Chapter 8
8
The next day is a kaleidoscope of newness. My morning starts at the infirmary, where a slender redhead with a slightly hunched back named Kaylie Botticelli gives me a host of inoculations. Kaylie’s a master of the Bioscience guild (amber hoop guildstone, I’m learning), and she’s kind and extremely patient with all my questions. She also gives me a diamond earring, which is apparently something all Sires wear. I’ve never owned anything so valuable in my life, and I keep checking to make sure I haven’t lost it yet.
The first class that I attend is Testaments, taught by Master Bose, who I met in the forest yesterday. The Testaments are the written records of the Makers, including the History Testaments (recorded Maker history), the Council Testaments (Maker laws), and the Testaments of the Prophets (recorded prophecies because, oh yeah, apparently prophecy exists, and being a Prophet is also a “perfectly normal genetic condition”). The class is currently studying the prophecies of a woman named Psalm, as well as those of her daughter, Chorus, the last known Prophet, who I have not failed to notice has the same name as whoever Michael and the headmaster were discussing yesterday.
I recognize that all the Testaments are full of information that will be useful for the Families, but it seems irrelevant for helping Grandfather, so I’m eager to move on to my next class, which could make all the difference.
Ha’i class is specifically for apprentice Sires to master control of their Ha’i—crucial information for the Families and for me. The sooner I learn how to use my Ha’i, the sooner I can learn how to use it to heal.
The class is in a candlelit room with a grass floor and a man in the corner playing a combination of lyre and singing bowls. The instructor, Master Liu, is a graceful older woman with her hair in a long silver braid who guides everyone through various meditations using movements reminiscent of tai chi.
My head spins with the knowledge that everyone in the room must have abilities like mine. I have never met another person that I knew to share my condition, and my heart seems to pound with the excitement of no longer being alone. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, listening to the echoes of the singing bowls and feeling the grass beneath my feet. But the wonder of it all doesn’t quite subdue my frustration at how impractical these slow movements feel when I just want to learn how to use my abilities quickly.
Master Liu has me practice a hand configuration called “shiin,” which is ideal for conducting Ha’i. Shiin is made by squeezing the middle, ring, and pinkie fingers together, with the pointer and thumb stretched wide, so that the hand forms the shape of a lopsided W. When I make shiin, I feel Ha’i course through me and warm the skin connecting my thumb and pointer fingers in the same spot as my crescent scar. But while I can feel its warmth, I can’t seem to manipulate the Ha’i the way the other apprentices can.
I watch the young apprentices around me ignite candle flames, create glowing balls of light, and sprout plants from the earthy floor. It’s amazing, and I’m not convinced I’ll ever be able to do any of it. I’m still not sure Michael didn’t make a mistake about me being a Sire and that my quirks are not a symptom of something else entirely. My feelings of incompetence spike as I repeatedly make a silly hand gesture with no visible result.
“Do not rush learning the language of your Ha’i,” Master Liu reassures me. “Focus on finding the well within yourself.”
But I have to rush. My time here is limited, and my grandfather is sick. I close my eyes, pretending to focus on this stupid well within, but really I’m just holding back tears of frustration.
After Ha’i class, one of my classmates approaches me. She’s maybe thirteen or fourteen and definitely going through her awkward phase, with white-blond hair in a crooked braid and large hazel eyes that seem too big for her slim, pale face.
“Hi. I’m Hypatia, and I’m new here too,” she says. “Is it true that you’re from New York?”
When I nod, she looks positively gleeful. “I’ve never met someone from the provincial world before! I have so many questions.” As she talks fast, her words slur with a slight lisp, which I find adorable. “Are there really whole islands made of garbage?”
“Uh, I think I’ve heard about something like that forming by accident in the ocean.”
But by the time I have the words out, Hypatia has already moved on. “The other apprentices have lots of questions too, but they’re too intimidated to ask.”
I am quite sure that I’m more intimidated by them. I ask, “They don’t think it’s weird that I’m so much older than everyone else?”
“I doubt that. At Genesis they’re much more used to recruits than at Avant. That’s where I’m from.”
“That’s a relief. I feel pretty incompetent.”
“Well, I’d be happy to help you. I’m highly competent,” Hypatia says as she lifts her hand, and without even making shiin, lets loose a string of sparks.
My eyes widen with appreciation. “It’s beautiful.” I reach out and try to catch the fading light. “What is it exactly?”
“Ha’i?” She shrugs. “Life force. Creative energy.”
“Yeah, sure, but what does that actually mean? Everyone has ‘life force,’ so what’s different about a Sire?” Maybe if I can understand this more tangibly, I’ll be able to conduct on demand.
