Chapter 7
7
We follow the other passengers into a glass elevator and ride up through a shaft of stalactites and stalagmites and all manner of shimmering rocks. When we reach the surface and exit the station, we’re in a small village near the water. I can’t see the ocean, but the salt in the air and the cry of gulls tell me it’s close. The wind is crisp, but it’s nowhere near as cold as New York, and at the speed we were traveling, we could be anywhere in the world.
“Where are we?” I ask Michael.
“Arcadia.”
“And where is that?” If he could provide specific GPS coordinates, that would be helpful.
“In the Atlantic Oce—”
Michael is cut off as the disconcertingly beautiful boy from the train pushes past us. He pauses in his stride and sneers at me before addressing Michael. “Pulling weeds again, Master Loew?” His smooth voice is laced with an ugly tone.
Michael tenses and says, “Journey Vanguard, you will treat all members of this institution with respect.”
“But of course, my apologies.” The boy’s words drip with sarcasm as he saunters away.
He approaches a tangle of beautiful people, who all immediately fall into orbit around him. I assume one of the girls must be his girlfriend when he kisses her on the mouth, but then another girl takes firm possession of his biceps and rises on her tiptoes for a kiss of her own. I force myself to look away.
“I should warn you,” Michael says stiffly as we continue walking. “There are some among our society who don’t approve of accepting those raised in the provincial world. If anyone gives you any trouble, come see me immediately.”
Ah. So even Utopia has bigots. Why am I not surprised?
“That’s strange,” Michael mutters, narrowing his eyes at two guards who are stonily observing everyone coming out of the station. They look like medieval superheroes, wearing black capes over knee-length leather jackets with silver buttons down the front and a silver dragon embroidered on the left side of the chest.
“They’re not usually here?” Having guards at the train station of a secret island seems normal to me, but the long swords strapped to their backs are certainly unsettling.
“No. The Avant Guard is a military group trained to protect Maker territories from provincial threats. They’re ordinarily based in Avant, where those Makers who didn’t want to travel to the New World hid and established our other academy.”
I feel like I need to be writing all this down. Do the Families even know about Avant?
Despite the guards, the village itself could not be more inviting. A strip of quaint shops of varied sizes, shapes, and colors—as if a child with scissors cut out buildings from different time periods and pasted them together haphazardly—line a central square with a large fountain. The area is bustling with pedestrians, many of whom are dressed in the same blend of old and new as the couple on the train.
Other passengers from our train join a line of people waiting to get onto gliders that look like a cross between a bicycle and a paper airplane made of old parchment. My stomach drops as I watch one careen down a mini runway, alight into the air, and fly away. It looks flimsy, like it could easily be taken down by an aggressive seagull. We’d better not be getting onto one of those.
“Not quite New York City or Florence,” Michael says, looking out at the village, “but it’s home to the best biscuits and tea in the world.” He motions toward a tea shop that’s built out of a repurposed train car. There’s a gleam in his eyes, and I can tell he’s happy to be home.
As we pass through the central plaza, there’s a gap in the line of shops, and an iron fence looks out over a view of a distant waterfall. I rush over to the fence and catch my breath when I realize that there’s nothing on the other side of the rail but a sheer drop hundreds of feet down to where water violently crashes against rocks in the cove below. From here, I can see that the whole village has been built on the edge of a cliff, which curves to form the secluded cove. The waterfall blocks the point at which the cliff sides almost meet in a narrow ravine, the only passage from the cove to the ocean.
Wind whips my hair into my face, and I close my eyes and breathe in the smell of breeze and brine. “I’d love to go down to the water,” I say to Michael, who has followed me and is watching my awe with a smile.
“That would be challenging,” he responds. “The founders of Genesis purposely chose this island for the protection provided by its steep cliffs. It’s not easy to get down to the beach.”
Right. This island is for hiding. From people like me.
“Let’s get to the institute,” Michael says. “Would you prefer to walk or take an ornithopter?” He gestures back toward the gliders.
“There’s no way I’m getting into one of those oversize paper airplanes. Please, let’s walk.”
Michael coughs to suppress a laugh. “That’s the first time I’ve heard da Vinci’s original design described quite like that.” He leads me down a path into the cover of trees, where I’m surrounded by the fresh smell of many shades of green.
