The Crickhowell School for the Muses (8 page)

The three girls stood silently in the
black room, breathing in the damp air. The only light came from the moon, its beams slipping in through a tiny window on the back wall. A slight chill in the air made Awen shiver. She crossed her arms in an attempt to stay warm.

Carmella’s voice broke the silence. “Well, I suppose…we may as well sleep?” Her voice wavered: “Or try?”

“Yes, I suppose…” Genevieve trailed off.

Awen’s eyes were getting used to the dark, and she could just make out the outlines of the other girls. She sighed, meaning to voice her assent, and edged forward, arms outstretched, feeling for one of the cots. She did not need to move very far, as her hands touched a cold blanket after only two steps. Awen cautiously rolled onto the cot, which squeaked under her weight, and sat up.

Hearing Awen’s movements, Genevieve and Carmella resigned themselves to their own cots, one on either side of Awen.

No one spoke for what seemed like a long time. Five minutes, maybe. Awen wondered if the other girls had fallen asleep.

Awen sat cross-legged on her cot with her back straight but her head falling slightly forward. The silence and the cool, damp air felt unexpectedly calming, as if the atmosphere in the little room were giving her a massage. The coolness cleared her head, erasing the strange warmth that had pervaded it in the tavern below. And now she began to think, her mind wandering back to the thoughts that had disturbed her earlier. Rosaline and her plans, the names, the town, the library…

Genevieve’s whisper penetrated the silence: “Awen. Carmella.”

Awen, still looking down, resituated herself on the cot, its squeaks acting as her reply.

“Yes?” Carmella whispered back.

“You asked…before. If we knew what was going on…?” Genevieve seemed to be waiting for another response.

Awen looked up to her left, toward the dark shape of Genevieve.

“Mmm,” Carmella murmured.

“Well, I heard something.” And then she gasped.

Awen whipped her head around, trying to see, or hear, whatever had stopped Genevieve. There was more silence. And then she heard it, too: creaky footsteps, slow—too slow to be anything but the steps of an eavesdropper, just outside the door. Awen did not move. The steps lacked the clink of Rosaline’s heels; they sounded more like the crunch of leather boots. She thought of Mr. Berwick. Her heart banged in her chest.

The girls were all silent, the only sound their breathing. The footsteps ceased.

Awen’s throat tensed. She held her breath.

The footsteps started again. One…two…three…They were getting softer, receding back down the hallway into nothingness.

Awen exhaled audibly.

“I was going to say,” Genevieve continued, her voice quieter, hardly audible, each word spoken with care. “I heard Tori and Rosaline talking, when I was waiting outside the door for my harp lesson. Tori is the harp teacher,” she added, for Awen’s benefit. “And Mr. Berwick, well, I heard he used to teach at Crickhowell, many years ago, but was dismissed for something terrible. I don’t know what…” she trailed off. “Anyway, both Carmella and I play harp. But, well, I heard them—Tori and Rosaline—discussing something. A school for the muses—but it wasn’t Crickhowell. I heard the name of a town—Beaufort, or Goodwick, or, I don’t know…but I heard
my
name, as well.” Then, even more quietly: “They wanted to take me there.” She paused for a moment. “This was a month ago.”

Awen knew, then, that they were the beginnings: Genevieve, Carmella, herself. They would be the first students at a new school—but this time, with Rosaline as the head. Awen guessed that was where they would travel to now—to a new town—and Rosaline would be like what Miss Nina was at Crickhowell, and Tori would teach, and Mr. Berwick—Awen shivered at the thought of his horrible face—he might teach something, too. She prayed it wouldn’t be singing. How could a man like
that
know music?

Awen felt a tingling in her legs, and, realizing they had been crossed this whole time, stretched them out in front of her. Then she bent her knees, hugging them to her chest. She glanced to either side, wondering what expression she might find on the other girls’ faces. But it was too dark to tell. She could only see that they were both lying down, stretched out awkwardly on the inadequate cots.

She heard a sigh from her left—Genevieve. Awen saw her dark shape turn over uncomfortably. She whispered, “So, you understand now?”

Awen swallowed.

