Page 24 of The Art of Exiley

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. “Thisinefficient systemtransports 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 KORACHCHEVALIER’SNEWSINGLE“RIGHTEOUS” OUTNOWin 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 thisinefficientmode 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.

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