Hypatia looks thoughtful. She runs her tongue over her teeth, then says, “Well, Ha’i is everywhere, and most people just move it around. But Sires create new Ha’i inside their bodies and then conduct it outward.” She swishes her hand as if she’s conducting an orchestra, making more of the lovely lights. “Any person can cultivate potential energy, but a Sire can make it from nothing.”
“Is there a way for someone who is not a Sire to create Ha’i?” I ask, thinking of the device, or whatever it is, that Kor wants me to find.
Hypatia shakes her head. But she’s only an apprentice; maybe she just doesn’t know about it yet.
I try copying her hand motion, but no lights appear.
“Let me show you how,” she says.
We sit together in the empty classroom. She’s a good teacher, and soon I can make the sparks about one in three times that I try, so I’m feeling a lot better about myself. But my old instinct to want to suppress any sign of my abilities keeps clouding my head.
“You’ve got a pigeon,” Hypatia says, and I turn to see a fluttering golem hovering over my shoulder. I pluck it out of the air, unfold it, and read the handwritten message inside.
Please come see me in my office at your convenience. Pigeon will lead the way. —M. Loew
I do my best to ignore the jump in my pulse. To Hypatia, I say, “I have to go.”
“Okay. I expect you to practice, and we’ll have another lesson tomorrow after Ha’i class,” she instructs.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, my lips curving upward. And after a helpless look down at my hands, I add, “But first, can you help me refold this pigeon?”
I follow the pigeon through the Spring wing to a doorway at the end of a bright hallway that smells like honeysuckles. I pause to pull my hair out of its messy bun, finger combing the long waves and biting my lips to give them some color.
None of this is because I care how I look for Michael, of course. I’m just aware that I’m coming from a class that involved a lot of physical activity, and I want to look put together when meeting with a faculty member.
Michael’s office door is open, and he’s sitting chewing his nails while studying a large book that takes up half of his desk. The office is small with a lot of serious-looking bookshelves. Against the wall, there’s a sofa in an alarming shade of chartreuse, and next to it is a table with an assortment of oddities including an old record player, a silver menorah, and a shofar.
Is Michael Jewish? Instinct has me checking the doorframe, and there is indeed a mezuzah nailed there, much like the ones my father hung on all the doorposts of our old apartment.
“Oh, Ada, hi,” Michael says, looking up from his book. “Thanks for coming.” He smiles warmly and gestures for me to take the seat across from him.
I sit and resist the urge to adjust my clothes or hair.
“Are you settling in okay?” he asks. I can’t help but notice how detached and professional he appears behind his desk.
Yet I can’t forget the warm press of his thigh, the way his breath caught when our fingers intertwined, the certainty of knowing I was going to learn the texture of his lips.
Well, this is awkward.
I clear my throat. “Um, yeah, pretty well. Georgie’s really nice, and my room is great.” I promised myself that I’ll try to keep it clean. I have been promising myself I’d clean my room for the past decade. Maybe a blank slate will finally help.
His face breaks into a grin, dimples and all. “I knew you’d like it here. I’m hoping that when the time comes, you’ll choose to stay.”
How am I supposed to respond to that? I certainly can’t tell the truth about my intentions. Instead, I change the subject.
“Are there many Jewish Makers?” I ask, glancing back at the menorah and shofar.
He shakes his head. “Jews are only about zero-point-two percent of the world’s population, and that proportion is about the same among the Makers.”
“My father’s Jewish,” I say. I phrase it that way because I don’t know what I consider myself, but I want Michael to know that we share this part of our identity. That despite the very different worlds we come from, we may have learned some of the same prayers and the same traditions.
And it does mean something to him; I see it in the sharpening of his expression, the brightening in his eyes. It reignites a spark of the tension between us. Or maybe that’s just in my head.
I look away and say, “I kind of always associated the Renaissance with Christianity. White European Christianity.” And the diversity I’ve seen at Genesis so far doesn’t fit that image. The students and staff have been an array of ethnicities as varied as what I’m used to in New York City.
“That’s a logical association since the Church dictated known history. But it wasn’t just Greek and Roman culture that shaped the Renaissance. Much of the mathematics and science came from Islamic countries. The Academy of Muses had students from all over the world and was known for accepting those not permitted to learn elsewhere. In fact, though Jewish communities were confined to ghettos and limited in what professions they were allowed, the Academy’s influence led Italy to become one of the first European countries to allow Jews to attend medical schools. Many Jewish physicians, printers, and patrons of the arts impacted the Renaissance.”
