Page 42 of Flickerstate

Once Mr. Davis explains the details, he sets a timer: We have a minute to pick our navigator. Candace, Bree, and I huddle at our table, nearly brushing noses.

“It has to be Norah,” Candace whispers.

“Why?” Bree whispers back. “Why not you? Or me, I guess.”

“Because I’m the worst at channeling,” I admit sourly. “I usually panic. Unless I’m the one who navigates, my power will be wasted.”

Bree considers this: Norah gets to lead because back in kindergarten, no one taught her to share a stage, and now she’s shitty at supporting roles. “Fine. Take it gently this time.”

“Nah, I think I’ll mug you at knifepoint.” I roll my eyes. “Of course.”

Main navigator chosen, we cluster around Mr. Davis with Elena, Rafe, and Carrie. Mr. Davishem-hemsat us. “We flip a coin to see which team goes first. Heads or tails?”

“Heads.” Elena stands tall, a silver headband gleaming in her pale hair like a crown. When I shoot her a dirty look—hey, who says Mr. Davis was askingyou?—she ignores me with queenly disdain.

“Okay, Team Seven heads, Team Eight tails.” Mr. Davis pulls a quarter from his rumpled black slacks and flicks it high above his head. It hangs in the air, glinting, and drops like a shot bird into his palm. He slaps it onto the back of his hand and holds it out for inspection.

“Heads,” Elena announces, like we can’t all see George Washington’s flowy wig and oddly petite chin for ourselves.

“Team Seven, you’re up,” Mr. Davis says. “Who’s your navigator?”

To no one’s surprise, Elena steps forward.

“Do you remember what you have to do?” Mr. Davis asks.

Elena nods.

“Good. Are you ready?”

Elena nods again. Carrie and Rafe step up behind her. Carrie takes her left hand, Rafe her right. Meanwhile, Mr. Davis pulls ten tea candles from his satchel, lines them up on the table, and lights them with a chrome Zippo. He counts down to zero and opens the nearest door, a wet gust from outside shivering the tiny flames.

Maybe I shouldn’t bother with flickerstate now—conserving energy and all that—but I want to watch another team channel. I’m hoping to learn something from how their concepts mesh that I can apply to my own team. Besides, since I came to the Academy, entering flickerstate has gone from a weird, physical wrench to an automatic action, like an unusually vigorous finger snap.

So.Snap.

Roses bloom from Elena’s eyes, her mouth, the neckline of her white tennis dress. Rosebushes climb the air, thorny limbs sprouting flowers, every petal a future. Carrie fountains fractal sprays, and Rafe churns up glistening mud. Water and dirt, helping flowers grow.

It’s gorgeous, lush as a golden age still life, and it strikes dread in my shriveled heart. Elena might be top five, but Carrie and Rafe aren’t. I’d hoped for an easy win. Team Seven’s so compatible, though—and in a channeling trial, compatibility may matter more than raw power.

A thorny branch darts from the roses where Elena’s mouth used to be, navigating upward to one floral future, a second, athird. Done.

In reality, Elena shakes off her teammates and takes a panting breath.

Damp wind swirls around us, carrying pinpricks of rain.

The first candle goes out. The second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth—and tenth. Candles seven to nine stay burning until Mr. Davis calls time.

I choke down a yelp of triumph.

Mr. Davis frowns. “Six choice-points managed. Team Eight, you’re up. Who’s your navigator?”

I step forward. As Mr. Davis relights the candles, Candace wraps her thin fingers around my right wrist, while Bree circles my left in a loose, sweaty grip.

“We good?” I ask.

They nod: Candace once, decisively, and Bree in her anxious, bobblehead way.

“Three,” I say, “two, one, go—”