Page 33 of The Art of Exiley

Hypatia looks thoughtful. She runs her tongue over her teeth, then says, “Well, Ha’i is everywhere, and most people just move it around. But Sires create new Ha’i inside their bodies and then conduct it outward.” She swishes her hand as if she’s conducting an orchestra, making more of the lovely lights. “Any person can cultivate potential energy, but a Sire can make it from nothing.”

“Is there a way for someone who is not a Sire to create Ha’i?” I ask, thinking of the device, or whatever it is, that Kor wants me to find.

Hypatia shakes her head. But she’s only an apprentice; maybe she just doesn’t know about it yet.

I try copying her hand motion, but no lights appear.

“Let me show you how,” she says.

We sit together in the empty classroom. She’s a good teacher, and soon I can make the sparks about one in three times that I try, so I’m feeling a lot better about myself. But my old instinct to want to suppress any sign of my abilities keeps clouding my head.

“You’ve got a pigeon,” Hypatia says, and I turn to see a fluttering golem hovering over my shoulder. I pluck it out of the air, unfold it, and read the handwritten message inside.

Please come see me in my office at your convenience. Pigeon will lead the way. —M. Loew

I do my best to ignore the jump in my pulse. To Hypatia, I say, “I have to go.”

“Okay. I expect you to practice, and we’ll have another lesson tomorrow after Ha’i class,” she instructs.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, my lips curving upward. And after a helpless look down at my hands, I add, “But first, can you help me refold this pigeon?”

I follow the pigeon through the Spring wing to a doorway at the end of a bright hallway that smells like honeysuckles. I pause to pull my hair out of its messy bun, finger combing the long waves and biting my lips to give them some color.

None of this is because I care how I look for Michael, of course. I’m just aware that I’m coming from a class that involved a lot of physical activity, and I want to look put together when meeting with a faculty member.

Michael’s office door is open, and he’s sitting chewing his nails while studying a large book that takes up half of his desk. The office is small with a lot of serious-looking bookshelves. Against the wall, there’s a sofa in an alarming shade of chartreuse, and next to it is a table with an assortment of oddities including an old record player, a silver menorah, and a shofar.

Is Michael Jewish? Instinct has me checking the doorframe, and there is indeed a mezuzah nailed there, much like the ones my father hung on all the doorposts of our old apartment.

“Oh, Ada, hi,” Michael says, looking up from his book. “Thanks for coming.” He smiles warmly and gestures for me to take the seat across from him.

I sit and resist the urge to adjust my clothes or hair.

“Are you settling in okay?” he asks. I can’t help but notice how detached and professional he appears behind his desk.

Yet I can’t forget the warm press of his thigh, the way his breath caught when our fingers intertwined, the certainty of knowing I was going to learn the texture of his lips.

Well, this is awkward.

I clear my throat. “Um, yeah, pretty well. Georgie’s really nice, and my room is great.” I promised myself that I’ll try to keep it clean. I have been promising myself I’d clean my room for the past decade. Maybe a blank slate will finally help.

His face breaks into a grin, dimples and all. “I knew you’d like it here. I’m hoping that when the time comes, you’ll choose to stay.”

How am I supposed to respond to that? I certainly can’t tell the truth about my intentions. Instead, I change the subject.

“Are there many Jewish Makers?” I ask, glancing back at the menorah and shofar.

He shakes his head. “Jews are only about zero-point-two percent of the world’s population, and that proportion is about the same among the Makers.”

“My father’s Jewish,” I say. I phrase it that way because I don’t know what I consider myself, but I want Michael to know that we share this part of our identity. That despite the very different worlds we come from, we may have learned some of the same prayers and the same traditions.

And it does mean something to him; I see it in the sharpening of his expression, the brightening in his eyes. It reignites a spark of the tension between us. Or maybe that’s just in my head.

I look away and say, “I kind of always associated the Renaissance with Christianity. White European Christianity.” And the diversity I’ve seen at Genesis so far doesn’t fit that image. The students and staff have been an array of ethnicities as varied as what I’m used to in New York City.

“That’s a logical association since the Church dictated known history. But it wasn’t just Greek and Roman culture that shaped the Renaissance. Much of the mathematics and science came from Islamic countries. The Academy of Muses had students from all over the world and was known for accepting those not permitted to learn elsewhere. In fact, though Jewish communitieswere confined to ghettos and limited in what professions they were allowed, the Academy’s influence led Italy to become one of the first European countries to allow Jews to attend medical schools. Many Jewish physicians, printers, and patrons of the arts impacted the Renaissance.”

“Oh, wow. Okay. So, is there some kind of Maker religion?”

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