Chapter Seven #3
Bree’s breath, echoing through flickerstate, speeds and shudders.
By the time I’ve collected a loosely wound, fist-size mass, quivering inside my flames like a tortured, live creature, she’s hyperventilating.
I don’t want to stop pulling from her. Already I feel that bizarre mind expansion, like I might see farther into the future than anyone has if I keep taking.
Enough, Norah.
I conjure a blue flame like a blowtorch from my index finger and burn through the skein pulled taut between her and me. I incinerate the mass I’ve taken and gaze through its smoke into the million, million futures flaring overhead.
I navigate.
In the real, Bree slumps. Her damp forehead presses against my knee.
“Clubs, ace to king,” I rasp.
I manage till the jack of clubs. From the sofa, Candace peers at the cards arcing messily across the carpet. “Not bad.”
“You okay?” I ask Bree.
She pushes off my knee. Pained parentheses bracket her mouth. “It wasn’t good. But. Better than getting siphoned.”
“I was watching you guys in flickerstate.” Candace leans forward. “Norah, you were unraveling Bree’s blanket—”
“Her what?” I ask.
“Her nav. It’s a massive pink blanket.”
“Not for me. For me it’s the world’s largest ball of yarn. Still pink, though.”
“But you both think I’m essence of knitwear.” Bree gurgles with laughter. I’m glad she’s not offended. In her shoes, I might be.
“Interesting.” Candace taps her chin. “Bree, how do you see yourself in flickerstate?”
Bree twitches her shoulders. “Glowy pink light, forking upward.”
“What about Norah?”
“Same thing, but red.”
“And me?”
“Shiny green.”
Candace nods. “Norah, how do I look to you?”
“A pillar of vines,” I say. “Growing into the sky.”
“And you to yourself?”
“I’m on fire.” Once the words leave my mouth, I want to take them back. I’m controlled, responsible, dependable, I swear. If I’m not, how can I save Dad? But the truth is, in flickerstate, I’m not a warm, safe hearth. I’m a house burning down.
“What do you see?” Bree asks Candace.
Candace points to me. “Fire.” To herself. “Infinite sycamore.”
“Infinite sycamore?” Bree hums. “Great band name.”
“Indeed. Well, there’s overlap in our concepts. At minimum we see the same colors.”
Candace has been nudging the conversation in a particular direction; now I spy her end point. “You think if we coordinate how we’re manipulating flickerstate concepts…we’ll channel easier?”
She nods. “We already tailor our strategies to each other’s flickerstate manifestations when we siphon.
We can do the same thing channeling. When you burned through Bree’s thread to stop the channel, that was a nice bit of manipulation.
Simple, intuitive. We need to figure out the right manipulations for each pair of us, giving and receiving. ”
“Problem: How does a forest”—Bree gestures between Candace and me—“share with a fire?”
“Tree, not forest,” Candace says. “But you have a point.”
I hate what I’m about to say. I say it anyway. “It’ll be easy for me to take. I can burn whatever you give me for fuel. But it’ll be hard for me to give back.”
Bree shoots me a pitying glance. “It’s flickerstate weirdness, not a judgment of your character.”
Candace doesn’t touch that comment—also from pity, I’m guessing, since she must suspect that how we manifest to people is a judgment. “We could center our strategy on you, Norah. We channel, you navigate.”
I like this suggestion because it keeps me in the driver’s seat. But… “We don’t know how the trials are organized. Maybe Dr. Langmore will choose who channels and who navigates. We’ve all got to be ready to play any part. Like in, I don’t know, improv.”
“I hate improv.” Candace flops deeper into the sofa, crossing her arms. But despite the faux sulk, she relaxes, like an ominous shadow has lifted from the room.
I can guess why. She suspected I might jump on her suggestion without thinking it through, drooling to harvest my teammates’ nav and give nothing back. She was testing me. When I glare at her, she meets it calmly. Can you blame me? Anyway, you passed.
I push my irritation aside. “All right. We give, we take. Who’s next?”
Our attempts mostly fail. I can take what Candace and Bree channel to me, but I wipe them out for five minutes afterward.
And when I channel to them, they recoil like I’m menacing them with a flamethrower.
They don’t fare much better with each other: no pain, but no gain.
After their second try, Candace mutters: “What you’re giving me doesn’t feel usable. ”
They’re about to try a third time when Bree’s phone bursts into an orchestral Metallica cover. She clambers to her feet. “Our practice is up. I’m going to study with Aria and Peyton in the library. Want to join?”
I’m worn out, anxious, frustrated. I can’t imagine socializing. “Thanks, but I study better solo.”
“Same,” Candace says. “Do you know when you’ll be back tonight, Bree?”
“Not sure.” Bree swipes a hand under her sweaty hair. “Should I shower before I go?”
“If you like Aria and Peyton. Will you be back before midnight this time?”
“I should be. The library closes at eleven. I think I am going to shower.” Bree disappears into the bathroom.
Candace pinches the bridge of her nose. “We’re in trouble.”
Is she talking about the rocky practice, Bree’s excessive nonchalance, or our group’s babe-in-the-woods newbieness? I don’t ask. She’s right no matter what.