Page 27 of The Art of Exiley

The boy looks up at me, his ice-blue eyes aloof and assessing. An amber earring glints in his right lobe. He’s probably one or two years older than me—not that I have any trust in my age-radar anymore.

He stands and reaches out his hand to me. “Raphael Vanguard,” he says like I should recognize the name.

“Ada Castle,” I say, but when I extend my hand, instead of shaking it, he grasps it, and he bends to brush a kiss over my knuckles. Though his lips barely touch me, heat burns my skin, and the base of my fingers warm with that familiar prickle that I now have a name for—Ha’i.

His eyes widen then flick to my right hand, which he’s just released, then to my right ear.

Is it possible to want to be an item of clothing? Right now I would like to be Raphael Van-whatever’s leather jacket. It looks awfully cozy resting on those sculpted shoulders.

“Castle,” he says. “I’ve never heard that name before. Are you from the Misty Isles?” Even his voice is perfect. It’s deep and smooth with an almost imperceptible lilt of a foreign accent that makes me think of fancy pastries and silk pajamas.

“I’m from New York,” I respond.

The flirtatious glint in his eyes blinks out, and his expression turns sour. He wipes his hand on his perfectly tailored pants.

My cheeks burn, and my gut twists, though I have no idea why I should be embarrassed. He returns to his seat, ignoring me, and his beauty now feels cold and dangerous.

“Well, uh, nice to meet you,” I mumble, feeling the urge to flee.

He doesn’t respond, and I turn and head back in the direction I came, working hard to keep a normal pace instead of running like I want to.

I make sure to stop in the lavatory. I don’t actually need to go, but I might eventually. I’d rather wet myself than tell Michael I need a bathroom again, so I force the deed.

By the time I make it back to Michael, the train is smoothly pulling into another station. Michael is fast asleep with his head tipped back and his legs spread wide.

I gently touch my hand to his shoulder, and he startles awake. He blinks, looks around, then exclaims, “Ah, we’re home!”

Maybe he’s home, but I’m far, far from mine.

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.”

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