Page 86 of Flickerstate

“But there might be camerasinsidethe collections,” I say.

“Maybe.”

“And without Griffin’s keycard, how do we get into the Highwall Collection anyway?”

“I think,” he says, “we can solve both problems with leaguing.”

“How?”

“The locks on the collection doors are electronic. Electronics can malfunction. Of course, it’s very, very improbable that the lock on the Highwall Collection would malfunction, causing the door to open,exactlywhen we needed it to. Maybe too improbable a future to locate with regular nav…”

“But not with leaguing.”

“That’s the idea.”

“And you think, if there are cameras inside the collection, we can force them to malfunction with leaguing too.”

“Yeah.”

“But we’ve never leagued twice in a row like that before, with no rest in between.”

“True,” he admits. “And I have no ideahowimprobable the malfunctions we’re talking about are. It could be too hard. But…doyouwant to wait and figure something else out?”

I let out a shaky breath. “No. I don’t want to wait at all.”

***

At three minutes to 11 p.m., when the last die-hard studiers aretrickling out of the library before closing time, Vik and I skulk into the marble-paved atrium and loiter beside the corniced door with the gold plaque that announces the Victoria Highwall Archive.

Once the atrium is deserted, Vik swipes his keycard over the electronic lock and yanks the door open.

I plunge through, Vik on my heels. The door thunks closed behind us.

I’m inside the Archive.

I applied to the Academy for this moment. Struggled through the trials, lost sleep, torched friendships, sweated and cried and bled for this moment. But now that I’m here, I don’t feel triumphant. I don’t even feel safe. Nausea clenches my gut and terror closes my throat as I wonder: What if I was wrong? What if there’s no cure?

But I don’t have time to dwell on worst-possible outcomes. Vik and I need to get moving.

The Archive is even colder than the atrium, temperature-controlled to preserve old papers. The entry room is bare save for a massive mahogany reception desk with a Tiffany reading lamp. In the wall behind the desk stand three heavy doors, each with its own gold plaque. On the door to the left, the plaque reads MIURA. To the right, LUCASSON.

In the middle, HIGHWALL.

Vik and I circle the desk and stand in front of the middle door. The light in its electronic lock glows a dull red.

“What do we look for in flickerstate?” I whisper. “A green light? A sudden and convenient shower of sparks? The door just…fallingopen?”

“Any of the above, I guess.” Vik offers me his hand.

It occurs to me—with a strange lurch, like ground I thought was stable shifting under my feet—that Vik and I haven’t leagued, haven’ttriedto league, since I dumped him and lied to his face about the reason.

Will we beableto anymore? Or did I break whatever allowed us to reach that place of perfect, balanced fusion?

I hesitate, ashamed, agonized,scared.

Vik waits for me. His outstretched hand doesn’t waver.

Just like that, the ground beneath my feet is still again. I remember how, before I ever kissed him, he walked into range of that arachnoid beast to give me power. I remember how, after I broke things off, he agreed without hesitation to risk his Academy spot, his Archive assistantship, his laurels, his future, to help me find a cure. Vik’s decency, his goodness—they’re so unshowy, so matter-of-fact, as deadpan as the rest of him, that they’re easy to overlook. But there they are. Solid. A foundation.