A slobbering hound races toward us from the opposite direction, followed by a man who grins broadly when he sees Michael. The man wears a blue gemstone earring just like Michael’s, though he looks a bit older. His T-shirt and corduroy slacks are ordinary enough, or they would be if they weren’t accompanied by a red velvet cape and knee-high laced boots. I’m going to need to practice not snickering when looking at full-on adults wearing capes . But also, I want those boots.
The two men grasp each other’s arms below the elbow in greeting, and Michael scratches the dog behind the ears.
“Ada, meet Master Ravi Bose. He’ll be your Apprentice Testaments instructor.”
I nod politely as if I know what the hell a testament is and as if throwing around words like “master” and “apprentice” is perfectly normal.
“Do you know why the Guard are watching the station?” Michael asks his friend.
The man looks sidelong at me before answering. “Don’t know anything for sure,” he says. “But it sounds like there have been more abductions of provincial Sires as well as concerns about an informant in Avant, so extra precautions are being taken to prevent infiltration.”
The dog sniffs around at my feet.
My chest constricts. Their military is looking for spies? The timing of my coming here couldn’t be worse.
The man continues to eye me as he says, “I’m surprised they’re allowing any newcomers in.”
“Only special cases,” Michael responds.
I feel a tremor of guilt, but it sounds like the Makers have someone a lot more dangerous than me to be concerned about. Like whoever kidnapped me. I push the memory aside before the familiar dread can settle.
“Well then,” the man says to me. “Welcome, Special Case. I, for one, am glad to see new blood on this island. Hopefully, everything will be resolved soon, and the Avant Guard and their aggressive posturing can return to their gloomy tower.” He claps Michael on the back and then whistles to his dog. “Let’s go, Munch!” And they head off toward the village.
As Michael and I continue down the road, the foliage thickens, and the air grows heavy with mist.
“The provincials think this is just a privately owned island, and we use the mist to obscure the institute. The moisture likes to collect in the forest,” Michael explains. He pats his hair, which has floofed up spectacularly. I’m sure the moisture has styled my own hair into something a lot worse.
Eventually, the tree cover breaks, and the institute comes into view, grand and imposing. The front half of the building has a majestic paneled glass roof with a large dome at its center and towers that rise around it. The tallest spire is obscured by a milky fog that filters the sunlight, making the scene feel painted in watercolors.
We cross the courtyard and enter the building through towering oak doors. Sunlight streams through the glass ceiling of the entrance hall, illuminating walls covered in colorful frescoes. A large tree grows straight up through the floor, its roots creeping across the room, embedding themselves between the marble tiles.
I stop in my tracks and stare at a colossal mural that is a perfect re-creation of one of my favorite paintings.
“ The School of Athens ,” I murmur, walking closer to investigate. I’ve always been captivated by Raphael’s fresco that depicts the greatest mathematicians, scientists, and philosophers from classical antiquity under one roof, sharing their ideas and learning from one another.
“That wasn’t its original name,” Michael says, and I look up at him questioningly. “Famously known as Scuola di Atene , it’s actually called Causarum Cognitio, Knowledge of Causes , but before the Inquisition it was known as l’accademia Dell Muse, the Academy of Muses. ”
I suck in a breath. “Are you saying that this is meant to be the institute that was destroyed during the Inquisition?”
He nods. “The academy is said to have been started by Alexander the Great, but it grew to prominence during the Renaissance when the greatest creative minds from around the world traveled there to form the Makers—or le muse , as they were called at the time—including Raphael, who immortalized the academy in his greatest masterpiece.”
“But Plato, Aristotle, Socrates… Pythagoras? Everyone depicted in the painting, they’re all from ancient Greece, not the Renaissance.”
“You’re right, of course. But look again. Look at Plato’s face.” I look at the central figure of the painting. “Who else does it look like?”
It’s suddenly impossible not to see. “Leonardo da Vinci,” I say.
Michael nods. “And Heraclitus?” He needs to point the figure out to me this time since I don’t know who he’s referring to. But when I scrutinize the face he indicates, I see the clear likeness.
“Michelangelo.”
Michael nods again. “And here”—he points to a figure all the way on the right side—“is Raphael himself.” It’s definitely him, practically identical to the self-portrait I saw on display in the Uffizi Gallery just the other week.
I observe the fresco with new eyes, now seeing Raphael’s depiction of himself and his contemporaries learning from one another in a great academy, the memory of which has been stolen from the world. But the heart of that center of learning still exists, here in this very building.
