Page 65 of The Art of Exiley

“Have you warned anyone about this?” I ask Georgie.

“Nah. I haven’t found anything concerning enough, but I thought you’d find it amusing. You’re all set up to call your family whenever you’re ready.”

Once Georgie leaves the room, my first impulse is to check social media, but I decide not to. The last time I scrolled through my feeds, it left me feeling depressed about the superficiality of what used to matter to me. I can’t decide whether my forced distance from those parts of my old life is a relief or a loss.

When Kor answers my call, it’s clear that I woke him up. He tells me he’s been under the weather and that I should give my updates to Alfie Avellino instead. Bluish veins show through his pale skin, there are dark circles under his eyes, and his hair, which he’s normally so vain about, is badly in need of a cut.

“I’m fine.” He waves his hand dismissively when I ask him if he’s okay. “It’s just a cold I caught while volunteering at the clinic.”

I think guiltily of my own coldless, flueless winter due to my Maker inoculations. Why should he be sick when the cures exist here?

We say goodbye and I call Alfie, and it takes him less than a minute to start pissing me off. He bosses me around about things he wants me to do, even though he knows nothing about what goes on here, and he refuses to answer any of my questions.

Our raised voices must attract the attention of Dr. Ambrose, who appears on-screen and gestures away a seething Alfie—who flips me off with both hands before he leaves—to take over the call himself.

Dr. Ambrose listens patiently, peering through his gold-rimmed glassesas I give him my updates about what’s changed now that I’ve joined a guild.

The institute begins a new term after each Quorum, and now, as a journey, my classes are entirely different from when I was an apprentice. It’s nice to be around people closer to my own age, as the journeys are all mostly in their teens and twenties.

I still attend Sire lab and Foundations, but I now must also be a contributing member of my guild. I have Alchemy lab, where we work on projects to add to the guild’s testament, and Phytology, where I’ve been studying plant life in a three-story greenhouse. The other day I learned to use my Ha’i to sprout a full-grown sunflower from a seed in a matter of minutes. I’ve also been studying nondestructive and nonwasteful agriculture methods (I go into depth with these for Dr. Ambrose since they should be perfectly easy to implement back home), and I’ve joined a rotation creating our guild’s high material, glace. So far I just clean and melt down old products, but I hope to soon be able to understand its production enough to be able to pass on practical instructions to the Families.

I don’t only take Alchemy-related classes. I also have multiple art studios and conservatories. In one class we’ve been learning about the physics of sound so we can physically manipulate things with music—it feels like actual magic.

When I talk about art classes with Kor, he often remind me to remain focused on gathering the information more important to the Oculus. But Dr. Ambrose doesn’t do that. He seems equally interested in all my studies, and he takes detailed notes about my new classes so that he can consult with the Inner Chamber about whether there’s anything specific they want me to glean for them.

When we’re finished, I call Mom. She tells me she misses me and asks about my general well-being, but, as usual, she’s too busy to do more than see my face and make sure I’m safe before she has to go and passes me on to Grandfather.

When his gaunt face appears on my screen, I almost burst into tears. Helooks so ill. He’s thinner than before—if that’s even possible—and his skin is sallow.

“Grandfather!” I yelp. “I miss you so much.”

“I miss you too, mi reinita. I miss you too. But maybe we’ll see each other soon. Can you come home for Easter?” He starts coughing—a shuddering, phlegmy cough—and my heart hurts. He’s getting worse. If anything happens to Grandfather that I could have prevented, I’ll never forgive myself.

“Come, Tomás.” Sal appears on-screen. “Sit back. I’ll bring you some hot water with lemon.”

Once I say my goodbyes, I go back into the common room and promptly start sobbing as I flip through pictures on my phone.

“You okay?” Georgie asks, pulling off her headphones.

“Yeah, just missing my family again.”

She comes and sits next to me, and I show her my phone, scrolling through photos and pointing.

“This is my mom.” She looks carefree and happy in this photo, sitting on a rock at the Ravine in Central Park, not a stitch of makeup on, her blond hair loose and blowing in the wind. It’s an old photo. I haven’t seen her that relaxed in years. There are a few more similar shots, reminding me of a time when my mother knew how to have fun. When did she change? And when did I start to forget this version of her?

I keep scrolling and almost show Georgie a picture of Izzy, but calling her my best friend doesn’t feel true anymore, so I flip past all our selfies, trying not to start crying again.

“This is my cousin, Kor.” I bring up a selfie of us making stupid faces on the set of hisRolling Stonephoto shoot.

Georgie stares, bug-eyed, with her mouth open in a perfect round O. When she finally regains her speech, she asks, “Your cousin is Kor Chevalier?”

“Very distant cousin,” I say defensively. “More of a friend.”

“I might die.” She puts the back of her hand to her forehead in a swoon. “Like, if there’s a single guy on this planet who could turn me bi, it would be him.”

Sigh. I didn’t realize how nice it’s been to be away from 24/7 Kor-mania.

“While I love Kor, I might puke if I am subjected to too much of your adoration,” I say to Georgie, who is dramatically fanning herself.

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