I think about how Aria Loew seemed to know things. The idea that the Mystic guild probably has members who could divine my secrets reinforces my decision that it’s not safe.

I have to choose between the Artisans, the Sophists, and the Alchemists. Michael had said to trust my gut. So I try. And when I do, strangely, the difficulty of the choice melts away. One guild feels like the obvious best fit, both for my talents and my priorities. I open my eyes.

“I would be honored to join the Alchemist guild,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

And then I am deafened by the sound of cheers. The Alchemists in the audience are on their feet, applauding and roaring their approval.

I squint into the crowd, surprised to see all the beaming faces. Surprised by their whoops of welcome. They want me. I didn’t expect that. I’m an outsider, a stranger who’s been taking children’s classes. I see Hypatia and Mbali standing among the Alchemists, applauding along with them, and I know I have a place by their side.

Michael approaches me when Quorum is over. “Your song was superb! I love how you altered the key in the bridge.” That had been a mistake, but I guess it worked out.

“Thanks,” I say, fingering the new emerald guildstone in my ear, my emotions still a blur from the whole experience.

Everyone is heading to the faire in the village, and we follow the crowd. Since so many people come from the different Maker communities for each Quorum, it’s become tradition for craftsmen, traders, and performers to travel with their wares to the faire.

“I wait for months to get my favorite fudge,” Michael chatters as we walk along the crowded forest path. “This one old lady from the Misty Isles makes it from a secret recipe. But she’s getting on in years. I hope her recipe doesn’t die with her.”

“If you’re charming enough, maybe she’ll leave you the recipe in her will,” I suggest.

“Don’t think I haven’t considered it. Most people I bother to charm have something I hope to inherit.”

I look at him with one eyebrow raised.

“Your fuzzy polka-dot socks,” he says in answer to my unspoken question. “The ones you were wearing when we traveled from New York.”

“Your feet are almost double the size of mine. My socks will not fit you.”

“But they will fit my hands, which is all that matters since I intend to wear them as mittens. I have always wanted fuzzy polka-dot mittens.”

“Noted,” I say with a laugh.

When we arrive at the village, it’s unrecognizable. The normally sleepy stretch of road is bustling with people. Hundreds of stalls are propped up, their brightly colored canopies creating a patchwork tunnel of noisy and pungent activity.