The Art of Exile

Chapter 6

6

Three days later I’m wandering around one of the Families’ contemporary art galleries as I wait for my ride to Genesis. I spent a grueling morning in the offices upstairs receiving rushed instructions from Family members who all treated me like a kid who shouldn’t be trusted with any information. As if they could do any of this without me.

I’d also been up half the night with Kor, who had given me a completely separate set of instructions from the Oculus.

I’m still shaken that the Oculus even knows that someone like me exists. I thought they worked with people more like… I don’t know, the Pope and the CIA. But, apparently, they also work with Kor, and by extension, yours truly.

In addition to learning about the Makers, they want me to find a way for them to gain access to the school. They also believe that there is some form of ritual or device that can give non-Sires the ability to create and use Ha’i. I am to confirm whether it exists and get all the information necessary to steal it.

Because yours truly is also now a thief, I guess.

I stop in front of a painting of an angel in flight. Confident brushstrokes capture the movement of her outstretched wings and the impossibility of her vivid, ethereal beauty. I know the painting well; it’s one of Kor’s older pieces. The art world recognized Kor’s talent years ago, but now with his music fame, the value of his work has skyrocketed.

I remember when Kor finished this painting. He’d gazed at it wistfully, then wondered aloud if his perfect girl was one too perfect for this world. It was back when I was still hoping he’d realize that I was his perfect girl. Even years later, with that desire far behind me, I can’t forget the heartache I felt in that moment, knowing I’d never be good enough for him.

I’m definitely no angel.

The familiar click of high heels and the subtle scent of bergamot and orange blossom make me turn with pleasant surprise.

“You thought I wouldn’t come to see you off?” my mother asks.

“We said goodbye last night.”

Mom had ordered a ridiculous mismatch of foods from my three favorite takeout spots, and we’d had a family dinner with Grandfather and Sal and Kor. It had been really nice, though it didn’t feel right without Izzy there.

“Give me a little bit of credit.” She pulls me into a hug. “I miss you already.”

I already miss her too. Miss the relationship we used to have compared to how busy and distant she’s become. She’s always been a workaholic, but these past few months have been next level.

“You know that all I want is what’s best for you, right?”

“Sure, Mom,” I say into her champagne-colored silk-blend blazer, which I know will still somehow be stain free by the end of the day.

She kisses the top of my head. “Ada, I mean it. I would never have allowed them to send you to this school just to be their errand girl. I’m only letting you go because I think it will be good for you to learn from these people.”

I roll my eyes. Letting me go. Maybe she could trust me to make my own decisions instead of trying to micromanage everything. I know she’s trying to be nice, but all I hear in her words is relief that I might finally develop some actual talent, mixed with her lack of belief that I could possibly accomplish anything meaningful for the Families. Kor said this is the most important thing the Families have ever done, and yet my mom just sees me as an errand girl .

She would think that since I’ve never lived up to her standards of excellence. She is the ultimate perfectionist; from her looks, to her nutritional intake, to the phrasing of her text messages—everything must be perfect, perfect, perfect. Anything less than exceptional is failure.

To be fair, she’s never directly said that to me, but it’s clearly the standard she holds herself to, so I just assume she already sees me as a sunk cost.

Even so, I hug her tighter.

Our hug is cut short when her phone buzzes informing her of some meeting of great importance. With one last kiss, she rushes off.

I turn to watch the street from the gallery’s glass doors, wiping away some pre-homesickness mist from my eyes. The sidewalks teem with bundled-up pedestrians clutching paper cups as they rush to meet the day. I should be one of them. School resumed at the beginning of this week, and it’s weird to realize I may never go back to the familiar grind of math tests to bomb and books I only pretend to read. I wonder if I’ll regret missing my graduation.

I’ve been expecting a vehicle, so Michael takes me by surprise when he’s suddenly on the other side of the glass, on foot, his floppy hair alive with wind. I push open the door.

“Hi,” he says with a dimpled smile.

If he wonders why I asked him to meet me at a random gallery instead of my home, he doesn’t mention it. All our interactions are being observed through security cameras so that the rest of the Inner Chamber can overanalyze everything about Michael.

