Page 92 of The Art of Exiley

“I suppose now you’ll tell me that Beethoven was a Maker or a Sire or something?”

“No, just a genius.”

“Aphilistinea genius? Such a thing is possible?”

“It was different in the earlier generations. The more time that passessince the Exodus, the more the provincial world is separated from the truth they denied, and the more they devolve in their ignorance.”

Ugh. I’ve been trying so hard not to hate him. Why must he keep making it impossible?

But then he begins to play the sonata. And he does it properly.

It’s beautiful, like no version of the song I’ve ever heard before. Damn him. Why does he have to be so good at everything? I was wrong to ever consider it simple; when played correctly, it’s anything but. The notes wrap around me and pull my pulse into the melody.

I’m envious. I wish I could speak my emotions through music. It sometimes feels like there’s something inside me but I don’t know the language to let it out, so I’m doomed to never be able to fully express myself.

Rafe leans into the music, the muscles in his back and shoulders rippling. It’s like there are two separate masterpieces: Rafe, his whole body engaged, his hands doing a deliberate and intricate dance on the keys; and then the music itself, so beautiful, so haunting, so rich. He transitions into the third movement of the piece, one I hardly know and could certainly never play. His hands move so swiftly that they become a blur in my vision. He bangs them almost violently, and yet the sound released is melodious. When I play piano, I just use my fingertips. Rafe uses his whole hand. The tendons stretch as the sides of his fingers, his knuckles, all get pulled into the dance.

He’s forgotten that I’m next to him, probably forgotten that I’m in the room at all. I can tell because I see the difference in his demeanor. The way he’s shifted out of himself and into the song. The way he rocks his body into each note. All his usual harshness has melted away. Angles and lines disappear, revealing an unrecognizable face. One I have only seen the barest glimpses of before now. An expression so passionate that it makes me wonder what it would be like to kiss him. To do more than kiss. If he gives this much to his music, imagine what he could—

Um… scratch that thought.

He starts to play a different song, though it takes me a moment to notice as one song merges smoothly into the next like a rushing river flowing into a calm ocean. A familiar ocean. And though I don’t want to break the spell that’s been cast over the room, I’m so surprised that I say, “I know this song.”

“You must be mistaking it for something else,” Rafe responds, his attention never leaving the keys.

“No. I would never forget this.” My voice comes out dreamily because that is how this song makes me feel. It wraps me in a memory that smells of cinnamon cocoa and feels like cold cheeks and toes sticking out of a warm blanket. “My father used to play this for me when I was a child,” I say. It’s the same tune played by the music box beside my bed.

“That’s impossible.” The certainty of Rafe’s deceleration pulls me out of the warmth of my memory.

“Why?” I ask.

“This song was written by a Levite for meditative use by the Prophets of Naiot in order to help them achieve a prophetic state. There’s no way you could have ever heard it.” It amazes me how such sweet music can come from his fingers while such contempt drips from his voice.

“Whatever,” I respond. “Think what you like. I know what my father played for me.” I close my eyes, wanting to slip back into the song. I clasp my hands, rubbing my scars against each other. I won’t let Rafe’s music be ruined by his attitude.

But my words have angered Rafe, and his fingers bang down against the keys with a clang of sour notes. “I’m telling you, there’s no way ‘Yosef HaLevi’s Nocturne’ was your silly lullaby in the philistine world.”

I momentarily forget how to breathe. “What did you just say the composer’s name is?” I ask.

“Yosef HaLevi,” he drawls.

If I hadn’t spent the last few months constantly suppressing my reactions, I would never have been able to pull off the nonchalance that I achieve as I say, “You’re right. I must be mistaken.” But I know I’m not.

What am I even doing here? This plan of ours doesn’t necessitate us becoming friends. “I’ve been in here long enough for all the necessary tongues to wag. I should leave.” I shift off the bench and stand.

He doesn’t walk me to the door.

26

For the next week, I do my best to avoid Rafe while still pretending to date him. But our fraternization has drawn just about as much attention as I figured it would. Which is to say, quite a lot.

“So, I hear you’ve been spending time with Vanguard now?” Sebastian pries as all the members of our team soak in a hot spring after a particularly intense early-morning hoverjoust practice. The opening games are fast approaching, and practices have amped up.

“Um, kind of, just seeing where things go.” I breathe in the thick geothermal mist. The hot springs are one of the sources of the fog that blankets the island. It should smell like sulfur, but as with so much else, the Makers have improved upon nature, and it smells more like French toast.

“That’s all we’re gonna get?” Sebastian, always a sponge for gossip, looks terribly disappointed. “This is the same princeling who laughed at you while you were in the dust? Our biggest competition, who notoriously spent every night in a different bed until you came along… and that’s all we’re gonna get?”

Carlota comes to my defense. “Have you set your eyes upon him? Can you really blame her?” She flicks water into Sebastian’s green hair.

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