Page 29 of The Art of Exiley

I suck in a breath. “Are you saying that this is meant to be the institute that was destroyed during the Inquisition?”

He nods. “The academy is said to have been started by Alexander the Great, but it grew to prominence during the Renaissance when the greatest creative minds from around the world traveled there to form the Makers—orle muse, as they were called at the time—including Raphael, who immortalized the academy in his greatest masterpiece.”

“But Plato, Aristotle, Socrates… Pythagoras? Everyone depicted in the painting, they’re all from ancient Greece, not the Renaissance.”

“You’re right, of course. But look again. Look at Plato’s face.” I look at the central figure of the painting. “Who else does it look like?”

It’s suddenly impossible not to see. “Leonardo da Vinci,” I say.

Michael nods. “And Heraclitus?” He needs to point the figure out to me this time since I don’t know who he’s referring to. But when I scrutinize the face he indicates, I see the clear likeness.

“Michelangelo.”

Michael nods again. “And here”—he points to a figure all the way on the right side—“is Raphael himself.” It’s definitely him, practically identical to the self-portrait I saw on display in the Uffizi Gallery just the other week.

I observe the fresco with new eyes, now seeing Raphael’s depiction of himself and his contemporaries learning from one another in a great academy, the memory of which has been stolen from the world. But the heart of that center of learning still exists, here in this very building.

Where I’m going to have the chance to learn. I swallow thickly.

“Let’s go see the headmaster,” Michael says.

We walk through corridors hung with magnificent paintings and sumptuous draperies, past twisting staircases and strange laboratories.

The headmaster is waiting for us in an office that smells like mint leaves and aged paper. He’s an imposing man wearing a cravat and knee-length jacket like Michael’s. Perched over his left eye is a monocle of smoky glass. His other eye is trained on me, watching sharply.

He has three hoops in his ear: sapphire, emerald, and pearl. The same earrings I was supposed to be looking for in Florence. I bet this is who Prometheus had intended for me to find.

Michael walks up to him and gives him a quick half hug.

“Welcome back, my boy.” The man’s face is infused with affection as he returns the hug.

“Ada.” Michael turns to me. “This is Headmaster Bloche.”

“Welcome to Genesis,” the headmaster says, his voice deep and stern. He gestures for me to sit. I sink into an embroidered couch and actively look around the office so as not to rudely stare at his monocle.

“How was Chorus?” Michael asks in a low voice that tells me the conversation is not meant for me, though he must know I can hear.

“She was… Chorus,” Bloche says with a sigh.

“What did she say?”

“That teaching the girl is the will of the Conductor.”

Michael glances at me, then back to the headmaster. “Will that satisfy the rest of the Council?”

“It will have to.”

I wonder if I’m “the girl.” And who are Chorus and the Conductor? But my attention strays when I notice a large oil painting above the headmaster’s desk. It’s of a boat caught in a storm, and it looks an awful lot like anoriginal Rembrandt. The perfection in the contrast of the shadow and light matches his signature style. It’s breathtaking. But Rembrandt only ever painted one seascape, which was famously and tragically stolen. A bubble of unease floats in the back of my throat.

The headmaster takes a seat and nods approvingly when he sees me admiring the seascape. I do my best to tamp down the questions I have about it. Instead, I swallow and smile at the headmaster.

“Ms. Castle, you have been invited to join this illustrious institution to commit yourself to our mission of advancing society through all manner of art, philosophy, and science.”

“Advance all of society?” I ask. “Or just your hidden society?”

He purses his lips, then says, “I see why you like this one, Master Loew.” After a moment of contemplation, he says. “Ms. Castle, coming here means leaving your past behind. Most recruits cut all ties with anyone in the provincial world. The Council was willing to allow you here due to the danger posed against Sires such as yourself”—he fixes his gaze on me, the glass of the monocle having gone completely black—“but, eventually, you will have to choose between their world and ours. Do you understand?”

I notice that he hasn’t really answered my question. Michael is standing near a grandfather clock—that has pictures of planets and constellations but no numbers—his expression pinched.

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