Chapter 16
16
I stand on the Quorum stage feeling the pressure of countless gazes watching, waiting for my decision. Other apprentices have had most of their lives to prepare for this choice, but all I have is now. I’ve been rejected by my first choice, but I now have several other offers, including a tantalizing new option that has just presented itself.
Should I consider the Mystic’s offer? Hypatia said it’s dangerous to study mysticism. Yet I can’t deny that I feel a pull to it. Aria Loew had fascinated me, not to mention that I desperately want to find out why this mysterious guild that is so selective would ever want me . The idea of it makes me feel… elite, maybe even powerful. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling some temptation to throw my plans to the wind and see what learning from the Mystics could mean.
But no. The Families need me at Genesis, right? And everything I’ve heard about Avant makes it clear it won’t be hospitable for a recruit. I wish I could consult with Kor to be sure.
Everyone is still silently waiting for my answer, and I feel like I should just make an impulsive choice—the way I do whenever a waiter comes to take my order. Ugh. If I can’t even choose an entrée, how am I supposed to make this decision that absolutely should not be rushed? I close my eyes, trying to think clearly.
I think about how Aria Loew seemed to know things. The idea that the Mystic guild probably has members who could divine my secrets reinforces my decision that it’s not safe.
I have to choose between the Artisans, the Sophists, and the Alchemists. Michael had said to trust my gut. So I try. And when I do, strangely, the difficulty of the choice melts away. One guild feels like the obvious best fit, both for my talents and my priorities. I open my eyes.
“I would be honored to join the Alchemist guild,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
And then I am deafened by the sound of cheers. The Alchemists in the audience are on their feet, applauding and roaring their approval.
I squint into the crowd, surprised to see all the beaming faces. Surprised by their whoops of welcome. They want me. I didn’t expect that. I’m an outsider, a stranger who’s been taking children’s classes. I see Hypatia and Mbali standing among the Alchemists, applauding along with them, and I know I have a place by their side.
Michael approaches me when Quorum is over. “Your song was superb! I love how you altered the key in the bridge.” That had been a mistake, but I guess it worked out.
“Thanks,” I say, fingering the new emerald guildstone in my ear, my emotions still a blur from the whole experience.
Everyone is heading to the faire in the village, and we follow the crowd. Since so many people come from the different Maker communities for each Quorum, it’s become tradition for craftsmen, traders, and performers to travel with their wares to the faire.
“I wait for months to get my favorite fudge,” Michael chatters as we walk along the crowded forest path. “This one old lady from the Misty Isles makes it from a secret recipe. But she’s getting on in years. I hope her recipe doesn’t die with her.”
“If you’re charming enough, maybe she’ll leave you the recipe in her will,” I suggest.
“Don’t think I haven’t considered it. Most people I bother to charm have something I hope to inherit.”
I look at him with one eyebrow raised.
“Your fuzzy polka-dot socks,” he says in answer to my unspoken question. “The ones you were wearing when we traveled from New York.”
“Your feet are almost double the size of mine. My socks will not fit you.”
“But they will fit my hands, which is all that matters since I intend to wear them as mittens. I have always wanted fuzzy polka-dot mittens.”
“Noted,” I say with a laugh.
When we arrive at the village, it’s unrecognizable. The normally sleepy stretch of road is bustling with people. Hundreds of stalls are propped up, their brightly colored canopies creating a patchwork tunnel of noisy and pungent activity.
I thought once we got to the faire, we’d part ways, but Michael stays by my side. “Today I will be your guide and introduce you to your first Quorum faire, and together we will celebrate your accomplishment!” I’m pretty sure he just wants to keep an eye on me since the faire is teeming with nonlocal Makers who may be uncomfortable with recruits. But I’m certainly not going to protest his company.
There are performers everywhere—mimes, musicians, magicians—along with unique crafts and aromatic foods. Clothing, sheet music, pigments, puppets. The air is wafting with every kind of smell: freshly baked bread, sizzling meats, spicy perfumes, earthy clays, wood, and wax.
And the noise . It’s harmonious in its deafening discord. Instruments, singing, laughter, bells.
I gravitate toward a stall of beautiful Venetian masks—all intricate and delicate, made completely of glace—but Michael bounds in the opposite direction.
“Eureka!” he exclaims, heading toward a small stall piled with chocolate confections. His old lady and her fudge. I watch as he exchanges a flute—which he whittled out of a reed—for a brick of fudge wrapped in waxy linen. From the way the rickety old woman smiles up at him and pats his cheek, I wouldn’t be surprised if she does indeed leave him her precious recipe.
