The man looks sidelong at me before answering. “Don’t know anything for sure,” he says. “But it sounds like there have been more abductions of provincial Sires as well as concerns about an informant in Avant, so extra precautions are being taken to prevent infiltration.”

The dog sniffs around at my feet.

My chest constricts. Their military is looking for spies? The timing of my coming here couldn’t be worse.

The man continues to eye me as he says, “I’m surprised they’re allowing any newcomers in.”

“Only special cases,” Michael responds.

I feel a tremor of guilt, but it sounds like the Makers have someone a lot more dangerous than me to be concerned about. Like whoever kidnapped me. I push the memory aside before the familiar dread can settle.

“Well then,” the man says to me. “Welcome, Special Case. I, for one, am glad to see new blood on this island. Hopefully, everything will be resolved soon, and the Avant Guard and their aggressive posturing can return to their gloomy tower.” He claps Michael on the back and then whistles to his dog. “Let’s go, Munch!” And they head off toward the village.

As Michael and I continue down the road, the foliage thickens, and the air grows heavy with mist.

“The provincials think this is just a privately owned island, and we use the mist to obscure the institute. The moisture likes to collect in the forest,” Michael explains. He pats his hair, which has floofed up spectacularly. I’m sure the moisture has styled my own hair into something a lot worse.

Eventually, the tree cover breaks, and the institute comes into view, grand and imposing. The front half of the building has a majestic paneled glass roof with a large dome at its center and towers that rise around it. The tallest spire is obscured by a milky fog that filters the sunlight, making the scene feel painted in watercolors.

We cross the courtyard and enter the building through towering oak doors. Sunlight streams through the glass ceiling of the entrance hall, illuminating walls covered in colorful frescoes. A large tree grows straight up through the floor, its roots creeping across the room, embedding themselves between the marble tiles.

I stop in my tracks and stare at a colossal mural that is a perfect re-creation of one of my favorite paintings.

“The School of Athens,” I murmur, walking closer to investigate. I’ve always been captivated by Raphael’s fresco that depicts the greatest mathematicians, scientists, and philosophers from classical antiquity under one roof, sharing their ideas and learning from one another.

“That wasn’t its original name,” Michael says, and I look up at him questioningly. “Famously known as Scuola di Atene, it’s actually called Causarum Cognitio, Knowledge of Causes, but before the Inquisition it was known as l’accademia Dell Muse, the Academy of Muses.”