I stand at the entrance, unsure what happens next. He seems to be unsure as well, and he awkwardly fingers the sapphire hoop in his ear. All the Makers I’ve met so far have had gemstones in their ears.

“What’s with the earrings?” I ask.

He looks confused for a moment, then follows the motions of his hand, and understanding dawns. “Ah, guildstones. You’ll get one when you join a guild at Quorum. The gems communicate guild and rank. So, a sapphire hoop indicates I’m a master of the Sophist guild—”

One of the doors opens, and a teenage girl with a spectacular cloud of blond and purple hair rushes out.

“You’re here! Hi! Come in!” she greets us.

“This is Georgia Vega, your roommate,” Michael says.

“Call me Georgie.” Her smile is wide and infectious, with teeth that are bright white and slightly crooked. She’s wearing a plaid shirt, a black tutu with black tights, and purple combat boots. “Hi, Master Loew,” she adds, eyeing Michael like it’s weird that he’s lingering in her—our—apartment, which I guess it is.

“I’ll leave you two to become acquainted,” Michael says. He gives me an encouraging smile and heads out.

“Yay! Welcome! Make yourself comfortable!” Georgie flops onto a couch and pulls her hair away from her face, messily tying it with a leather band. In addition to a purple guildstone, little men hang from her earlobes that look like they had previous lives as paper clips. I sit on the second couch opposite her and suddenly realize how tired my body is from the long day. Georgie says, “There are so few people from the provincial world here. It’s so nice to meet someone else who is.”

“Wait, you’re also from the… regular world?”

“Yup. Came here three years ago when my mom was recruited. She wouldn’t come without me and my dad. It was a big deal. They don’t normally take anyone who isn’t special in some way.”

“What makes your mom special?” I wonder if she’s a Sire like me.

“She’s an art historian, and the Sophist guild supposedly wanted some of her esoteric research. But I think it’s more likely that the Makers were concerned about her publishing information that could make people start asking the wrong questions.” She tucks her feet up underneath her. “So, how many times have you been called a weed so far?” she asks. She’s clearly joking, but there’s something dark in her tone. I remember Raphael’s comment that had enraged Michael.

Pulling weeds again, Master Loew?

“Once,” I respond.

“Was it Rafe?”

“Uh…”

“So beautiful it hurts? More arrogant than Zeus? Thinks he’s God’s gift to all vaginas?”

I laugh. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”

“Figures.”

“What does ‘weed’ mean?” I ask her.