We continue to navigate the rainbow of stalls, stopping often to watch performances or chat with friends. There’s a strong Avant Guard presence. I steer clear of them as much as possible, though with Michael by my side, I’m not too worried.
We see Hypatia, who introduces me to a bunch of Alchemists she’s already befriended. I should probably be making new friends in our guild too, but, well, there’s always tomorrow. Or any other time when I haven’t been offered Michael’s undivided attention.
I make sure to visit Georgie, who is helping Elsa—the island’s premier tailor—in exchange for her allowing Georgie to sell some of her own designs. Georgie is having a lot of success. She’s sold more than half her wares, and she has a satisfied glow about her. I run my hands over a pile of fingerless silk gloves.
“These are beautiful,” I tell her. Then, struck by a thought, I ask, “Did you have to open a guild box when you were recruited?”
“Yeah. That was a real head-scratcher.”
“How did you do it?”
“I wrote a program that input every combination of the music notes until one tune finally opened it. It took three days.”
Georgie amazes me. She’s so talented with her clothing design, her art, and her coding. She’s a Renaissance woman if I ever saw one. I wonder if I’ll be able to accomplish anywhere near as much as her if I spend more time at the institute.
An elegant woman comes to look at some of Georgie’s wares, but another woman rushes over and whispers something in her ear. The customer looks at Georgie with a mix of fear and distaste, drops the scarf she’s holding, and says, “Never mind. I won’t barter with an outsider.”
Bright spots of pink flush Georgie’s cheeks.
I’m incensed, and I start to follow the retreating woman, but Georgie holds me back. “Confrontation isn’t good for business.”
“Has that happened a lot?”
“Thankfully not too much, and only from nonlocals.”
I take the discarded scarf and fold it. “Do you ever wish you could go back?” I ask. “To your old life?”
“No.” She answers without any hesitation.
“Even after dealing with…?” I wave my hand in the direction of the rude customer.
“Even with all that, being here is worth it. The opportunities for what I can accomplish here—despite the discomfort and prejudice—are a hundred times better than anything in the provincial world.”
“The provincial world,” not “home.” Georgie has accepted that this place is her new home. And in a few months Headmaster Bloche will want me to do the same. But that’s never been a real option for me.
Michael is browsing the wares of a bookseller, and I head in his direction, but the pleasant notes of a wind chime draw my attention to a tiny stall hidden behind the others. My curiosity is piqued, and when I draw closer, I see a sign that says H ELIOTORCHES . I should get myself one of those customizable multi-tools—spoons—that everyone uses. I’ve been wanting one for a while. A handy tool always available for any and all spontaneous creative endeavors.
An old man with a shiny bald head tends the stall, muttering to himself grumpily.
“Hello?” I ask cautiously, wondering if he even wants customers.
“What?” he barks.
“I’d like to get a Heliotorch,” I say.
The man sighs, then pulls out a large drawer and lays it on the table. A variety of tools are on display. “What mods are ya lookin’ for?” His knobby-knuckled hands shift through the various items. He wears an onyx ring, a large one, indicating he’s a master of the Mystic guild.
“Uh, what do you recommend?”
“Everyone needs a blade, a pencil, an’ a torch.” He plucks out the relevant mods—a sharp blade the length of my middle finger, a stick of graphite, and what looks like a sewing needle, but I know from seeing Georgie’s that the tip lights up to be a very powerful flashlight.
He looks at the diamond in my ear. “You’re a Sire, so you’ll be wantin’ a sparker.” He adds an unfamiliar mod to the tray. In the drawer, I see what looks like a nail file and glance at my overgrown nails. “I’ll take that,” I say, “and that please,” I add, pointing to miniature scissors.
I’m long overdue for a haircut. I’ve been meaning to ask Georgie to give me a proper cut, but I can at least trim off some of my dead ends in the meantime. I twirl a lock around my finger. It’s almost at my elbows these days. I ruefully think of how annoyed my father would be. He always liked my hair to look tidy, and he used to trim it for me every week on Friday afternoon.
The man observes my hair and sucks his teeth, his watery eyes sharp. “Now, for the spoon itself,” he says, with what sounds to me like a little less grump than before. “I have somethin’ I think you’ll like.” He kneels to search through the recesses of an old chest, then rises holding a nondescript box. “Instead of a new Heliotorch, maybe consider this one, which needs a new owner.” He opens the box, and my eyes widen.
