Page 63 of The Art of Exiley

I spot Rafe among the dancing bodies. He’s with a gorgeous girl in a teal sari—though dancing might not be the right word for their slow-moving, sensual embrace. Rafe looks up, and our eyes meet for an instant before I quickly turn away, only to catch Michael’s eye. He smiles at me before turning his attention back to Kaylie, who he theatrically dips toward the ground, both of their faces shining.

I get up from the table and walk over to where the fence looks out at the view of the cove. I gaze down to where the water roils in its own ferocious dance, years of crashing waves carving a beautiful sculpture from the cliffs.

Michael follows me over a few minutes later and pulls out his packet of fudge. “It’s time,” he says dramatically. He carefully unfolds the linen and hands me a small square.

I take a bite; it’s pure bliss. “They definitely don’t make fudge like this where I come from,” I say.

Michael licks chocolate off his thumb in a way that really shouldn’t be so appealing. “They’ve got some pretty good food over there too.”

Michael is the only Maker I’ve met who has anything positive to say about provincial society. “What made you want to work as the provincial liaison?” I ask.

“I’m only a third-generation Maker,” Michael says. “My mother’s mother—my bubbe—came to the Makers as a teenager on a Kindertransport that was diverted to Avant during the Holocaust. Many of those children were sent back after the war, never really knowing the truth of who their caretakers had been. But my bubbe had met my grandfather and stayed to marry him.”

The wounds of the Holocaust seem to haunt every Jewish person that I know, but I didn’t expect those wounds to extend to the utopian bubble of the Makers. I guess it’s a mild relief to know that the Makers did offer some help to those persecuted during the Holocaust. That they occasionally extend the barest of interventions.

My father doesn’t have much family still alive, and he’s never seemed able to talk about them, but I know that his mother’s mother was a Holocaust survivor. I feel the echo of shared generational trauma with Michael. I never thought I could share any kind of history with a Maker.

Michael continues. “My mother always tried to hide her heritage, not wanting to call attention to having provincial ancestry, and she often spoke of the atrocities of the world that had allowed so much hate and destruction. But Bubbe—she wanted me to know that even though she’d left it behind, there had been beautiful aspects of her old life. She told me that while she had seen the worst of the world during the war, that was not all there was to provincial life. I was a thirsty audience for all her memories of the place that she had loved that no one else here seemed to care about or want to remember.”

The sounds of laughter and chatter float by on the breeze.

“Does your sister have the same affection for the provincial world?” I ask.

Michael laughs. “Not at all. She was always more enamored with my grandfather’s side of the family. My great-great-great-plus-a-few-more-greats-grandfather was a religious Kabbalist recruited by the Mystics.”

“Oh. Was it more common for the Avant guilds to recruit from the provincial world in those days?” I ask.

He laughs again, but this time the sound is hollow. “Yes. Our society is made up entirely of recruits. We are a people defined by exile. Outcasts who wanted a better life than one under the Imperialists we fled from. But try pointing that out to those who resist new recruits now, and you’ll find them spouting the same rhetoric our society was founded to combat.” He sighs and looks down at my face, and that’s where his gaze stays.

We sink into a quiet kind of communication that involves only our eyes and my fast-beating heart. The sun has all but disappeared, and it’s one of those magical hours where the edges of reality begin to fade, and themoment itself has the fuzzy edges of a memory. We tiredly gaze at each other, the silence heavy and meaningful.

“Did you enjoy today?” He breaks the silence, and I can’t tell if he’s looking at my eyes or at my mouth, because I have stopped looking at his eyes to look at his mouth. There is tension in his lips, in his jaw, in his throat.

“Yes,” I say.

“I’m glad.” The words are almost a whisper, and they feel so intimate. More intimate than touch.

Michael blinks, then looks away. “It’s late,” he says. “I should get back.” I nod, and he bends at the waist in a small bow. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Journey Castle.” The detachment in his voice almost blows the moment out of my grasp, and I immediately start to doubt whether it was even real.

“See you.” I smile at him, and he walks away.

I turn my face to the breeze, close my eyes, and listen to the soothing sound of the waves violently pulling their sculpture from the stones below. I breathe in the air of this place that, if a million things were different, I might begin to call home.

17

As Hypatia and Georgie had predicted, I’m quickly invited to try out for the Alchemist hoverjoust team. I was hesitant at first, since I need to stay focused and not attract unnecessary attention, but Hypatia pointed out that it would be a great way for me to quickly integrate into our guild. It didn’t take much to sway me since I wanted to do it anyway.

The hoverjoust arena is carved out of the bedrock on the westernmost side of the island. Its design is inspired by the Ancient Theatre of Epidaurus, and the amphitheater-style stone seating forms three-quarters of a bowl shape that is open to the ocean. In the center of the bowl is a dirt pit bisected by a fence, where the jousts take place.

I approach the pit with trepidation, but the team is warm and welcoming as they introduce themselves with lots of arm clasps and high fives. High fives aren’t a thing here, but they seem to think it’s a provincial greeting, and they do it enthusiastically, wanting me to feel welcome.

“I’ve been hoping you’d guild as an Alchemist ever since I saw your moves at the hover park!” says a tan boy with dyed green hair and very large biceps who I think is called Sebastian.

“Were you on a hoverjoust team in the provincial world?” asks a girl named Carlota.

I laugh. “There’s nothing as cool as hoverjousting in the provincial world.”

Miriam, the Alchemist team captain, claps her hands for order. “Let’s see if you’re a fit for the team! You already know how to use that, right?” She gestures toward Georgie’s hoverboard, which is clutched under my arm.

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