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.