

“I know it’s not your responsibility to save your father. When I was your age, my dad— your grandfather—had a heart attack while I was on a field trip. He died before I got to the hospital. It was the worst thing, the absolute worst thing. But it happened. I couldn’t stop it. I know it’s hard; I know. I’m hoping and praying for your dad. But you need to accept he might—”

“No.” I’m not sure what I’m saying no to. But Mom’s voice—exhausted, grieving,resigned—panics me. “You think this is my fault—”

“Norah, I don’t—”

“—and maybe it is.” Guilt chokes me. I fight to speak. “But…why would I have this ability if I can’t use it to help Dad somehow? I can’t just sit and hope, Mom. I have todosomething.”

Mom stares at me, hollow eyed. “Sometimes you can’t do anything, Norah. Sometimes you can’t help yourself. At best, you can hope someone or something else gives you a hand.”

My panic vanishes.

A dangerous calm settles over me.

I was right to hide my bite from Mom. I should have hidden my plan to find a cure from her too. She says she’s hoping, but she’s given up on Dad. She’s given up on controlling the future.

I haven’t. I can’t.

No matter what.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say. “I’m sure I canstay out of your way for the next few months. Then I’ll be at the Academy and out of your hair.”

“Norah—”