Academy of Muses - Softcover

Max, Andrea

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1665959851 ISBN 13: 9781665959858

Verlag: Margaret K. McElderry Books, 2026

Inhaltsangabe

Previously published as The Art of Exile.

Legendborn meets The Da Vinci Code in this “inventive, compelling” (Kirkus Reviews) light academia contemporary fantasy and “whirlwind romp” (Publishers Weekly) following a teen who infiltrates a secret school for the descendants of exiled Renaissance masters to steal their long-lost arts and sciences.

Steal from a hidden utopia.
Fake date your nemesis.
Don’t fall for your mentor.
And whatever you do—don’t get caught.

For centuries, Ada Castle’s family has searched for the Genesis Institute: a secret utopia where the descendants of exiled Renaissance masters study arts and sciences so extraordinary they feel like magic. So when Ada is rescued from an attempted kidnapping by the institute’s handsome, brilliant, and completely off-limits recruiter, she seizes the chance to infiltrate the school and finally steal its advancements for the rest of the world.

To access the institute’s most guarded knowledge, Ada must earn a place in its elite guild system under the guidance of the recruiter-turned-mentor she’s quickly falling for. But when a new friend disappears, she’s forced to fake a relationship with the school’s most dangerous—and dangerously attractive—student, who’s convinced she’s a spy and is determined to prove it. Which is a problem, because there’s a reason Genesis has managed to stay a secret for centuries…and they will kill to keep it that way.

As devastating revelations come to light and Ada’s understanding of right and wrong starts to blur, she must choose who to betray—the family whose mission she has always believed in, or the school that has completely reshaped her beliefs…and her heart.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Andrea Max is the author of the Academy of Muses duology. She is also a high school English teacher, which is a genius hack that allows her to talk about books for a living. Aspects of the worldbuilding in her stories are inspired by the Jewish tradition and history with which she was raised. Andrea lives on the east coast with her family, her coffee machine, and not enough bookshelves. You can find her on Instagram at @AndreatotheMax and at Andrea-Max.com.

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Chapter 1 1
It figures that when I’m finally chosen for something, it’s to be kidnapped.

I’m trapped in a box. My knees are pulled to my chest, my whole left side numb from lying here for so long. My head throbs from the blow that knocked me out earlier, and metal gloves restrain my hands behind my back, painfully burning my skin. The burning subsides when I relax, but that’s difficult under the circumstances. If I ever get out of here—please, please let me get out of here—I expect to find my palms burned and blistered like over-grilled cheese.

A sob escapes, and in the cramped space, there’s no room for my breath to go except back to me, warm and cloying against my cheek. Strands of my wavy brown hair stick to my face and tickle my eyes, forcing me to keep them shut.

Maybe if I’d received some training before this ill-fated trip, I’d know what to do. Instead, I’m utterly helpless.

I have no idea what’s going to happen to me.

The allegro of my heart beats faster, and my throat tightens. My palms prickle with a familiar warmth. No.

Breathe. Don’t panic.

I had a glass of wine before I was taken, which, at first, helped subdue my hysteria. But now it’s worn off and traveled from my head to my bladder, where it sits with an uncomfortable, building pressure. I won’t be able to hold it in for much longer.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Think of puppies and guys with dimples.

I was with a guy with dimples when I was captured. A guy who is clearly not who he seemed to be.

Tsss. I gasp as the glove scorches the flesh of my palm near the base of my thumb.

Don’t think about him.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Don’t panic.

Who knows how many hours earlier…

When I was planning my trip to Italy, I daydreamed about falling for an Italian, so this should be no surprise. However, I hadn’t expected him to be over five hundred years old. I also hadn’t expected to cry. Yet here come the tears, blurring my vision as I look up at him.

David.

The veins in his hand pulse with tension. I can almost feel him breathe, can almost see the blood orchestrating the life under his skin of cold, hard marble as he prepares to face his much stronger foe. I’ve heard his expression described as determined, but as his gaze bores into me now, it seems more… unsure, self-conscious.

Same, babe. Same.

I can’t believe I almost skipped coming to the Accademia Gallery where Michelangelo’s David stands ready to sweep unsuspecting tourists off their feet.

