Page 88 of Flickerstate

***

We slip from the dark library, flee across the deserted quad, and stop under the Great Tree, panting.

“Shit,” I say. “Shit, shit, shit. That was almost so bad. That was almostsobad.”

Vik shoves both hands through his hair. “Maybe rushing in with no plan wasn’t our best idea.”

“Who was that woman?”

“She’s a donor,” Vik says. “I recognized her in flickerstate. They ran a photo of her in the school paper a couple weeks ago. Her family foundation is paying to renovate and expand the freshman and sophomore dorms.”

“You read the school paper?”

“Don’t you?”

“Absolutely not. You think Mr. Davis isallowedto sneak donors into the Archive after hours?”

Vik shakes his head. “Something hinky’s going on.”

“What do we do?”

“We shouldn’t try another head-on attack without a strategy.” A thoughtful line creases the skin between his eyebrows. “Give me a day. Tomorrow after class I start in the Miura Collection. I’ll do recon. Check the layout, see when the Archive’s most likely to be deserted. Then we can come up with a better plan. Okay?”

I don’t like waiting. Not with Dad edging closer to a precipice every moment. But Vik’s right: We jumped the gun, and it almost ended in disaster. We need to pause and gather information.

“Okay,” I say grudgingly.

After that anticlimax, we walk toward Lucasson in silence.

We’re nearly there when I notice we’re striding in rhythm, our feet striking the ground, left, right, at the same time. Is this physical attunement a side effect of leaguing or just something that’s ours, that’s us?

Yearning strangles me. I avert my eyes from Vik, long and lean in my peripheral vision, to keep from spinning toward him, falling into him.

You can’t, I remind myself desperately.It wouldn’t be fair. You’ve pulled him in too deep already. Don’t make it worse.

You’re dangerous.

And you might die on him.

When we reach the Lucasson stairwell, I bolt upward, taking the stairs two at a time, without saying goodbye.

***

The next morning, my body feels heavy and sullen. I plod through showering, dressing, packing my bag for class. Clawed thoughts keep tearing painful strips out of me.

You came so close to the Archive. Nothing.

You came too close to Vik. You shouldn’t have.

I plan to abduct a bagel from the dining hall as soon as it opens, before other breakfasters arrive, but my slo-mo misery makes me a little too late. When I push inside, a few students already dot the tables.

A fewincludingCandace, Bree, and Peyton.

They sit clustered under a window about ten feet from me. Candace has her back to the hall, her shoulders tense under a green sweater. Bree’s eyes are pink-rimmed and puffy; Peyton snuffles into a messy fistful of tissues.

“Her stuff was justgone,” Peyton whimpers. “If it’s not true, why wouldn’t she say goodbye?”

“Kids drop out every year.” Candace sounds like she’s trying to be the voice of reason but isn’t convinced by her own calm-and-collected act. “Maybe the Academy was too much for her.”