“Is there really no cure?” I sniffled, rifling through pages. “There has to be a cure.”
I sat in the library, with notebooks, volumes, papers, and all the journals I could find, many of which Grandpa Plaka had written in, scattered about me. Father must have had the journal with the cure. Why would he hide it from us?
“Looking for something?”
I spun around to see Javis’s outline in the doorway, his hand pressed against the jamb.
“What’s wrong, Silvie?”
“Don’t worry,” he said, smiling. “The suggestions given at the Clock Tower will work, though I don’t agree the baglamas should be kept hidden. We’ve heard the stories about Susana and the Fire Falls. This is just another chapter. Courage and good will prevail, like they always do.”
I grimaced. “I hope you’re right.”
“Come on, you’re not getting scared now, are you?”
Sighing, I shook my head. I considered telling him about the Occlusion, wondering whether he knew how sick he was. That I’d felt it—the darkness in him—again, at the Clock Tower after he’d collapsed.
“Then, what’s the problem?” he asked. “You look as if there’s something worse to worry about.”
I sucked in a breath. I was sure Father would fill the role of World Builder on our mission, anyway. I couldn’t stand Javis holding a false hope, or worse yet, that he wouldn’t recover from his illness.
“I’m worried about you,” I said.
He entered the room and nudged one of the notebooks on the floor with his toe. “Me? Why?”
“Obviously because of what happened at the Clock Tower. How long have you been feeling like this?”
“I’m not feeling anything at all, honestly. At least not until it hits me, then afterward.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like I told you before, when I fell over in the bathroom, I didn’t feel it coming. Everything disappeared into whiteness, accompanied by a sudden weakness, like I was empty.”
“You have no way of knowing when or where it will happen again?”
He frowned and shook his head. “Father had a couple doctors examine me. They think it’s something I’ll grow out of.” He slapped his ribs with his hands. “I’m fine now, see. Nothing to worry about.”
A huff escaped my lips.
“Is that what this is about?” He grinned at the floor and gathered papers into a stack. “Are you trying to heal me?”
My stomach twisted. “I’d do this for anyone, especially you.”
“You have enough to do right now, Silvie. You don’t need to worry about me. The doctors who saw me are the best of the best. They’re probably right—whatever’s happening will work itself out and go away.”
“But it won’t,” I blurted, my voice rising. “This is more serious than they know. Mother said—”
“What did your mother say?”
Javis and I froze. We glanced over our shoulders to the doorway. Father stood there, clenching and unclenching his jaw.
I breathed in and out, steadying my heartbeat. “Where is Grandpa Plaka’s journal?” I said. “The one where he wrote about Occlusions.”
“Occlusions?” whispered Javis. “What’s that?”
“Answer my question first,” boomed Father. “What did your mother say?”
“I told a past version of her about Javis falling ill,” I began, shakily. “When I reached out to heal Javis, I felt a darkness there, something I hadn’t noticed in anyone else before. It was there again, at the Clock Tower, only darker…stronger. Like the Occlusion had grown.”
Javis’s head snapped toward me, his jaw slackened.
“Mother had sensed this darkness in others,” I continued. “But she couldn’t tell me much about it. She said Grandpa Plaka studied Occlusions and was interested in a cure.”
“Is this what’s wrong with me?” Javis sunk in on himself and pinched his shoulders upward, then shuddered as if he were disgusted by his own body. “Father, why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“I’m not convinced you have an Occlusion,” Father replied.
“Then why are you hiding the journal?” I said. “If you don’t think that’s what’s making Javis sick, why won’t you give it to me?”
“I’m not hiding anything, Silvie. The journal is on my desk at the hospital. I’m sure you’ll find very little of interest there.” He turned and walked away, with steps as icy and rigid as his voice.
“He’s angry,” I said, stating the obvious.
“But you haven’t done anything wrong!”
“I know. But I don’t think he’s angry with me.” I placed a hand on my brother’s shoulder to still his agitation. “Father is angry with himself.”
“By now, he must have come to the same conclusion I have. That he’s responsible for your illness. Mother told me Occlusions tend to be found in those whose travel talents have been repressed. You rarely get to use your World Building talent.”
Javis’s face had blossomed to a deep shade of red by the time I finished explaining. He tugged at his shirt. “So there’s this thing inside of me, feasting on the erosion of my travel talent? And you’re saying there’s no cure?”
I almost snorted at how much he sounded like Grandpa Plaka. “There’s no known cure, as far as Mother and Father are concerned. I haven’t seen the journal yet. Father may be right that there’s nothing in there that will help. But I have a theory.”
I bit my lip and carefully gathered the remaining books on the floor and set them back on the shelf, leaving Javis to pace back and forth behind me. I knew there was a question on the tip of his tongue. He may have been waiting for me to continue, to tell him my theory. But I wasn’t sure I could fully articulate an explanation in words. It was more of a feeling, an amorphous thought too high level to make sense, even if the solution itself was simple.
Footsteps behind me halted. Followed by the thick plop of a cushion. I looked back to where Javis sat in front of the fireplace with his head in his hands.
“What do I need to do to fix this?” he said, finally.
“You’ll need to trust me when the time comes,” I said. “Your World Building talent wants to be released. Something important needs to be unlocked. To be set free.”
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