Page 42 of The Art of Exiley

“So you’re saying they’re… batteries?”

“That’s not a bad comparison, but no. It is more like a basic nervous system. For example, these pigeons need to be crafted and animated, but they also need sense to give them the ability to fly on command.”

They sound kind of like computer chips. I’ll have to ask Georgie later.

The high materials feel like basic innovations that the rest of the world could easily benefit from as well. They all seem practical and sustainable, and I don’t see any reason beyond selfishness that such things should be withheld from others. I have to learn as much as I can about all the materials and get samples for the Families. Especially sap, the Bioscience healing compound, which sounds like it could be useful for Grandfather.

Mbali shows me how to roll out the loam into thin sheets and where to place the sense. The intricate folding pattern to form the pigeon is tricky, but I practice.

As we all work, Rafe ignores me, but he is simply too present for me to ignore. He’s like a looming rain cloud of discontent and hotness. You know that idea that people become less attractive if they have a bad personality?

All lies.

Once I complete something somewhat recognizable as a pigeon, Mbalisays, “A golem can’t work until it’s animated by a Sire. Rafe is particularly good at animation, so he can demonstrate.”

Apparently, the chance to show off is enough to get Rafe to stop pretending I don’t exist. He splays his hand in shiin over the bird.

And then the bird, which I made with my own two hands, flutters into the air. I’ve seen pigeon golems before, yet my heart is in my throat at the thought that I helped create this miraculous thing. That I could potentially learn to use the very same abilities I spent so long being afraid of tobring something to life.

“An excellent first golem,” Mbali says.

“But the construction is too sloppy for actual use,” Rafe interjects. And before I can stop him, he makes shiin again and deanimates the pigeon, which falls lifeless in his hand. Rafe pulls out the sense and pushes the loam back into the container. All of my painstaking, precise work melds in with the rest of the shapeless lump, my sense of accomplishment squished along with it.

The rest of the journeys have begun packing up and trickling out of the lab. Mbali nods goodbye to me and gently presses Rafe’s arm before she also heads out.

Rafe reaches for the vat of loam to put it away, but I say, “I can clean up after myself.”

“I’ll do it,” he says. “I’d rather you stay away from the supplies. Wouldn’t want you stealing anything.”

My outrage is only slightly dimmed by the fact that I had fully intended to scope out the materials for that very purpose.

But I won’t let the insult stand, so I reach out to force him to relinquish the box. When my fingers brush against his, I feel the same tingle as when we touched on the train—it’s almost like my Ha’i is reacting to his—and he must feel it too because he jerks away so violently that he elbows a rack ofbeakers, causing a symphony of glace to fall clattering and rolling all over the floor.

“If the two of you could please clean that up before you leave,” Master Hayyan says politely before making her own way out of the room.

Rafe clenches his jaw so tightly he may grind his teeth into sand.

Apparently, glace really doesn’t shatter, so the cleanup is relatively simple, but being alone with Rafe gives me the strong urge to flee.

When we’re finished, Rafe says, “Run along.” His blue eyes flash and his forearms flex, muscles tight like a predator about to pounce. “Just know that I’ll be watching your every move. And so will the Guard.”

What does the Guard have to do with anything?

“Wait, are you the one who told them to search me?”

He doesn’t answer, but I know it was him. What a jerk.

“What do you have against me?”

“I don’t trust you. I know you’re scheming, and I intend to safeguard my people instead of falling for your act.” His voice is deep and dark like a shot of espresso, and it elicits the same blend of indulgence and anxiety.

He can’t possibly know anything. He just doesn’t trust me because he’s a bigot.

“And stay away from Hypatia,” he growls.

“She’s my friend.”

“Make new friends.” He moves closer, crowding my space. I instinctively step back, hitting the desk behind me. His eyes are hooded, and I suddenly feel like an entirely different kind of prey.

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