“Ready to go?” he asks awkwardly.

“Not in the slightest,” I respond as I step out into the brisk morning, winding my scarf around my face to protect myself from the biting wind.

My luggage was picked up yesterday by a courier—Kor suspects they wanted to search through my stuff—so all I have with me is my backpack. My phone is hidden at the bottom, stashed in a pouch of tampons. I wasn’t explicitly told not to bring it, though it was made clear there won’t be cell service, but it still feels like contraband. The satellite phone stashed beside it is definitely contraband. One of the Families’ tech experts had flown in from Belgium just to give it to me and show me how to use it.

I thought meeting a tech expert would mean I’d get all kinds of cool spy gadgets, but nope. Just a satellite phone that I have been told to never ever use. Apparently they’re worried that it is insecure and that the signal can be intercepted, but they want me to have an emergency way to contact them if need be. When I’d asked about spy cameras and recording devices, the tech guy had said the camera on my cell phone would be perfectly sufficient. When I asked about night-vision glasses, he asked why I would have any need to see in the dark instead of flicking the light switch. What a lack of imagination.

“I’m so glad this has all worked out and that your family approved,” Michael says as we head west, weaving our way around a mountain of garbage bags.

“Approve of a full scholarship to an elite private school? It was an easy sell.” I don’t meet his eyes as the first of many lies rolls off my tongue. “The website and phone calls were very convincing.”

“Yes, we have a provincial office that takes care of cover stories.” Michael pauses at the corner, dutifully waiting for the walk signal despite there being no oncoming traffic. I attempt to suppress my New Yorker instinct to rush.

“Are there many? Recruits who need a cover?”

“Not many in recent years. Faking deaths is our most common method.” Well, that’s morbid. The signal turns white, and we continue walking. “It’s not encouraged for recruits to keep ties with the provincial world, so death is usually the simplest solution.”

“But I’ll be allowed to come back and visit?” My heart tugs with the need for this assurance.

“Since you are young and in danger, an exception is being made for you.”

I’m not sure where I expected him to take me, probably an airport, but I certainly wasn’t expecting the subway. And yet here we are, on the crowded 6 train platform headed downtown. It’s much warmer down here than outside, and my winter clothes are stifling me. I feel like I’ve been microwaved—parts of me too hot and parts of me still thawing from the cold. I won’t miss the temperature idiosyncrasies of the subway platforms while I’m gone.

“What a dreadfully inefficient system,” Michael says as he looks around, but his voice is infused with affection.

I don’t like anyone, no matter how adorable their windblown hair may be, dissing my city. “This inefficient system transports millions of people a day,” I respond dryly.

His smile widens, but when he realizes I’m not smiling back, his look turns thoughtful. “You make a good point. It is both amazing and inefficient.”

The train arrives, and it’s packed, but we manage to snag two adjacent seats.

There’s a series of ads on the subway car’s walls announcing K ORACH C HEVALIER ’ S N EW S INGLE “R IGHTEOUS ” O UT N OW in bright red letters, Kor’s face gazing with romantic mournfulness at the commuters. You’d think I’d be used to this by now, but I’m not.

As we pull away from the platform, the sway of the car and the press of bodies jostles me against Michael. With each knock of our thighs and bump of our shoulders, I become more and more fond of this inefficient mode of transportation. I may have many reservations about the dude, but he didn’t just stop being attractive.

“How are your hands?” Michael asks me at one point.

“Fine. Scarred. I’ve never had a scar before.”

“Your Ha’i is creative energy. Antimatter is the opposite.” He whispers this even though the other passengers couldn’t care less. “It’s the only existing substance that counteracts Ha’i and can cause injuries that Sire abilities can’t heal. Our labs are analyzing the gloves. The Inquisitors have certainly advanced their technology over the years.”

This is useful information. I had described the gloves to the Families during my debriefing, but no one seemed to have heard of antimatter. It definitely seems like the kind of thing Ozymandias Tech would have access to, though. The more I think about Izzy’s message, the more it makes sense that Oz Tech is behind the abductions.

We ride the train all the way downtown, and the car slowly empties. Once there’s no need for us to be pressed close together, Michael shifts slightly so we’re no longer touching. Suddenly the ride is a lot more boring.

