Page 28 of The Art of Exiley

I feel like I need to be writing all this down. Do the Families even know about Avant?

Despite the guards, the village itself could not be more inviting. A strip of quaint shops of varied sizes, shapes, and colors—as if a child with scissors cut out buildings from different time periods and pasted them togetherhaphazardly—line a central square with a large fountain. The area is bustling with pedestrians, many of whom are dressed in the same blend of old and new as the couple on the train.

Other passengers from our train join a line of people waiting to get onto gliders that look like a cross between a bicycle and a paper airplane made of old parchment. My stomach drops as I watch one careen down a mini runway, alight into the air, and fly away. It looks flimsy, like it could easily be taken down by an aggressive seagull. We’d better not be getting onto one of those.

“Not quite New York City or Florence,” Michael says, looking out at the village, “but it’s home to the best biscuits and tea in the world.” He motions toward a tea shop that’s built out of a repurposed train car. There’s a gleam in his eyes, and I can tell he’s happy to be home.

As we pass through the central plaza, there’s a gap in the line of shops, and an iron fence looks out over a view of a distant waterfall. I rush over to the fence and catch my breath when I realize that there’s nothing on the other side of the rail but a sheer drop hundreds of feet down to where water violently crashes against rocks in the cove below. From here, I can see that the whole village has been built on the edge of a cliff, which curves to form the secluded cove. The waterfall blocks the point at which the cliff sides almost meet in a narrow ravine, the only passage from the cove to the ocean.

Wind whips my hair into my face, and I close my eyes and breathe in the smell of breeze and brine. “I’d love to go down to the water,” I say to Michael, who has followed me and is watching my awe with a smile.

“That would be challenging,” he responds. “The founders of Genesis purposely chose this island for the protection provided by its steep cliffs. It’s not easy to get down to the beach.”

Right. This island is for hiding. From people like me.

“Let’s get to the institute,” Michael says. “Would you prefer to walk or take an ornithopter?” He gestures back toward the gliders.

“There’s no way I’m getting into one of those oversize paper airplanes. Please, let’s walk.”

Michael coughs to suppress a laugh. “That’s the first time I’ve heard da Vinci’s original design described quite like that.” He leads me down a path into the cover of trees, where I’m surrounded by the fresh smell of many shades of green.

A slobbering hound races toward us from the opposite direction, followed by a man who grins broadly when he sees Michael. The man wears a blue gemstone earring just like Michael’s, though he looks a bit older. His T-shirt and corduroy slacks are ordinary enough, or they would be if they weren’t accompanied by a red velvet cape and knee-high laced boots. I’m going to need to practice not snickering when looking at full-on adults wearingcapes. But also, I want those boots.

The two men grasp each other’s arms below the elbow in greeting, and Michael scratches the dog behind the ears.

“Ada, meet Master Ravi Bose. He’ll be your Apprentice Testaments instructor.”

I nod politely as if I know what the hell a testament is and as if throwing around words like “master” and “apprentice” is perfectly normal.

“Do you know why the Guard are watching the station?” Michael asks his friend.

The man looks sidelong at me before answering. “Don’t know anything for sure,” he says. “But it sounds like there have been more abductions of provincial Sires as well as concerns about an informant in Avant, so extra precautions are being taken to prevent infiltration.”

The dog sniffs around at my feet.

My chest constricts. Their military is looking for spies? The timing of my coming here couldn’t be worse.

The man continues to eye me as he says, “I’m surprised they’re allowing any newcomers in.”

“Only special cases,” Michael responds.

I feel a tremor of guilt, but it sounds like the Makers have someone a lot more dangerous than me to be concerned about. Like whoever kidnapped me. I push the memory aside before the familiar dread can settle.

“Well then,” the man says to me. “Welcome, Special Case. I, for one, am glad to see new blood on this island. Hopefully, everything will be resolved soon, and the Avant Guard and their aggressive posturing can return to their gloomy tower.” He claps Michael on the back and then whistles to his dog. “Let’s go, Munch!” And they head off toward the village.

As Michael and I continue down the road, the foliage thickens, and the air grows heavy with mist.

“The provincials think this is just a privately owned island, and we use the mist to obscure the institute. The moisture likes to collect in the forest,” Michael explains. He pats his hair, which has floofed up spectacularly. I’m sure the moisture has styled my own hair into something a lot worse.

Eventually, the tree cover breaks, and the institute comes into view, grand and imposing. The front half of the building has a majestic paneled glass roof with a large dome at its center and towers that rise around it. The tallest spire is obscured by a milky fog that filters the sunlight, making the scene feel painted in watercolors.

We cross the courtyard and enter the building through towering oak doors. Sunlight streams through the glass ceiling of the entrance hall, illuminating walls covered in colorful frescoes. A large tree grows straight up through the floor, its roots creeping across the room, embedding themselves between the marble tiles.

I stop in my tracks and stare at a colossal mural that is a perfect re-creation of one of my favorite paintings.

“The School of Athens,” I murmur, walking closer to investigate. I’ve always been captivated by Raphael’s fresco that depicts the greatest mathematicians,scientists, and philosophers from classical antiquity under one roof, sharing their ideas and learning from one another.

“That wasn’t its original name,” Michael says, and I look up at him questioningly. “Famously known asScuola di Atene, it’s actually calledCausarum Cognitio, Knowledge of Causes, but before the Inquisition it was known asl’accademia Dell Muse, the Academy of Muses.”

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