Where I’m going to have the chance to learn. I swallow thickly.
“Let’s go see the headmaster,” Michael says.
We walk through corridors hung with magnificent paintings and sumptuous draperies, past twisting staircases and strange laboratories.
The headmaster is waiting for us in an office that smells like mint leaves and aged paper. He’s an imposing man wearing a cravat and knee-length jacket like Michael’s. Perched over his left eye is a monocle of smoky glass. His other eye is trained on me, watching sharply.
He has three hoops in his ear: sapphire, emerald, and pearl. The same earrings I was supposed to be looking for in Florence. I bet this is who Prometheus had intended for me to find.
Michael walks up to him and gives him a quick half hug.
“Welcome back, my boy.” The man’s face is infused with affection as he returns the hug.
“Ada.” Michael turns to me. “This is Headmaster Bloche.”
“Welcome to Genesis,” the headmaster says, his voice deep and stern. He gestures for me to sit. I sink into an embroidered couch and actively look around the office so as not to rudely stare at his monocle.
“How was Chorus?” Michael asks in a low voice that tells me the conversation is not meant for me, though he must know I can hear.
“She was… Chorus,” Bloche says with a sigh.
“What did she say?”
“That teaching the girl is the will of the Conductor.”
Michael glances at me, then back to the headmaster. “Will that satisfy the rest of the Council?”
“It will have to.”
I wonder if I’m “the girl.” And who are Chorus and the Conductor? But my attention strays when I notice a large oil painting above the headmaster’s desk. It’s of a boat caught in a storm, and it looks an awful lot like an original Rembrandt. The perfection in the contrast of the shadow and light matches his signature style. It’s breathtaking. But Rembrandt only ever painted one seascape, which was famously and tragically stolen. A bubble of unease floats in the back of my throat.
The headmaster takes a seat and nods approvingly when he sees me admiring the seascape. I do my best to tamp down the questions I have about it. Instead, I swallow and smile at the headmaster.
“Ms. Castle, you have been invited to join this illustrious institution to commit yourself to our mission of advancing society through all manner of art, philosophy, and science.”
“Advance all of society?” I ask. “Or just your hidden society?”
He purses his lips, then says, “I see why you like this one, Master Loew.” After a moment of contemplation, he says. “Ms. Castle, coming here means leaving your past behind. Most recruits cut all ties with anyone in the provincial world. The Council was willing to allow you here due to the danger posed against Sires such as yourself”—he fixes his gaze on me, the glass of the monocle having gone completely black—“but, eventually, you will have to choose between their world and ours. Do you understand?”
I notice that he hasn’t really answered my question. Michael is standing near a grandfather clock—that has pictures of planets and constellations but no numbers—his expression pinched.
The response on the tip of my tongue is that this has all been very fast and I can’t commit to anything yet. But I’m not here to be honest. I’m here to make these people trust me. So instead, I say, “Absolutely, sir. I’m excited to learn.”
“Thank you, Ms. Castle. You will be given until the next anniversary of the Exodus. At that time, you will have to decide whether you would like to make your home here and forgo your old life, or whether you want to leave here, never to return.”
I nod and swallow, having no sense of how much time that actually gives me. And what will they do if–– when —I tell them I want to leave? Would they really just let me go after learning all their secrets? I’m not so sure.
The headmaster continues, “Our community runs on a guild system. You will need to put together a gallerie to gain acceptance to a guild at Quorum.”
“A gallerie is a portfolio of your skills and interests,” Michael explains. “Quorum is when apprentices present their galleries to the guildmasters for application to become journeymen. Your guild will provide you with all the necessary education, guidance, and resources for your artistic and scientific pursuits, and in turn, you will share your research and innovations with your guild.”
This all sounds complicated. I thought I’d done what I had to do to get into this school, but now I’ll also need to apply and be accepted to a guild? I feel the stirrings of the college admission trauma I thought I’d left behind.
Michael continues. “The five Genesis guilds are the Sophists, the Artisans, the Alchemists, the Ciphers, and Bioscience. Over the next few months, we’ll help you get acquainted with each so that you will be able to choose between your options at Quorum.”
I try my best to hide my abject horror at the intimidating nature of the list.