The size of a small harmonica, the spoon is inlaid with a mosaic of dark green stone around a harp made of mother-of-pearl.
I want it.
“I don’t have much sense, and that looks expensive.”
“The cost is a lock o’ your hair, three inches long and one inch wide.”
My skin prickles. “Um, that’s super creepy.”
“That’s the price if you want it.”
I don’t want to give this crotchety man my hair to do who-knows-what with, but the spoon is so lovely.
“Who did it belong to?” I ask.
“An old friend. He told me to hold on to it till he comes back, but I have a feelin’ he won’t be comin’ back anytime soon.”
I should just buy a new, simple spoon for a normal price, but my hand itches to hold this one, as if I’m meant to have it. “Okay, I’ll take it,” I find myself saying before I’ve even finished deciding.
The man assembles and attaches all my chosen mods to the spoon and then uses the new scissors to discreetly clip off his payment from an underlayer of my hair.
With my hand in my pocket clutching my new spoon, I join Michael, who’s still distracted at the book stall. Among the piles, I find a beautiful deck of hand-painted cards with dragons, wind horses, and unicorns instead of royal face cards. It makes me think of Izzy. She’s always been excellent at card tricks. I miss her so much. I’ll have to ask Kor if he’s learned anything new about what she’s up to and see if he can convince Roman to put her in touch with me.
When Michael sees the cards, he says he wants to teach me a Maker game called Beg and Plea, and he purchases the deck.
“A Quorum gift,” he says.
We find a table near the fountain, and a girl in a gauzy dress brings us glasses of fresh spiced juice. I listen to the instructions for the game with half an ear, and we casually play as we chat, but I keep losing because I’m too distracted by how very perfect the day is.
Michael presses me a bit on why I didn’t choose the Sophists. What I don’t say is that I’m relieved to be in a guild where—besides Foundations class—I can easily avoid having him as a teacher. Not that it should make a difference anymore. We’ve found a rhythm in which Michael is my mentor who I am fond of, in more of an elderly brother kind of way, all awkwardness behind us.
His eyes gleam as he wins another round of the game, and my heart speeds up when his hand brushes mine as he grabs the rest of my cards.
A brotherly kind of way? Blah. Who am I kidding?
Something neither of us has yet mentioned was my invitation to the Mystic guild. There’s a niggling doubt at the base of my neck tormenting me over whether I should have taken their offer more seriously.
Michael deals me a new set of cards, but instead of starting another round, I say to him, “I didn’t realize your sister was a Mystic.”
He smiles. “Yes, it shocked a lot of people when she left the Genesis Ciphers. But physics and mysticism have more in common than you might think. Especially when it comes to theories surrounding the Universal Tapestry—similar to what is known as string theory in the provincial world. Have you heard of it? As I recall, you’re a fan of theoretical physics.” He winks.
I shake my head, unsure whether I’m comfortable with the fact that he’s brought up a reminder of our first date. That is, our only date. This is not a date.
Michael continues. “The Mystics haven’t extended an invitation to a Genesis apprentice in my lifetime, and Ari was one of very few Master applicants in that time.”
“I don’t understand. Then why did they invite me?”
“I guess I’m not the only one to realize you’re special.”
I feel a blush spread up my neck in a sensation that starts as pleasure and morphs quickly into irritation. We’re supposed to have boundaries. That kind of teasing is not boundaries.
“Seriously,” I say. “Should I have considered their offer?”
“Oh, absolutely not. Avant is no place for you, and mysticism is hazardous.”
“But your sister—”
“Ari has always… painted using colors no one else can see. I understand why she needs to do what she’s doing, but it doesn’t stop me from worrying about her.” He nibbles on his thumbnail, and I instinctively reach over and push his hand away from his mouth.
Why did I do that? It’s not my place to police his habits. I drop my hand as I realize I’m still touching his.
As twilight paints the sky an inky lavender, the faire takes on new life. More of the stalls begin to serve food and drinks, and the mood shifts to one of feasting and dancing.
“Ada! Honor a Maker!” Kaylie passes our table, and she pulls me up into a hug. We invite her to sit with us, and Michael gets more drinks and a platter of scroll pastries (dough rolled up with chocolate, cinnamon, and jam into flaky spirals of deliciousness).
A young Valkyrie runs over to Kaylie. I thought I was used to seeing humans with wings, but this little girl—with her rosy cheeks, blond locks, and wings spread wide—looks exactly like a cherub from a painting. Kaylie dances with her and some of the other children, and Michael makes them all giggle by playing a silly song on a borrowed lute.
