Chapter 20
20
A week later, I’m on the Atlas again, this time with Georgie—and pretty much every Arcadia resident over the age of fifteen—on our way to Carnevale. Much of the furniture has been removed to accommodate so many people. Our train car is particularly busy as the bar is one carriage over. My neck aches from craning to see everyone’s splendid outfits, which range from elaborately fancy to casual to full-on space age. There are styles plucked from every era and every culture—the wonders of fashion not dictated by commercialism.
It’s exactly the kind of distraction I need.
The days since meeting Hilde have been intense and charged with a lot of emotion.
But I’ve also begun to relate more to my Maker peers. I had previously kind of lumped them all into the category of guilty for hoarding their resources from my world. But my time with Hilde made me realize that most of them are really no different from me. I have always benefited from resources and privileges denied to many and had never truly understood to what extent. I get that most of the apprentices and journeys I interact with daily are not the ones responsible for Maker choices on the whole.
It’s the ones who know better who have kept my anger bubbling and fueling a new level of laser focus on my mission. And Carnevale has been the perfect encouragement. While I’ve been able to show Kor things over video call, knowing how good Georgie is with computers, I’ve never felt I could safely email anything to the Families without her knowing. So I’ve been looking forward to getting off the island to the vicinity of cell phone service where I can finally send all my collected materials over.
With my renewed focus and Carnevale fast approaching, I’ve been on a spree of gathering as much information as I can—detailed notes from all my new journey classes, sketches of the layout of the island and institute, photos of samples from the Alchemist lab. Last week I camped out in the library for an entire night to observe the security protocols for the Ark and the Guard changes and schedule.
But it’s been a lot, and I’m worn out and ready for a break.
I can’t wait to just have fun and dance and not think about the atrocities of the world, or my responsibilities, or boys who don’t like me back.
Michael had explained the history of Carnevale to us in Foundations class. During the Renaissance, Carnevale—once a major holiday in Venice celebrating hedonism—gave the original Makers of Avant the chance to come out of hiding and celebrate with old friends. The practice of wearing masks made it easy to keep their identities hidden. Hundreds of years later, when the celebration was banned by the Church, the Makers continued to celebrate beneath the streets of Venice as an act of rebellion. Nowadays, so many years after the Makers have stopped caring about the goings-on of the provincial world, and with the invention of the Atlas allowing the Genesis Makers to join, Carnevale has become a tradition where all the Maker youth get together to celebrate their freedom of creativity. Masks are still a common accessory, but they are made of glace so as not to obscure the wearer’s identity—a sign that in Maker society, no one need hide their creative pursuits.
“I’m loving the new you,” Georgie says. She’s referring to my outfit, which is not at all my usual style.
Carlota from my hoverjoust team lent me a white Grecian-style dress that deeply plunges down the back and has a high side slit. It clings and reveals more than I’m used to, but it certainly accentuates all the right curves. It even has pockets. Mbali gave me her recipe for an elixir that’s transformed my unruly waves into an artful mass of loose curls, which I topped with a delicate gold-leaf circlet (that I crafted myself). I feel pretty, like I actually want to be looked at.
I gesture at Georgie. “You look amazing. I still can’t believe you designed and made that from scratch.”
Her outfit is resplendent—a tailored ocher coat that sweeps into a long floor-length A-line. The front of the coat is open, revealing a high-necked ruffled white blouse tucked into purple velvet trousers and heeled combat boots. A black homburg hat is perched at an angle on the large bird’s nest of her hair, which has been teased and swept up like gold and purple spun sugar. She looks beautiful, outlandish, and totally Georgie.
Whispered giggles and the expectant straightening of postures inform me that someone desirable has entered our car. I turn to see Rafe as he traipses through, a stunning blond on his arm. They’re followed by his regular retinue of beautiful people, all wearing the same holier-than-thou expressions. But Rafe stands out from them all. Many pairs of eyes—lashes fluttering—follow his movements, and as he gets closer, my own lashes betray me and join in.
His loose golden hair just barely brushes his broad shoulders. He rarely wears it down. I don’t really like long hair on men, but he’s pulling it off. He’s pulling it off so well, in fact, that my mouth grows dry as he nears our seats. He has a regal air about him in a burgundy cravat and jacket that looks straight out of the Victorian military, a rich navy velvet with double-breasted rows of gold buttons. The whole outfit is pulled together with a pair of tightly fitted jeans.
