Page 46 of The Art of Exiley

“Hold on, Simon!” a deep voice booms as a shirtless man comes careening through the sky from the direction of the village. He has a trim build of lean muscles that ripple as he flaps a pair of wings much larger than Kaylie’s. Thismust be Grey, Simon’s brother. It takes me a moment to recognize him in the distance, but it’s the gray-haired guard who searched me the other day.

I hear a sound like the crack of a whip as the branch snaps.

And Simon is falling.

Directly on top of me.

“Simon!” Grey yells, flying toward us. But there’s no way he’ll get here in time. There’s not even enough time for me to instruct my body to move out of the way.

Simon crashes onto me, and the breath is knocked from my lungs as we collapse in a tangle of wings and limbs. My vision blurs as my head smashes into the ground, and Simon’s face collides with mine, my teeth splitting his cheek open like an overripe peach. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

I try to spit out the blood, but there’s so much of it. Some mine and some Simon’s. I feel like I’m choking on it.

I hear voices, but they sound far away, as if I’m underwater.

“Don’t touch them!” Kaylie calls as she swoops down to us.

“Simon, are you okay?” Grey bellows.

Then his voice again, close to my face, fuzzy through the pounding in my head. “Thank you for breaking his fall. You may have saved his life.”

12

Along hoverboard ride. A crack of thunder. Simon flying over Rafe, who is lying in a field of red flowers. An unknown beautiful girl pouring wine for Kor.

The dream is a little different every time, but those parts are always the same. I’ve had difficulty sleeping every night since the flying incident. My injuries healed quickly due to my Sire abilities, but the weird dreams are a pain in my butt.

I’m so tired that I’d fall asleep in this chair if the information we were learning wasn’t so fascinating.

“The fact that da Vinci had a boyfriend is not secret Maker knowledge,” Michael says. “It’s well documented in provincial history if you know where to look.”

We’re in a Foundations of Maker Culture seminar, discussing famous Makers from before the Exodus (including Luca Pacioli, the father of accounting as we know it, and supposedly Leonardo da Vinci’s live-in partner—though they separated when Pacioli joined the Makers in Avant and da Vinci stayed in Italy).

Michael—Master Loew—leads the Foundations seminar, as he’s theresident expert on the relationships between Maker society and the provincial world. The seminar meets in an alcove of the library. It’s a small group made up entirely of recruits, including Georgie and both of her parents.

There’s also a Sophist named Gloria who must be close to thirty years old and was recruited, like, ten years ago. She clearly knows everything we learn already, and I’m pretty sure she only comes to these classes to moon over Michael. Which… fair. I have, unfortunately, discovered that Michael being all teachery does not make it easier to ignore his dimples. But he’s clearly not discouraging her. Honestly, his enthusiasm whenever the two of them debate is probably encouraging her. Whatever.

The fact that da Vinci didn’t want to join the Makers leads to a discussion about some of the many others that the Makers have been unsuccessful in recruiting over the years. One of whom was Rembrandt, who resisted multiple attempts at recruitment despite the personal and financial difficulties that he had in the provincial world.

I think of the painting hanging in Bloche’s office. The knowledge that Rembrandt specifically wanted to keep himself and his art in the provincial world makes the thought that the Makers may have stolen that painting even more despicable.

Since I’m grouchy from lack of sleep, I’m not careful to school my expression, so when the seminar is over, Michael approaches me. “Something’s bothering you,” he says.

Yeah, something’s bothering me. But I’m not about to expose my critical views about Maker lifestyle. Except my mind and my mouth seem to be at odds with each other because the question spills out before I can stop it.

“The painting in Headmaster Bloche’s office, is it Rembrandt’sThe Sea of Galilee?”

Michael grins. “You have a good eye. Yes. It’s a magnificent piece, isn’t it?”

I feel a flush of confusion and anger. “That painting was stolen over thirty years ago.”

He must hear the accusation in my tone. “The Makers had nothing to do with the theft. Bloche rescued the painting from the thieves.”

“Then why didn’t he return it?” I honestly hope he has a good explanation. I want to respect him. I want to respect the Makers.

“Return it to the people whose carelessness allowed thieves to slash it from its frame? Here it was faithfully restored and is in a place where it can be better protected and properly appreciated.”

“Properly appreciated?” I rub at my scars, feeling my frustration build. “How many people, on this tiny hidden island, get to appreciate it when it hangs in one man’s office? You think provincial people can’t properly appreciate art? Do you know how much the loss of that painting was mourned? Is still mourned? The museum still has the empty frame on display.” I bite my lip, realizing too late that I’m showing my hand. But when our eyes meet, it feels impossible to try to pretend, so I don’t stop. “You’re the one who told me about how much history has been stolen from the provincial world by the Inquisition. And you thinkmoreshould be taken?”

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