Page 72 of The Art of Exiley

Before he ushers me back to the jeep, Michael takes Hilde’s hands in his. “I know you’ve received our messages. You know Sires are being hunted. If you still refuse to come home, you need to hide better.”

“I’m hidden fine.”

“I found you easily.”

“Maybe that’s because I wanted you to find me.”

“Hills, I’m serious. Sires are being kidnapped all over the world. You need to move on from here and disappear. Even from me. Tell me you understand.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “What are you planning?”

“I’m not planning anything. I’m just doing what has to be done.”

She stares at him for a long moment, their hands still gripping each other. “You think you’re so different from me, Michelangelo Loew, but you’re wrong.”

I agree with her. He would be doing what she’s doing if he weren’t so set on trusting his precious council. I wonder if that’s what broke them up. That question ties my feelings into a complicated knot of disappointment and relief.

On the ride back to Arcadia, I can’t stop thinking of the faces of the children, of the bodies.

“Do you understand now?” Michael asks me.

“Yes,” I say.

I understand, all right. But I definitely haven’t changed my mind. The opposite, in fact. More than ever, I blame the Makers for letting my world destroy itself.

20

A week later, I’m on the Atlas again, this time with Georgie—and pretty much every Arcadia resident over the age of fifteen—on our way to Carnevale. Much of the furniture has been removed to accommodate so many people. Our train car is particularly busy as the bar is one carriage over. My neck aches from craning to see everyone’s splendid outfits, which range from elaborately fancy to casual to full-on space age. There are styles plucked from every era and every culture—the wonders of fashion not dictated by commercialism.

It’s exactly the kind of distraction I need.

The days since meeting Hilde have been intense and charged with a lot of emotion.

But I’ve also begun to relate more to my Maker peers. I had previously kind of lumped them all into the category of guilty for hoarding their resources from my world. But my time with Hilde made me realize that most of them are really no different from me. I have always benefited from resources and privileges denied to many and had never truly understood to what extent. I get that most of the apprentices and journeys I interact with daily are not the ones responsible for Maker choices on the whole.

It’s the ones who know better who have kept my anger bubbling and fueling a new level of laser focus on my mission. And Carnevale has been the perfect encouragement. While I’ve been able to show Kor things over video call, knowing how good Georgie is with computers, I’ve never felt I could safely email anything to the Families without her knowing. So I’ve been looking forward to getting off the island to the vicinity of cell phone service where I can finally send all my collected materials over.

With my renewed focus and Carnevale fast approaching, I’ve been on a spree of gathering as much information as I can—detailed notes from all my new journey classes, sketches of the layout of the island and institute, photos of samples from the Alchemist lab. Last week I camped out in the library for an entire night to observe the security protocols for the Ark and the Guard changes and schedule.

But it’s been a lot, and I’m worn out and ready for a break.

I can’t wait to just have fun and dance and not think about the atrocities of the world, or my responsibilities, or boys who don’t like me back.

Michael had explained the history of Carnevale to us in Foundations class. During the Renaissance, Carnevale—once a major holiday in Venice celebrating hedonism—gave the original Makers of Avant the chance to come out of hiding and celebrate with old friends. The practice of wearing masks made it easy to keep their identities hidden. Hundreds of years later, when the celebration was banned by the Church, the Makers continued to celebrate beneath the streets of Venice as an act of rebellion. Nowadays, so many years after the Makers have stopped caring about the goings-on of the provincial world, and with the invention of the Atlas allowing the Genesis Makers to join, Carnevale has become a tradition where all the Maker youth get together to celebrate their freedom of creativity. Masks are still a common accessory, but they are made of glace so as not to obscure the wearer’s identity—a sign that in Maker society, no one need hide their creative pursuits.

“I’m loving the new you,” Georgie says. She’s referring to my outfit, which is not at all my usual style.

Carlota from my hoverjoust team lent me a white Grecian-style dress that deeply plunges down the back and has a high side slit. It clings and reveals more than I’m used to, but it certainly accentuates all the right curves. It even has pockets. Mbali gave me her recipe for an elixir that’s transformed my unruly waves into an artful mass of loose curls, which I topped with a delicate gold-leaf circlet (that I crafted myself). I feel pretty, like I actually want to be looked at.

I gesture at Georgie. “You look amazing. I still can’t believe you designed and made that from scratch.”

Her outfit is resplendent—a tailored ocher coat that sweeps into a long floor-length A-line. The front of the coat is open, revealing a high-necked ruffled white blouse tucked into purple velvet trousers and heeled combat boots. A black homburg hat is perched at an angle on the large bird’s nest of her hair, which has been teased and swept up like gold and purple spun sugar. She looks beautiful, outlandish, and totally Georgie.

Whispered giggles and the expectant straightening of postures inform me that someone desirable has entered our car. I turn to see Rafe as he traipses through, a stunning blond on his arm. They’re followed by his regular retinue of beautiful people, all wearing the same holier-than-thou expressions. But Rafe stands out from them all. Many pairs of eyes—lashes fluttering—follow his movements, and as he gets closer, my own lashes betray me and join in.

His loose golden hair just barely brushes his broad shoulders. He rarely wears it down. I don’t really like long hair on men, but he’s pulling it off. He’s pulling it off so well, in fact, that my mouth grows dry as he nears our seats. He has a regal air about him in a burgundy cravat and jacket that looks straight out of the Victorian military, a rich navy velvet withdouble-breasted rows of gold buttons. The whole outfit is pulled together with a pair of tightly fitted jeans.

Rafe’s date is a Valkyrie, her backless dress exposing an elegant pair of wings, which glimmer under the train’s lighting. I don’t notice much else about the dress, as I’m too distracted by how much it doesn’t cover—endless tan legs, and curves, and shimmery skin that she’s maneuvering to press up against Rafe every which way. She looks vaguely familiar from Rafe’s posse at the institute, but she’s not one of the girls he’s been flirting with recently (not that I’m keeping track). Guess she got a promotion.

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