“So, where are we going?” I eventually ask. There’s an entire historic order waiting for the answer to this question.

“We need to catch a train,” Michael says, “but the entrance to the train station is a bit… tricky to access.”

Where could we be taking the 6 line to catch a train? We’ve already passed the Grand Central stop.

“When the New York subway system’s first line was built, the Makers designed their own train to be accessible from the City Hall station,” Michael explains. “Unfortunately, in the forties, the station didn’t meet the needs of the new subway cars, so it was abandoned.” He shakes his head ruefully, wearing that dimpled smile. “So inefficient, so wasteful.” He says it like he’s proud of a young child for trying but failing. I roll my eyes and hold back from sniping at him again. He continues, “Luckily, we still have ways to access the station; this approach is the easiest.”

He sticks his hand inside the front of his coat and pulls out a bag of cheese puffs. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?” He withdraws a bright orange puff from the bag, pops it into his mouth, then tips back his head with a way-too-sensual moan. “Enjoy them while you can.” He holds out the bag for me to take. “There’s no highly processed deliciousness at Genesis,” he says wistfully.

A few minutes later, the bag is empty and I’m trying to lick bright orange powder off my hands. My attempts are mostly unsuccessful. I look at Michael and find him licking his own fingers just as awkwardly. Our eyes meet with a shared moment of panicked embarrassment.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the polite voice of the train announcement drones, “this is the last downtown stop on this train. The next stop on this train will be Brooklyn Bridge / City Hall on the uptown platform.” From my many years riding the subway, I recognize this announcement as standard, but this time it doesn’t stop there. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice continues, “not only is it unsafe, it is a violation to ride or walk between cars except in an emergency or when directed by a police officer or a train crew.”

I stand to head to the exit with everyone else, but Michael shakes his head.

“But this is the last stop,” I say.

“Yes, but we’re the next stop,” he replies as the remaining stragglers make their way out.

“Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” drones the announcement. I feel awkward and a little nervous. Won’t a conductor come kick us out? After a moment the train pulls away from the platform and drives through the dark tunnel.

But it doesn’t stay dark for long. Light trickles in from a skylight as we turn into another station. A beautiful station, with intricate tiling.

“Come on,” Michael calls. He’s already at the sliding doors—which have most definitely not opened considering the train is still moving —fiddling with his multi-tool. “We only have a moment. And be prepared to jump over the gap.” The doors pop open a crack, and Michael separates them further by pulling them apart with his hands.

“I’m going to hold this open for you,” Michael says, his long arms high enough for me to duck under. “But you need to jump quickly. Okay?”

I nod, not knowing quite what I’m agreeing to considering the train is very much still rambling down the track. The opening is just wide enough to fit his lean frame. He looks back at me, with my hips and other curves, and then he pulls the door a little wider.

No time to blush.

As the car reaches a bend, it pauses, almost imperceptibly.

“Now!” Michael urges. I grip the straps of my backpack and leap over the gap between the track and platform, my heart thumping so hard I worry for my other organs. I hear Michael land right next to me, and I stumble into him. He steadies me as my knees tremble from the shot of adrenaline.

The train car is gone, screeching its way along the tracks. I take a deep breath, clutching Michael for an extra moment. Then I let go and look around to find that we are in what feels like a totally different time.

I’ve never been in a subway station so empty, so quiet. And it’s so perfectly preserved, under New York City all this time, and not even a secret.

“Never got much use,” Michael says. “Now it’s always empty except for the occasional private tour. But doesn’t it have so much character?”

It does.

“We have to catch our next train, so we’ll take the fast route. Or, as I like to think of it, the fun route!” He hops down onto the rails, and I hold in a shocked screech. Touching the tracks is almost as bad of subway etiquette as making eye contact with a stranger.

“Avoid this one.” Michael points at the third rail––duh, dude, I’m no subway amateur––then reaches up to help me climb down to meet him, though I need to fight all my ingrained instincts to even consider such a reckless action. My only associations with people jumping onto subway tracks are very unfortunate—loss of life and, worse, rush-hour delays.