“We’re going away. Somewhere…I don’t know where. I don’t know for how long.” Her voice broke off, and Awen heard the squeak of the cot as she shifted. “Well,” her voice was stronger now, “I’m going to sleep.”

No one spoke again.

Awen carefully turned herself around so that she faced the back wall. There was a tiny rough-cut window just above her cot; yellow light poured in, shining down on her like a spotlight. She straightened up onto her knees and placed her hands on the wall to steady herself. From this angle, she could see the full moon in its entirety. She leaned her forehead against the pane. The glass was strangely clean—she could not imagine how a room like this could be anything but filthy all over. Awen yawned, then folded herself back down onto the cot.

She thought she should be terrified of the events about to take place, of what had already begun to happen. Crickhowell had been no home to her, but at least she knew what waited behind its closed doors, even if she feared some of those things. Now, she was headed toward the unknown. But the strangest thing to her was that she was not afraid. She could not let herself be.

Awen fought back another yawn and sank farther down, so that she lay on her back. There was something else she had to think of. Something else she
knew
she had to…Her eyelids drooped. Something she needed to…Her head lolled to the side. There was a reason why she was not afraid. Because ultimately, she had to…Her eyelids closed all the way.

Yes, before too long, she would have to escape.

She faded into sleep.

* * *

A loud knock resounded throughout the room. No, it was more of a banging sound. Awen yawned, fitfully turning half of her body over. She kicked her feet, tangled in a thin layer of sheet.

The banging sounded again.

She curled into a ball. She wanted Rosaline to go away, to let her sleep. She did not want to practice, and she did not want a lesson, either. Maybe she would have lunch with Vivienne later.…

She opened her eyes and sat up stock-straight. She was not at Crickhowell. Vivienne was gone. She would not be having a lesson with Mr. Whitewood. Ever again.

Alarmed, she whipped her head around—there was Genevieve, and Carmella. They were both yawning and stretching, seeming to fight the urge to curl back into their beds. Awen turned around. There was the tiny window: the moon gone now, though it was hardly light outside. A misty dark blue. She wondered if it was morning.

The knocks on the door stopped. “Get up! We’re going now!” And then it opened, Rosaline stepping in behind it, one hand still on the outside knob. “Hurry along, now; we want to get an early start.”

The girls struggled, finally, out of their beds.

“You have nothing with you, nothing to gather, so hurry up!” Rosaline fiddled with the doorknob.

Genevieve and Carmella scrambled out the door first, followed closely by Awen. Rosaline shut the door after them, moving to the front of the line in three long strides.

“No time for breakfast,” Rosaline clucked. “We’ll eat on the way—there’ll be bread in the coach.”

Awen struggled to keep up with Rosaline in the darkness, precariously feeling her way down the hallway and stairs. The tavern below was empty, the candles around the room now mere glowing stumps, a few smoldering as they burned down. Awen crossed her arms, bracing herself for the cool air as she stepped out into the dark morning. But the action was unnecessary: the air was startlingly warm—warmer, in fact, than it had been inside the Pickwick Inn. She dropped her arms to her sides.

The carriage was already waiting out front for them, and Awen was glad, in the half-light, she could not see Mr. Berwick, who was probably up in the driver’s seat. Her guess was confirmed by Rosaline, who called out to him that they were ready to depart.

Awen was the last to enter the carriage. The arrangement was exactly as it had been during the first trip: Rosaline and Tori on the bench to the right, and Genevieve and Carmella in the middle. Awen scrambled to the empty bench on the far left, sitting down just as the carriage lurched forward.

Awen leaned back against the side wall and stretched out her legs across the bench. She closed her eyes.

“Awen.”

She opened her eyes drowsily, wondering if she had been asleep.

“Bread.” Carmella had turned around on her bench, toward Awen; she held before her a cloth-covered basket. Awen reached for the basket with both hands, grabbing three hard rolls at once. She put two of them in her lap and stuffed the other one in her mouth, devouring it so rapidly that she did not have time to taste it. She ate the second piece in this same manner, slowing only for the third.

Then Awen wiped the crumbs from her dress and leaned back against the wall of the carriage again, letting her eyes close once more.