Soon a band—Simon’s band, the rest of the members in town for Quorum—starts to play, and Kaylie pulls Michael into a dance. They twirl in happy circles.
I spot Rafe among the dancing bodies. He’s with a gorgeous girl in a teal sari—though dancing might not be the right word for their slow-moving, sensual embrace. Rafe looks up, and our eyes meet for an instant before I quickly turn away, only to catch Michael’s eye. He smiles at me before turning his attention back to Kaylie, who he theatrically dips toward the ground, both of their faces shining.
I get up from the table and walk over to where the fence looks out at the view of the cove. I gaze down to where the water roils in its own ferocious dance, years of crashing waves carving a beautiful sculpture from the cliffs.
Michael follows me over a few minutes later and pulls out his packet of fudge. “It’s time,” he says dramatically. He carefully unfolds the linen and hands me a small square.
I take a bite; it’s pure bliss. “They definitely don’t make fudge like this where I come from,” I say.
Michael licks chocolate off his thumb in a way that really shouldn’t be so appealing. “They’ve got some pretty good food over there too.”
Michael is the only Maker I’ve met who has anything positive to say about provincial society. “What made you want to work as the provincial liaison?” I ask.
“I’m only a third-generation Maker,” Michael says. “My mother’s mother—my bubbe—came to the Makers as a teenager on a Kindertransport that was diverted to Avant during the Holocaust. Many of those children were sent back after the war, never really knowing the truth of who their caretakers had been. But my bubbe had met my grandfather and stayed to marry him.”
The wounds of the Holocaust seem to haunt every Jewish person that I know, but I didn’t expect those wounds to extend to the utopian bubble of the Makers. I guess it’s a mild relief to know that the Makers did offer some help to those persecuted during the Holocaust. That they occasionally extend the barest of interventions.
My father doesn’t have much family still alive, and he’s never seemed able to talk about them, but I know that his mother’s mother was a Holocaust survivor. I feel the echo of shared generational trauma with Michael. I never thought I could share any kind of history with a Maker.
Michael continues. “My mother always tried to hide her heritage, not wanting to call attention to having provincial ancestry, and she often spoke of the atrocities of the world that had allowed so much hate and destruction. But Bubbe—she wanted me to know that even though she’d left it behind, there had been beautiful aspects of her old life. She told me that while she had seen the worst of the world during the war, that was not all there was to provincial life. I was a thirsty audience for all her memories of the place that she had loved that no one else here seemed to care about or want to remember.”
The sounds of laughter and chatter float by on the breeze.
“Does your sister have the same affection for the provincial world?” I ask.
Michael laughs. “Not at all. She was always more enamored with my grandfather’s side of the family. My great-great-great-plus-a-few-more-greats-grandfather was a religious Kabbalist recruited by the Mystics.”
“Oh. Was it more common for the Avant guilds to recruit from the provincial world in those days?” I ask.
He laughs again, but this time the sound is hollow. “Yes. Our society is made up entirely of recruits. We are a people defined by exile. Outcasts who wanted a better life than one under the Imperialists we fled from. But try pointing that out to those who resist new recruits now, and you’ll find them spouting the same rhetoric our society was founded to combat.” He sighs and looks down at my face, and that’s where his gaze stays.
We sink into a quiet kind of communication that involves only our eyes and my fast-beating heart. The sun has all but disappeared, and it’s one of those magical hours where the edges of reality begin to fade, and the moment itself has the fuzzy edges of a memory. We tiredly gaze at each other, the silence heavy and meaningful.
“Did you enjoy today?” He breaks the silence, and I can’t tell if he’s looking at my eyes or at my mouth, because I have stopped looking at his eyes to look at his mouth. There is tension in his lips, in his jaw, in his throat.
“Yes,” I say.
“I’m glad.” The words are almost a whisper, and they feel so intimate. More intimate than touch.
Michael blinks, then looks away. “It’s late,” he says. “I should get back.” I nod, and he bends at the waist in a small bow. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Journey Castle.” The detachment in his voice almost blows the moment out of my grasp, and I immediately start to doubt whether it was even real.
“See you.” I smile at him, and he walks away.
I turn my face to the breeze, close my eyes, and listen to the soothing sound of the waves violently pulling their sculpture from the stones below. I breathe in the air of this place that, if a million things were different, I might begin to call home.