As soon as we pass under the archway of the dark tunnel, he lifts what looks like a manhole cover. I look down the hole and see a… pole? “Don’t overthink it. I’ll catch you at the bottom,” he says, and sits, dangles his legs into the hole, then wraps them around the pole. “Wait about thirty seconds before you follow.” He pushes his way into the hole and gets sucked into the dark, his clothing squealing against the metal. As soon as his head is through, the cover slams shut with a clang that echoes through the dark tunnel.

My heart races at the thought of following him down. But the terror of standing alone on a subway track with no knowledge of when the next train will come to run me over is enough to have me on my butt, shimmying into position as I hold the cover open and wrap my legs around the pole. Thank God I wore pants today.

Oh man. Oh Lord. Oh cheese puffs that I might barf up.

Here I go.

Air rushes around me as I shriek, my fingers burning from gripping the pole instead of loosening them as I should, but I just grip tighter. My eyes are squeezed shut, and my heartbeat is erratic. And then warm arms are catching me, holding me. I’m on solid ground. It’s over. It actually was fun.

I still might barf up cheese puffs.

A couple of corridors and a few calming breaths later, we arrive at another empty train platform.

“Welcome to the Atlas,” Michael says, gesturing toward the stretch of track in front of us, “a highly efficient maglev train system that connects all of Maker society.” Opaque glass walls block off the track in either direction, so I’m not sure how it leads anywhere.

“Maglev? Like magnetic levitation?” I read an article to Grandfather a few months ago about investors throwing money at Ozymandias Tech for a magnetic levitation project.

“Yes. The provincials are catching up with this technology. It allows for smooth travel at astonishing speeds.”

The climate in here is comfortable, and Michael removes his coat. He has a smart-looking cravat tied around his neck, tucked into a formal jacket that reaches his knees. Well, hello there. There’s no denying that this whole vintage professorial vibe works for him. Works for me.

“Ah, here we go,” he says, and I turn to see a train entering the station through a round entrance that has opened in the wall. “Airlocks,” Michael explains. “By reducing the air in the tunnels, there’s less drag on the train, allowing for greater speed.”

The train looks like a giant bronze bullet. It stops in front of us with silent grace, and numerous doors slide open. We enter, and the inside is even more magnificent. The walls are polished cherrywood, and there are couches and chairs all upholstered in jeweled-toned velvets. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling.

Michael settles onto an ocean-blue divan, and I sigh into a deep red winged chair as I continue to take in my surroundings. With the changing light through the window, I realize we’ve been moving for a few moments already.

“If we’re going as fast as you say, how come I don’t feel it at all?” I ask in amazement.

Michael grins so wide that my own cheeks ache. “Welcome to the possibilities of a world where everyone devotes their lives to creativity and innovation,” he says.

Do they really? I’m curious to see how ideal this Maker lifestyle actually is, beyond the advantages they have purely as a result of hoarding their resources.

Michael continues. “The Atlas may not transport anywhere near millions a day, but it can get you from New York City to the Globe Theatre in less time than it takes to perform Hamlet .”

Okay. That’s pretty mind blowing. I wonder when it will hit me that this is all real.

My attention catches on two people sitting together a few seats away from us. One is a woman with an intricately braided hairstyle and a beaded bodice with puffed sleeves, but instead of a sweeping skirt as might be expected, the bodice is tucked into jeans that she’s paired with tall riding boots. The man next to her has on a leather jacket over a high-necked blouse and voluminous short pants with tights, and combat boots. I bite my lip to keep from gasping. They look uh-maze-ing. The clash of styles is, somehow, incredibly chic. A blend of classic and modern that rivals anything I’ve seen during New York Fashion Week. I’m dying to take a picture of the woman’s hairstyle so I can try it on myself.

“Are my clothes not going to fit in?” I ask Michael, looking again at his long jacket, then back to the beautifully dressed couple, and then at my own jeans and hoodie ensemble that is my go-to most of the time.

“Don’t worry. Maker fashion is varied enough that whatever you have will be fine.” He looks at his clothes with mild distaste. “This is faculty dress code. Anyone not on duty wears what they want.”

Right. He’s faculty .

And a distraction from my reason for being here.