“Oh, wow. Okay. So, is there some kind of Maker religion?”
“No. Makers continue the creation of the world, and that means something different to each person. Though it was the Church who exiled the Makers, there are still many Christian Makers. And there are at least twenty other religions practiced in our communities, as well as many atheists. But while religion has been a leading cause of war and division in provincial history, the Makers believe it is something that should bring people together, not divide them. Many Makers will use the umbrella term ‘the Conductor,’ the one who orchestrates all things, to refer to a shared general concept of a creator.”
Ah, that explains that.
“So, now that you’ve had a chance to settle in, we should discuss your gallerie for Quorum,” Michael says, back to business. “I’ve been assigned as your apprenticeship mentor. Most apprentices become journeymen by around thirteen or fourteen, so I think it would be best for us to aim to have you ready to apply to a guild at the Spring Quorum. Otherwise, you’ll have to wait until next fall. The Spring Quorum is less than three months away.”
Michael launches into an in-depth overview of each of the five guilds while I take some basic notes. When he’s finished, I have the following list:
Sophists (sapphire): social sciences and humanities
Artisans (amethyst): fine art and performance art
Alchemists (emerald): chemistry and earth sciences
Ciphers (pearl): mathematics and physics
Bioscience (amber): biological sciences and healing
A familiar anxious pressure balloons in my chest. I am proficient in approximately zero of these subjects. “So how exactly do I prepare for Quorum?”
“As your mentor, it’s my job to help you organize a collection of work that will demonstrate your skills, passions, and talents.”
This literally feels like college applications all over again. And three months is nothing .
“In terms of your skills, I know you play guitar—”
“Not well,” I remind him.
There’s a pause as we both navigate the memory of the last time I told him this information, and all the flirting that followed. At least, that’s what I’m doing. Maybe he’s totally over it already.
“It’s a good start,” Michael says. “Most Makers play at least one instrument.” No kidding. I’ve counted at least four instrument cases in this room alone. Most in vaguely guitarish shapes and one smaller square case that I assume is some kind of horn. “We should make sure you’re proficient in one song that you can perform. Do you write music?”
“I’ve dabbled.” Well, I helped Kor with some of his earlier songs, which kinda counts.
“Perfect. A well-practiced song of your own composition will be a nice touch. We’ll prioritize that.” He scribbles something in a notebook—the fancy kind with yellowish paper and a leather cover that ties with a cord. “We also know you’re good with plants. I’ll make sure you’re scheduled in the greenhouse and will inform your instructors to guide that strength.” More scribbling. “What are your other talents?”
This line of questioning grates on every one of my insecurities. How do I let him down easy about the fact that I’m generally untalented? I’m pretty sure that my snowboarding prowess is not what he has in mind. I settle on, “I like to write stories.”
He smiles as he takes this down in his notes. “Storytelling is a strength of my own guild, the Sophists. Definitely a good option for you. What about other art? Do you paint?”
I do like to paint. Well, I like to start paintings. I’m marginally better at drawing. Though the last time Kor tried to help me with my drawing, he said my work won’t improve until I learn to “observe properly” and am willing to have the patience to “develop the layers of the piece.”
“I draw, but I’m not that good,” I say to Michael.
He looks up at me, brows furrowed. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“What?”
“Downplaying your abilities.”
“I’m not downplaying anything. I’m fantastically mediocre.” I paste on an overdramatic smile. “Perpetual jack-of-all-trades, master of none, nice to meet you.” This is the last thing I want to admit to Michael, but better to get it out of the way rather than see his disappointment when he figures it out for himself.
He huffs. “You’re the farthest thing from mediocre. Do you even know the rest of that saying?”
“There’s more?”
“?‘A jack-of-all-trades is a master of none, but oftentimes better than a master of one,’?” he quotes. “And do you know who it was referring to?” His tone is scolding. “A young upstart actor who was mocked for trying his hand at writing, better known as William Shakespeare.” His voice softens, and that earnest gaze meets mine. “Dabbling is encouraged here at Genesis.”
I swallow. It sounds good in theory. But he hasn’t seen how amateur my work is, never mind compared to those who have been developing their talents for years.
“If you say so,” I concede. He, and everyone else, will see for themselves soon enough.
He breaks our eye contact and shakes his head as he looks back at his notebook. “You’re going to have to practice being less hard on yourself if you want to encourage your own growth. I’ll make sure to add additional art studios to your schedule so you can prepare some pieces for your gallerie. As we get closer to Quorum, we can meet again to reassess.”