I’ve seen enough naked male bodies (only one and a half up close and personal, but who’s counting) to realize how incredibly lifelike he is. Though I haven’t ever seen, uh, anyone uncircumcised, so I can’t comment on that particular bit of artistry. Not that I’m looking.

But the fact that a person could hew this man out of stone absolutely boggles my mind.

My dad often quotes that “Man was created in the image of God.” Having a Jewish father, an agnostic mother, and a Catholic grandfather, I’ve always found the concept of “god” to be pretty abstract. But for the first time, I maybe understand what that quote means. The ability to create something as beautiful as David, to craft flesh and bone from mere marble, is surely some kind of divinity.

But this realization of the heights of human potential kinda sucks.

Because how do I use my potential?

This question settles over me, and for a moment I hate myself. For every unfinished painting, every half-written song, every abandoned story. Every attempt that was never quite good enough. Even this trip, which is almost over, and I have yet to accomplish what I was sent to do. I’d come knowing it was a long shot, finding one man in all of Florence, but I’d hoped to finally prove myself to my family. And the door’s about to close on my one and only chance to do so.

I look up at David again; his intense gaze now seems to be one of accusation.

It’s a familiar feeling. Growing up as the least talented member in a family of artists and scholars, I’m accustomed to being judged. I know I have talents, but they often feel more like expectations.

And I always fall short.

I sniff and glance around to see if I can get away with wiping my nose on my sleeve, but somebody’s watching me. A very handsome somebody. And this handsome body has an actual heartbeat, and, though quite tall, is still within the realm of human size, unlike my new boyfriend towering above us. Now I’m even more self-conscious of my tears.

I look back at the boy—the living, breathing one, that is—and he’s still watching me. When our eyes meet, he smiles, and he has dimples that are so charming that I decide to break up with David on the spot.

Sorry, my love. I’ll still buy a postcard with your face on it.

Mr. Dimples is moving toward me now, or maybe he’s just trying to see the sculpture from another angle. He’s even cuter up close, all long limbs and floppy brown hair. A blue gemstone hoop hugs his right earlobe. I’ve been on the hunt for someone wearing a sapphire earring but… no. He’s nothing like the recruiter I’ve been told to look for: a Black man in his fifties with an eye patch or sunglasses and three piercings in one ear of sapphire, emerald, and pearl. This guy might have a blue earring, but he’s white, looks like he’s in college, and has nothing obscuring his twinkling brown eyes and too-long lashes.

The T-shirt he’s wearing has a picture of da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man playing an electric guitar.

Be still my beating heart.

I pretend to scratch my nose so I can deal with the snot situation as inconspicuously as possible. Then I too decide to see David from another angle, wandering close enough to give Mr. Dimples an opening to flirt with me. Though the fact that he just watched me cry over a statue might reduce my chances.

He smiles in a way that shows he sees right through my ploy, and now he’s close enough for me to see that the dimple on his left cheek is deeper than the one on the right.

“Nice shirt,” I say.

“It’s refreshing,” he responds, “to watch someone truly appreciate a masterpiece.”

Heat rises in my cheeks. “Isn’t it rude to come in here flaunting a rival’s work?” I ask, eyeing his T-shirt meaningfully.

“Da Vinci and Michelangelo weren’t rivals,” he says with complete assurance.

Considering that I don’t know nearly as much about the Renaissance masters as I wish I did, I’ll take his word for it.

He extends his hand to me. “I’m Michael.”

I awkwardly shake his hand. It’s warm and calloused, but his nails have been chewed to the quick.

“I’m Ada,” I reply as I pull my hand from his, though I can’t say I want to.

One of his dark brows arches. “Like Ada Lovelace,” he says.

This takes me by surprise. Only a certain kind of person immediately associates my name with Ada, Countess of Lovelace, the first computer programmer.

“The inventor of poetical science,” he continues, amused. “My very favorite kind of science.”

“Theoretical physics is my favorite kind of science,” I respond. “Too bad I suck at...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Margaret K. McElderry Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2026
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1665959851
• ISBN 13: 9781665959858
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 448
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Libri GmbH; gpsr@libri.de; ; Europaallee 1; Bad Hersfeld; Hessen; Deutschland