Bloche says, “As an apprentice, most of your needs will be provided for you, but you should have some currency for incidentals.” He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a pouch, which he hands to me. “That should be enough to tide you over until you collect a guild stipend.”
I peek inside the pouch and see gold coins, each a little smaller and thicker than a dime. Their shape and texture are imperfect, inconsistent, though they all have the same imprint, an intricate design of a circuit-like maze.
“Sense.” Michael names them for me.
“Cents, like pennies?”
“No, sense.” He taps his temple. “Like sens ibility, and non sense .”
“Hold on to those. They will be useful to you for more than currency,” Headmaster Bloche says.
“Can I exchange dollars for sense?” I ask, nervous now. I hadn’t considered that finances would be different.
“No, but you don’t need to,” Michael assures me. “You’ll receive an apprentice stipend from the institute, and all necessities are provided for free—sense is only needed to purchase luxuries.”
Necessities are free ? When the most powerful country in the world can’t even provide affordable health care? Maybe this is Utopia after all.
But I can’t afford to think like that. Any whiff of utopian ideals only lasts as far as the boundaries of this island, and I need to prepare myself to be able to steal from these people.
The headmaster rises, so I assume I should too. He says to Michael, “I have to travel again, so I’ll ask you to cover some of my meetings that cannot be postponed, and someone on the island must have a council key for emergencies.”
Michael looks extremely uneasy. “Maybe one of the guildmasters—”
The headmaster cuts him off. “I know that you worry you are too young and that the guildmasters will question your authority, but none of the guildmasters have worked as my direct apprentice. I know I can trust you, and that is more important than your colleagues’ professional jealousy. You have proven yourself time and again, and those who haven’t seen it yet will soon.” He takes a large, ornate key from his pocket and hands it to Michael. “Now, if you would please direct Apprentice Castle to her apartment.”
“Yes, Master Bloche.” Michael sighs.
Before we exit, I take one last look at the painting that might be a priceless, stolen Rembrandt. I want to ask Michael about it, but I don’t know how to without sounding accusatory. I need to appear excited to be here, not suspicious. So I paste on a smile and follow him out.
On the way to my room, Michael provides a mini tour of the institute. The entrance hall is called the Equinox, and it branches into a sunburst of five peripheral wings. One wing is the library, the heart of the school. The Autumn and Spring wings have classrooms, offices, and communal facilities, and the Summer and Winter wings are mostly for residence. My room is in the Winter wing.
I know we’ve entered the Winter wing when the rich warm hues of the wallpaper and window hangings change to cool blues, deep evergreens, and snowy whites. There are ornaments and light fixtures of crystal and glass, reminiscent of ice, and even the scenes in the paintings on the wall have shifted in season and tone.
We turn into a hallway with walls that somehow manage to be the exact color of twilight after fresh snowfall, and we stop at an arched door. There’s a brass knocker in the shape of tree branches and a small hole where the knob should be.
“Your fingerprint is linked with the lock,” Michael says, indicating the small hole and wiggling his pointer finger. I had submitted a full set of fingerprints during my application process. I stick my pointer into the groove, and the door swings open to a common area.
The room has the feel of a winter cabin with walls of aged wood full of grooves and knots and a floor of plush rugs in deep reds and soft ochers. Numerous glass spheres hang from the exposed beams of the ceiling, illuminating the space with the glow of Edison coils. A large window looks out onto the mists, and a fire crackles in a woodburning stove. My tower of bags is already here, stacked neatly outside one of the two closed doors, and a third door opens to a small bathroom.
“Hello?” Michael calls out, but no one responds.
I stand at the entrance, unsure what happens next. He seems to be unsure as well, and he awkwardly fingers the sapphire hoop in his ear. All the Makers I’ve met so far have had gemstones in their ears.
“What’s with the earrings?” I ask.
He looks confused for a moment, then follows the motions of his hand, and understanding dawns. “Ah, guildstones. You’ll get one when you join a guild at Quorum. The gems communicate guild and rank. So, a sapphire hoop indicates I’m a master of the Sophist guild—”
One of the doors opens, and a teenage girl with a spectacular cloud of blond and purple hair rushes out.
“You’re here! Hi! Come in!” she greets us.
“This is Georgia Vega, your roommate,” Michael says.