He then offers me the use of his phone to call home. While Arcadia is mostly isolated and sadly far from any cell towers, Michael’s office is equipped with a phone line that he needs for his job as Genesis’s official liaison to provincial society. Before I agreed to come, I was told I could use it to stay in touch with my family.
One of the first directives I have from the Families is to find an alternative mode of communication with Kor, who is to act as my handler. I can’t rely on this phone or any mail I send to be secure, but if I can’t find a better way to pass information to Kor, I’ll wait to give it to him in person when I travel home for the holidays, or in the worst-case scenario, use the satellite phone.
Michael leaves me alone in his office so I can have privacy for my call. I feel sick at the thought of violating his personal space, but I push through it, knowing what I need to do.
I start by actually using the phone to call my mom to let her know that I arrived safely. She doesn’t answer, but I leave a message.
Then I hang up and assess the room. Where should I start?
Kor’s top three directives to identify are:
1) A secure mode of communication
2) The location of the institute and how to access it
3) A method of giving non-Sires Sire abilities
And I’ve added my own last one.
4) A cure for Grandfather
The bookshelves seem like a good place to begin, but there are way too many books to look through. I pull out my phone—that I’d excavated from its hiding place for this purpose—and use it to take photos of the shelves. I can use the pictures later to see if there’s anything worth a closer look.
I hasten over to Michael’s desk. The large book he was reading is written in Hebrew. I snap a picture, because why not? I rifle through his drawers, but everything seems standard and boring besides a stash of emergency chocolate. Nice.
I take pictures of all kinds of documents, but my anxiety is starting to spike, knowing that Michael could return at any moment. There are a lot of letters stamped with wax seals of a book that has the scales of justice growing up from between the pages––the emblem of the Sophists, Michael’s guild. Thankfully, all of the seals are already broken, so I’m able to easily photograph their contents without too much fuss. I record a video flipping through his notebook in case there’s something useful in there. I’ll check later. Gotta keep moving.
My heart is pounding so loudly in my ears that I’m worried I won’t hear if someone’s coming. There’s a slim drawer underneath the center of the desk that I almost miss. When I open it, it’s empty except for the large key that Headmaster Bloche had given to Michael yesterday. It’s as long as the length of my hand, fingertip to wrist, and heavy. There’s an engraving of the Vitruvian Man Genesis emblem, and the teeth of the key look incredibly intricate. I snap a photo, put it back, and close the drawer.
I move on from the desk to a tall cabinet full of files about what looks to be other recruits, or potential recruits. Snap, snap, snap. The next shelf is all provincial vinyl records. Very cool but not useful.
I yelp as I hear a door slam somewhere in the hallway. It’s probably not Michael, but I’ve officially reached my limit on how much apprehension I can hold inside my body. I’ll look more the next time I’m here to borrow the phone.
I take a few deep breaths before I casually walk out of Michael’s office, as if I have every right to be here, because I do.
I’m dizzy with adrenaline as I attempt to navigate the labyrinth of corridors back to my room in the Winter wing, but I find myself totally lost in an unfamiliar hallway. There’s fragrant wisteria hanging from the ceiling, and an impressionist-style mural of a garden extends across the wall. I turn to retrace my steps and then recognize the stiff leather and shiny silver of the Avant Guard as two soldiers round the corner.
Gah. Why now?
I try to saunter past them while looking as innocent as possible, but it doesn’t work.
“Oi, what’s your name?” one guard says. He has a sharp nose and gray hair that doesn’t match his youthful appearance.
“Ada.” I smile, not stopping or even slowing.
“That’s the one,” the other guard, stocky and blond, growls.
“Are you sure?” They pause, but I keep walking, and they don’t prevent me from passing through the next more familiar hall and into the bright open air of the Equinox.
The one? What’s that supposed to mean?
As inconspicuously as I can, I pull my phone from my hoodie pocket and tuck it past the waistline of my leggings and into the front of my underpants.
When the thud of boot steps grows louder behind me, my instinct is to bolt, but I force myself to keep a normal pace. I relax my shoulders and hold in my ragged breaths.
“Halt,” one of the guards calls, and I comply, heart racing. I pull my hoodie down over my thighs and suck in my stomach so the outline of my phone doesn’t show. The phone is locked, but they could easily force me to unlock it. And there’s no innocent excuse for the photos and videos I just took.
But these guards have no reason to suspect me of anything, right? Maybe they just have a simple question.
“Ada Castle.” The guard’s voice echoes around the Equinox. “In the name of the Blood Crown and the Maker Council, we order you to submit to a search of all belongings on your person.”
My stomach plummets. Or that.