Rafe’s date is a Valkyrie, her backless dress exposing an elegant pair of wings, which glimmer under the train’s lighting. I don’t notice much else about the dress, as I’m too distracted by how much it doesn’t cover—endless tan legs, and curves, and shimmery skin that she’s maneuvering to press up against Rafe every which way. She looks vaguely familiar from Rafe’s posse at the institute, but she’s not one of the girls he’s been flirting with recently (not that I’m keeping track). Guess she got a promotion.
As they approach us in a cloud of perfumed air, Rafe looks over and catches me staring at him. I expect no acknowledgment, but he elegantly arches a solitary brow and peruses his eyes languidly up my body. Heat rushes to my face, and as our gazes lock, his icy irises flash with a familiar predatory gleam. Then his expression turns bored again, and his eyes slide back to the adoring crowd ahead. Georgie watches the interaction, ignoring the sneers coming her way from Rafe’s lackeys, her brows raised with a question that remains unvoiced even once the whole too-pretty group has sauntered into the next car.
I could write a sonnet on all the ways I loathe how hot Raphael Vanguard is. Whatever. Even if we didn’t despise each other, I’ve learned my lesson about guys who have that kind of magnetism. Having one shining star with his own gravitational force in my life is more than enough.
At the thought of Kor, I clutch my phone in my pocket. I’ve come prepared for entering the realm of sweet, sweet cell service. When we traveled to Hilde, I’d timed the distance from Arcadia to the New York City station. I’ve been keeping track, and we should be close. “Be right back,” I say to Georgie. All I need is the barest of a connection to send off all my materials.
I duck into a lavatory just as the train passes through the air locks into the City Hall station. I check my phone, and as two service bars appear, a string of messages lights up my screen. Most from school friends who don’t know where I’ve been. I’ll look through them later and use Georgie’s computer to DM the people who deserved better than me dropping them with no explanation. For now I focus on quickly setting up and sending everything the Families need, and then I head back to Georgie.
As I make my way back down the aisle, I’m jostled by a short person in a bat mask as they hurry past me. Weird that they’re already wearing their mask and that it’s opaque black instead of glace. I turn in curiosity to get another look and see an awfully familiar crooked blond braid disappearing into the next train car.
That little minx! I thought Hypatia had given up on her stowaway plans. I change direction to catch up to her, but by the time I pass into the bar car, I’ve lost sight of her in the crowd.
“Excuse me. Excuse me. Pardon.” I make my way through the loud throng. Hypatia is still nowhere to be seen. I head toward the exit to the next car but then I jolt forward, blinded by sudden darkness as the power blinks out and the train comes to a screeching halt.
I hear more than a few cries of pain. I’m not hurt because I’ve collapsed into something solid and warm. A hand steadies me and prevents me from toppling. I instantly know who has caught me by the way my skin flares to life when his hand grazes my exposed back.
Rafe.
It’s clear when he realizes it’s me by the way his body stiffens. He releases me and steps away, and I’m immediately jostled by the panicked swarm. I teeter and try to reach blindly for the ceiling rail, but I’m too short to reach it, and the crush of bodies pushes me to my knees. I let out an inelegant squeal, praying I don’t get trampled.
As the initial panic settles, people start pulling out their spoons to light their torches. Rafe and a few of the other Sires produce flares of Ha’i, illuminating the car with an eerie glow. When Rafe sees me on the floor, he sighs in exasperation and pulls me back up against him. He mutters something that sounds like, “She can’t even stand on her own two feet.”
I ignore the words and breathe in the relief of not having to worry about dying by poorly placed stiletto. “Thanks,” I say to Rafe, and I try to make my own Sire glow, but it keeps winking out.
“Stop wiggling,” he says, stilling my hand. “Something’s wrong. Nothing should ever cause an outage like this.” His eyes narrow, and he glares down at me accusingly. “Have you done something?”
“Seriously? You’re still going down that road? I thought we were past distrust and on to simple, tepid loathing.”
Before he can answer, the lights flare on, and the chaos calms as the train lumbers back to life. It occurs to me then to tell Rafe that Hypatia snuck aboard so he can look out for her, but he’s already releasing me and stalking off without so much as a goodbye.
I see Georgie in the crowd and head toward her, but even though the shoving has stopped, I feel unsteady with the absence of Rafe’s strong body supporting mine.