“Call me Georgie.” Her smile is wide and infectious, with teeth that are bright white and slightly crooked. She’s wearing a plaid shirt, a black tutu with black tights, and purple combat boots. “Hi, Master Loew,” she adds, eyeing Michael like it’s weird that he’s lingering in her—our—apartment, which I guess it is.
“I’ll leave you two to become acquainted,” Michael says. He gives me an encouraging smile and heads out.
“Yay! Welcome! Make yourself comfortable!” Georgie flops onto a couch and pulls her hair away from her face, messily tying it with a leather band. In addition to a purple guildstone, little men hang from her earlobes that look like they had previous lives as paper clips. I sit on the second couch opposite her and suddenly realize how tired my body is from the long day. Georgie says, “There are so few people from the provincial world here. It’s so nice to meet someone else who is.”
“Wait, you’re also from the… regular world?”
“Yup. Came here three years ago when my mom was recruited. She wouldn’t come without me and my dad. It was a big deal. They don’t normally take anyone who isn’t special in some way.”
“What makes your mom special?” I wonder if she’s a Sire like me.
“She’s an art historian, and the Sophist guild supposedly wanted some of her esoteric research. But I think it’s more likely that the Makers were concerned about her publishing information that could make people start asking the wrong questions.” She tucks her feet up underneath her. “So, how many times have you been called a weed so far?” she asks. She’s clearly joking, but there’s something dark in her tone. I remember Raphael’s comment that had enraged Michael.
Pulling weeds again, Master Loew?
“Once,” I respond.
“Was it Rafe?”
“Uh…”
“So beautiful it hurts? More arrogant than Zeus? Thinks he’s God’s gift to all vaginas?”
I laugh. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”
“Figures.”
“What does ‘weed’ mean?” I ask her.
She scrunches up her nose. “Someone who wasn’t raised as part of Maker society. Like something growing where it doesn’t belong.” She begins to stroke a fluffy blue pillow that does not at all match the rest of the decor. “There are some people who think that when the Makers left the provincial world behind, everyone in it ceased to matter. And there’s a lot of animosity and fear surrounding provincial people.”
“But everyone else I’ve met so far has been really nice,” I say.
“Yeah, the majority of the folks here are pretty great.” She nods toward the door. “But most don’t understand the provincial world the way he does.”
“You mean Michael?” I ask.
She eyes me skeptically. “Master Loew,” she clarifies.
Right, he’s a teacher. That’s gonna take some getting used to. But maybe now I have a new friend to help me navigate this world so I won’t have to attach myself to Michael like a barnacle.
Georgie’s fluffy blue pillow lifts its head, opens its tiny mouth, and yawns. Then, two emerald-green eyes blink open, and the not-a-pillow stares at me suspiciously.
“Good morning, sleeping beauty.” Georgie proceeds to scratch it behind the ears. It closes its eyes and emits a buzzing sound, not unlike a chain saw.
“What is that?” I ask. I mean, it’s clearly a cat. But… blue.
“This is Bastet,” Georgie says, kissing the cat’s nose. “I found her scrounging for food in the compost garden. She must be a Bio experiment, but it’s not legal to experiment on living beings. It was probably one of the Avant transfers—like Rafe. They still do cruel Blood Science stuff in Avant. Everything has been so much worse since they came here.”
I’m still fixated on the peculiar feline. “How can they turn a cat blue?”
Georgie looks at me, brows arched. “They didn’t turn her blue. They probably bred her this way with Sire-based genetic alteration. But a blue cat is the least of what they can do here. If this surprises you… sheesh. Just wait until you meet the Valkyries. You’re going to freak out.” Georgie reaches into her pocket and pulls out a multi-tool just like Michael’s, except it’s pink and bejeweled. She flicks open a tool and aims a little pink laser dot at the wall. Bastet leaps off the couch trying to catch the light as Georgie keeps the laser bouncing around the room.
I consider asking her if unicorns are real but then chicken out because it feels too ridiculous to say out loud.
“I was given a lot more information than you before I came here,” Georgie says. “But don’t worry. I’ll help you out.”
I couldn’t have asked for a better roommate. And being around someone from home allows me to breathe in a way that I haven’t felt comfortable doing all day.
I’m here, in this place where I can learn to use my abilities, at the same institute great minds like Ada Lovelace attended. I know I have a job to do for the Families, but, for a moment, I let myself imagine that I’m here just to learn from these people.
I can’t wait to start.