“Can I explore a bit?” I ask, getting up from the chair. I should investigate more of the train. Espionage and all that.

“Sure. I’ll show you around.” He starts to unfold his long limbs.

“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly. “You’ve been shuffling me around all day. I can wander on my own.” Then, to be safe, I add, “Plus, I need to use the bathroom.”

Ugh. Why did I say that? Now he must think I always need the bathroom. He’s gonna think I have stomach issues and start associating me with diarrhea.

“I have a small bladder,” I clarify, then immediately regret it.

Shut up, Ada .

He clears his throat, settling back down. “There’s a lavatory through there.” He indicates the adjoining car, and I grab my bag and scurry through the door, my face aflame.

I take my time exploring the train. Each car has its own distinct personality. There’s a café car with a beautiful wood bar and candlelit tables, and even a library car with shelves of books and comfy reading nooks. I take advantage of the emptiness of the library and fish out my cell phone. I want to see how far out I can still get service. As I wake the screen, the last bar is just blinking out. No service, no internet, no GPS.

I’m officially on my own.

I type up some quick notes with details of the train station and the train itself so I don’t forget, then stow my phone back in its hiding place and go to poke around more.

Near the end of the train, I enter a car not so different from where I left Michael, but the decor is darker and more severe, almost military in style. It’s empty but for two boys. One looks younger, with shaggy hair and splotchy skin. He’s wearing sweatpants—which makes me feel a lot better about my own clothes—and he’s fast asleep with his legs propped up on a teardrop-shaped instrument case. The other boy is seated at a desk writing with a fountain pen on parchment, and—

This. This is what I had expected people from Utopia to look like. He’s the type of exquisite specimen that I have rarely lain eyes upon in real life. His hair is a brassy shade of blond pulled into a short ponytail. The slope of his nose and the angle of his jaw are perfectly proportioned and might just as well be chiseled from stone in a museum. Izzy can call me thirsty all she wants for having a new crush every semester, but with Michael off the table, I deserve some eye candy. Not that this candy will ever be on the menu—I know out-of-my-league when I see it. I shouldn’t ogle him, but I think it’s fair to say that there’s a certain tier of attractiveness that is so unattainable it excuses company manners.

The boy looks up at me, his ice-blue eyes aloof and assessing. An amber earring glints in his right lobe. He’s probably one or two years older than me—not that I have any trust in my age-radar anymore.

He stands and reaches out his hand to me. “Raphael Vanguard,” he says like I should recognize the name.

“Ada Castle,” I say, but when I extend my hand, instead of shaking it, he grasps it, and he bends to brush a kiss over my knuckles. Though his lips barely touch me, heat burns my skin, and the base of my fingers warm with that familiar prickle that I now have a name for—Ha’i.

His eyes widen then flick to my right hand, which he’s just released, then to my right ear.

Is it possible to want to be an item of clothing? Right now I would like to be Raphael Van-whatever’s leather jacket. It looks awfully cozy resting on those sculpted shoulders.

“Castle,” he says. “I’ve never heard that name before. Are you from the Misty Isles?” Even his voice is perfect. It’s deep and smooth with an almost imperceptible lilt of a foreign accent that makes me think of fancy pastries and silk pajamas.

“I’m from New York,” I respond.

The flirtatious glint in his eyes blinks out, and his expression turns sour. He wipes his hand on his perfectly tailored pants.

My cheeks burn, and my gut twists, though I have no idea why I should be embarrassed. He returns to his seat, ignoring me, and his beauty now feels cold and dangerous.

“Well, uh, nice to meet you,” I mumble, feeling the urge to flee.

He doesn’t respond, and I turn and head back in the direction I came, working hard to keep a normal pace instead of running like I want to.

I make sure to stop in the lavatory. I don’t actually need to go, but I might eventually. I’d rather wet myself than tell Michael I need a bathroom again, so I force the deed.

By the time I make it back to Michael, the train is smoothly pulling into another station. Michael is fast asleep with his head tipped back and his legs spread wide.

I gently touch my hand to his shoulder, and he startles awake. He blinks, looks around, then exclaims, “Ah, we’re home!”

Maybe he’s home, but I’m far, far from mine.