It’s hard for me to see Kor through the eyes of the masses. To them he’s a mysterious paragon of artistic genius. To me he’s just Kor, one of my closest friends, who is two years older than me and technically a distant cousin. (Very distant. Through marriage.)

Kor clears his throat, and the activity around the table resumes.

“We’re sorry for the repetition,” Dr. Ambrose says to me. He’s a kind physician with salt-and-pepper hair and gold-rimmed glasses. When my mother had grudgingly allowed the Inner Chamber to assess my abilities, he’d been patient and transparent through the whole process. “We know you have been through an ordeal, but we must make sure we have all the proper facts for the sake of our research and for your safety. If we decide to send you to study at this institute, we need the whole picture.”

The Inner Chamber is split on whether I should be sent to infiltrate Genesis. Most of them are in favor of it, but there are a few who don’t trust me to pull it off.

“Not to mention that your story doesn’t add up,” the loudest in the Ada-can’t-be-trusted contingent interjects.

Alfie Avellino: son of Counselor Avellino and the most annoying person in my acquaintance.

“You still haven’t answered why you didn’t follow the protocol when you first encountered the exile.” He glares at me accusingly as he pats down a strand of his perfectly parted hair—a shade of brown just light enough that he’ll try to tell you it’s blond.

Alfie liked me fine when we first met a few years ago. In fact, he worked hard to ingratiate himself with me to get closer to Kor, but the moment he realized I wasn’t going to be initiated into the Families, I slid below his notice like runoff into the sewer.

“She couldn’t follow the protocol because she was kidnapped.” Kor comes to my defense. It’s clear that Alfie has more to say on the matter, but he won’t talk back to Kor. He will, however, straighten his ugly paisley tie and scowl down his nose at me, trying his best to make me feel like I don’t deserve to be here.

He doesn’t have to work very hard. I’m already pretty sure I don’t belong.

Nothing can make me feel quite as hazy with inferiority as being surrounded by these people who have shaped their lives around the values of the exiles by actively improving the world through innovation and art. The abilities that earned me my initiation might mean I need fewer Band-Aids than the average person, and sure, I’m good with plants, but no one’s looking for a ficus at the Met. Everyone else at this table gained their seats by pushing themselves to be masters of a modern Renaissance.