Page 61 of The Art of Exiley

“Yeah. That was a real head-scratcher.”

“How did you do it?”

“I wrote a program that input every combination of the music notes until one tune finally opened it. It took three days.”

Georgie amazes me. She’s so talented with her clothing design, her art, and her coding. She’s a Renaissance woman if I ever saw one. I wonder if I’llbe able to accomplish anywhere near as much as her if I spend more time at the institute.

An elegant woman comes to look at some of Georgie’s wares, but another woman rushes over and whispers something in her ear. The customer looks at Georgie with a mix of fear and distaste, drops the scarf she’s holding, and says, “Never mind. I won’t barter with an outsider.”

Bright spots of pink flush Georgie’s cheeks.

I’m incensed, and I start to follow the retreating woman, but Georgie holds me back. “Confrontation isn’t good for business.”

“Has that happened a lot?”

“Thankfully not too much, and only from nonlocals.”

I take the discarded scarf and fold it. “Do you ever wish you could go back?” I ask. “To your old life?”

“No.” She answers without any hesitation.

“Even after dealing with…?” I wave my hand in the direction of the rude customer.

“Even with all that, being here is worth it. The opportunities for what I can accomplish here—despite the discomfort and prejudice—are a hundred times better than anything in the provincial world.”

“The provincial world,” not “home.” Georgie has accepted that this place is her new home. And in a few months Headmaster Bloche will want me to do the same. But that’s never been a real option for me.

Michael is browsing the wares of a bookseller, and I head in his direction, but the pleasant notes of a wind chime draw my attention to a tiny stall hidden behind the others. My curiosity is piqued, and when I draw closer, I see a sign that says HELIOTORCHES. I should get myself one of those customizable multi-tools—spoons—that everyone uses. I’ve been wanting one for a while. A handy tool always available for any and all spontaneous creative endeavors.

An old man with a shiny bald head tends the stall, muttering to himself grumpily.

“Hello?” I ask cautiously, wondering if he even wants customers.

“What?” he barks.

“I’d like to get a Heliotorch,” I say.

The man sighs, then pulls out a large drawer and lays it on the table. A variety of tools are on display. “What mods are ya lookin’ for?” His knobby-knuckled hands shift through the various items. He wears an onyx ring, a large one, indicating he’s a master of the Mystic guild.

“Uh, what do you recommend?”

“Everyone needs a blade, a pencil, an’ a torch.” He plucks out the relevant mods—a sharp blade the length of my middle finger, a stick of graphite, and what looks like a sewing needle, but I know from seeing Georgie’s that the tip lights up to be a very powerful flashlight.

He looks at the diamond in my ear. “You’re a Sire, so you’ll be wantin’ a sparker.” He adds an unfamiliar mod to the tray. In the drawer, I see what looks like a nail file and glance at my overgrown nails. “I’ll take that,” I say, “and that please,” I add, pointing to miniature scissors.

I’m long overdue for a haircut. I’ve been meaning to ask Georgie to give me a proper cut, but I can at least trim off some of my dead ends in the meantime. I twirl a lock around my finger. It’s almost at my elbows these days. I ruefully think of how annoyed my father would be. He always liked my hair to look tidy, and he used to trim it for me every week on Friday afternoon.

The man observes my hair and sucks his teeth, his watery eyes sharp. “Now, for the spoon itself,” he says, with what sounds to me like a little less grump than before. “I have somethin’ I think you’ll like.” He kneels to search through the recesses of an old chest, then rises holding a nondescript box. “Instead of a new Heliotorch, maybe consider this one, which needs a new owner.” He opens the box, and my eyes widen.

The size of a small harmonica, the spoon is inlaid with a mosaic of dark green stone around a harp made of mother-of-pearl.

I want it.

“I don’t have much sense, and that looks expensive.”

“The cost is a lock o’ your hair, three inches long and one inch wide.”

My skin prickles. “Um, that’s super creepy.”

---