Michael collects himself and stretches out his long legs; his feet jostle into mine, and he quickly snaps them back. Sitting up straight, he continues. “Luckily, much of the academy’s research was rescued and hidden before it could be destroyed. The Makers, like many other groups of the time, were forced to denounce their ways or be expelled or even executed. Some did, and some went into hiding and continued their scholarship. A group of those in hiding eventually arranged for passage to the New World, where they went on to found the Genesis Institute.”

My rapt interest in the story is no act. It’s wild to hear the things I’ve only ever been told about in theory confirmed by someone outside of the Families. I try to wrap my head around how much could have been lost with the destruction of such a school.

A flop of dark hair obscures Michael’s face, and my fingers itch to push it away. We’re sitting close enough that if we both leaned forward, I could. Instead, I lean back, lacing my fingers together in my lap. I school my features to look skeptical and say, “If what you’re saying is true, shouldn’t everyone have heard of this Inquisition?”

“Have you heard of Galileo’s trial for his belief that the Earth revolves around the sun? And the Spanish Inquisition that followed the expulsion, when the Jews and Muslims were exiled from Spain?”

“Yes, but not anything about the loss of major scientific advancements.”

“That’s because the Church simply denied that any of it ever existed. They buried all the evidence of the Makers’ heretical experiments and blasphemous ideas, and they forbade anyone to speak of them. Except for an elite group of Inquisitors who were tasked with hunting down those that fled.” His eyes bore into mine, telegraphing sincerity and urgency. “And the loss of all that knowledge, it set advancements back centuries. But the Makers kept it all and have continued their mission of advancement in secret.”

“I don’t understand,” I interject. “If these advancements were so great, how did everyone just go along with the Church and pretend they never existed?”

My feet are jostled by Michael’s again as he makes another attempt to stretch his legs. He pulls them back and stands instead, pacing the length of the small room. “Sorry,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “This version of history is very standard for me, and explaining it to someone with a totally different paradigm is always confusing. But don’t underestimate the Church’s power.” He looks at me. “Even in your own lifetime, you’ve observed enough to see how world narratives are formed. How easy it is to reshape history through propaganda and misinformation.”

He’s starting to sound like my grandfather.