Page 87 of Flickerstate

The only obstacle to Vik and me leaguing isme. My pride, reluctant to accept his no-strings help. My shame, cringing at how I lied to him.

Maybe he has no reason to trust me anymore. But the thing is, even if he can’t trust me, I can trust him.

Idotrust him.

I take his hand. Grip it tight.

“Three,” I whisper, “two, one, go—”

We league.

Our bliss, our relief at seeing our infinite red-gold mansion again—they turn to panic when we see what it holds.

In almost every near future, Mr. Davis walks into the entry room, followed by a middle-aged woman in a navy sheath dress. As soon as they see us, the woman spins and legs it back through the door as if afraid we’ll recognize her. “We were just—” Mr. Davis babbles. But then he looks harder at me. Grasps that I’m not Mirabel, not an Archive assistant. I’m one of the losers. An interloper. And he yells for security.

In a very few futures, Mr. Davis and the unknown woman don’t notice us—because we’ve stopped, dropped, and rolled under the reception desk.

Without needing to speak, Vik and I dive out of flickerstate and roll under the desk.

A second later, the door to the Archive beeps, clicks, and unlocks.

The desk, though big, wasn’t built to fit two tall seniors beneath it. Vik’s on his back, knees bent. I’m crushed to his chest, mouth hovering over his, our noses almost brushing. Heat flushes my neck. I turn my face from his.

Footsteps click across the marble. They circle the desk. Two sets of shoes come into view, Mr. Davis’s scuffed loafers and a pair of black pumps with red bottoms.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” the woman asks. Despite her smooth, radio-friendly voice, her words have a jittery edge.

“It always works,” Mr. Davis says. As usual, he has a doleful, Eeyore delivery, but right now I catch a trace of smugness too. Hehas something that the woman with the red bottoms and the radio voice wants badly, and he enjoys controlling her access to it.

But her access to what?Whatalways works?

Another beep and click. The door to the Highwall Collection sighs open.

Wedged beneath the desk, I strain to see anything—any clue, any secret—through that open door.

All I see are Mr. Davis and the unknown woman stepping down into darkness.

The door swings shut.

***

I want to howl.

I want to jump up and kick the Highwall Collection door.

I want to do something, anything, to vent my rage and frustration at coming so close to the Archive’s inner chambers—and being thwarted. Again.

But I’m a hothead, not an idiot.

So I shove aside my crushing sense of failure. I ignore my flushed embarrassment at Vik’s nearness and warmth in the dark. I steady my breath, slide into flickerstate, and spy on the next ten seconds’ possibilities. If Vik and I break for the exit, will Mr. Davis pop from the Highwall Collection and bust us? Will a student straggler, leaving the library just after regular hours have ended, spot us bursting through the forbidden door into the atrium?

According to flickerstate, likely not.

When my eyes clear of phantom fire, I turn my head to Vik, our nosesdobrush, and I am forcibly reminded—through my nerves and existential despair—that I’m sprawled atop him like he’s an exceptionally muscular, lanky sofa.

“Well?” he whispers.

“Uh,” I say. “Yeah. Clear coast. Let’s go.”