Page 55 of The Art of Exiley
Michael holds his guitar like an extension of his body. There’s a natural twang to the instrument, but he pulls a softness from it in a way I have yet to master. The notes string together into a yearning voice. His fingers break into a flurry of rushed movements, eliciting a thrumming sequence that amazes me in its complexity, made even more impressive by the fact that Michael’s not looking at the strings. He’s looking at me.
Our eyes meet, and I catch my breath. The muscles in his neck relax and tighten with the movements of his arms, his lips softly parted, his eyes smiling. I feel the music like it’s touching me in all the places that Michael’s not touching me, and he just keeps… looking at me. Like somethingimportant is being communicated without words. Like all the things he’s not saying are loud enough to drown out the song.
And then it’s over.
Michael puts down the guitar and clears his throat. “I’ve missed this instrument,” he says, looking at the guitar as if we didn’t just share an intense, soul-bonding moment.
He searches my face and asks, “Ada, are you happy you chose to come here?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Very happy.” And I know it’s true. I’ve already changed so much—learned so much—and I wouldn’t give up this experience for anything.
In this moment, I’m not thinking about my mission. In this moment, I would rather learn from Genesis than spy on them. And in this moment, I’m pretending as much to myself as to everyone else that that’s all I’m here to do.
I swallow. “But I’m still conflicted about which guild is right for me.”
Michael smiles. “Trust your gut. Don’t think about what anyone else would want. Listen to what the guildmasters have to say and focus on what resonates with you here.” He holds his hand against his heart. “And after Quorum, once you’ve joined a guild”—his eyes soften—“you’ll officially be a Maker.”
He reaches up to my ear, and I feel the ghost of a touch above my Sire diamond at the spot where my guildstone will go. My heart stutters, and I hold my breath.
The lock of the apartment door clicks, and Michael’s hand snaps back.
“Hi!” Georgie chirps.
“Well, I should probably be going.” Michael rises from beside me. “Your gallerie is going to be wonderful, and by this time two days from now, you’ll be a journeyman.”
15
Within the hour, Quorum will begin and my future as a Maker will be decided. I feel stiff in the formal clothes I borrowed from Georgie (which she had to alter to fit me). I’m wearing a navy balloon-sleeved blouse tucked into high-waisted black velvet trousers. And with my new high laced boots and half my hair braided into a crown atop my head, I almost look like I belong here. That is, until I realize that I’m standing in the wrong place.
Hundreds of Makers are crowded into the Equinox for the Quorum opening ceremony. I had automatically walked over to a group I recognized from my Sire lab, but this is the spot for journey Sires. No one seems to care that I don’t belong here, except for Rafe, who hisses at me and points to a cluster of children—the apprentices—all the way on the other side of the room. But I’m too embarrassed to cross the vast space with everyone watching, so I stay. Surprisingly, Rafe doesn’t push the issue, and I can’t help but notice that there’s a lightness to his expression I’ve never seen before. It almost looks like he’s… happy.
The herald announces the arrival of the delegation from Avant. A parade of important-looking people streams into the room. I’ve been told thatmore dignitaries than usual will be present at this Quorum since several notable apprentices are presenting their galleries, including Hypatia and Simon, who are apparently both from high-ranking Avant families.
Suddenly, the low hum of whispers and activity quiets, and I look to the doors. An imposing man with long, wild hair enters. The aura surrounding him sucks the attention from every corner of the room. He looks straight out of a movie set, wearing a long fur coat and leather pants tucked into knee-high leather boots. His chest is bare, an impressive tattoo of a dragon spans across the left side of his chest and up his neck, and some kind of claw hangs from a cord around his neck. How many dead animals is this guy wearing?
As if he knows what I’m thinking, Rafe whispers in my ear, “Would you believe his girlfriend is a vegetarian?” I stifle a laugh, the comment so anachronistic with the pageantry of the moment. And did Rafe just make a joke? Tome? Hemustbe in a good mood.
The man looks so weird and so captivating that I can’t stop staring. His long rippling hair is midnight dark, though his beard is shot with gray. Atop his head rests a simple metal circlet.
“Prince Alexander, heir to the Blood Crown of Avant,” the herald introduces him. All of the Avant Makers—Rafe included—kiss the knuckles of their right hands. Everyone else acknowledges the prince’s presence with a deep nod of their heads.
Prince Alexander sweeps through the entrance hall. As he gets closer, I notice that each of the fingers on his right hand bears a different colored gemstone band, with two on his thumb. Six guilds. Is he a Master-of-All?
For some reason, he seems to be coming straight toward me. No, I realize, toward Rafe.
The prince stops in front of us, a wide smile softening his harsh features. Rafe is smiling too. Really smiling—with teeth and cheeks and twinklingeyes. I didn’t think he was capable of such an expression, and now I can’t make myself look away.
When the prince speaks, his voice is gravel. “Raphael, it’s been too long, brother.”
Brother?
The prince grabs Rafe’s hand, squeezing it as he leans over and kisses him on the cheek. His long hair shields them from view, but I am close enough to hear Rafe whisper, “I miss you. I miss home.”
“You are where you should be” is the quiet, gritty response.
“How are Ben and Mab?”
“Everyone is well and missing you.”