* * *

Golden light glimmered before her heavy lids—the rays of early morning. Awen had dreamt something, but all that remained of it were remnants of color: golden browns, deep blue, and an ember-red that burned through the darkness. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to remember a face, a shape, a place. But she could recall nothing.

Awen felt a change in the motion of the carriage, which caused her center of balance to shift, and suddenly found herself sliding toward the floor; she pushed her hand against the back of the other bench, steadying herself just in time to avoid falling. She glanced out the pane-less window to see that they were ascending a rather steep hill. Awen crawled forward on the bench until her face was just in front of the window. From here, she could see a very small town—a mere handful of dark stone buildings, sprinkled on either side of the path. Then, with a quick glance toward Rosaline, who seemed to be absorbed with some book, Awen stuck her head out the window to see where, exactly, the carriage was headed.

At the top of a hill sat a larger structure—castle-like, yet at most half the size of the Crickhowell School. The castle was constructed of stone like the other buildings in the town, though this stone had a yellow hue.

“Awen!” Rosaline snapped.

She pulled back immediately, leaping to her original position on the bench as if by instinct. Awen expected a tirade from Rosaline, but the woman said no more.

The carriage began to slow, evening out as it reached the very top of the hill.

“Girls,” Rosaline announced, “welcome to the
Beaufort
School for the Muses.”

This castle had only two stories: the
upper, designated for the student living quarters and practice rooms; and the lower level, for the instructors’ quarters, their offices, and a small dining area. Rosaline had left the girls each in her own room, telling them she would return later in the day, after she had settled everything on the main floor. She left them no explanation for the situation, though Awen—and, she supposed, Genevieve and Carmella—already knew most of it.

Awen’s room was even smaller than it had been at Crickhowell, and the interior—which was stone, rather than wood—made it feel even more cramped. The one window was hardly a window at all; it had no glass and was more akin to a narrow vertical cut in the stone wall. Awen could barely fit her hand through it.

There was, however, one improvement. Instead of a mattress on a floor, Awen now had what passed as a legitimate bed. It was not long, and it only stood about to her knee, but it was better than what she’d had before.

When Awen tired of inspecting her new room, she sat on the bed, kicking her feet outward. She considered exploring the rest of the upper floor—she did not think she would run into anyone, as she had heard no passing footsteps—but felt too tired to bother. So, she remained on the bed, kicking her feet.

Then, she
did
hear footsteps. Her door opened. It was Rosaline. Carmella and Genevieve were standing off to the side.

“Awen, come downstairs with us. I feel I should inform you all of this new situation, and of the rules at the Beaufort School.” She smiled proudly, waiting for Awen to exit her room before continuing down the hall.

Rosaline led the girls to the small, dark dining room on the first floor. The room had a large, doorless entryway and no windows, and it contained just two round wooden tables. Rosaline lit a candle in the center of one of them.

“Sit.” She gestured toward the table but remained standing herself. “Mr. Berwick and Miss Tori are organizing their offices at the moment,” she began. “Anyway, if you have not yet all deduced, you are at a
new
school for the muses, of which I am the mistress. In the Beaufort School for the Muses, I have created a rival to Crickhowell, which, as you know, is run by Miss Nina. I selected the three of you,” she gestured, “as the first students for
my
school.” She leaned toward them and added in a whisper, “You should be very excited.”

Awen pursed her lips.

“Sooo,” she said with a clap, “that is that. You can go outside if you wish, as there is really no running away from this town, and the people here know not to assist you, were you to try. Tori will continue to teach you girls harp,” she pointed at Carmella and Genevieve, “and Awen will receive vocal lessons from Mr. Berwick until I find you a new patron. Lessons and practicing start tomorrow. And there will be dinner in here tonight at seven.” She turned and left the room.

Awen stared opened-mouthed after Rosaline. A nauseous sensation rumbled in her stomach; fearing she might vomit, Awen closed her mouth and leaned forward across the table, resting her forehead on the backs of her hands.

Awen heard Carmella’s voice: “Are you all right?”

Awen knew she could not possibly have a lesson with Mr. Berwick. She had to get out of it, somehow: be sick, hide, escape during the night. She could not stand his leathery face and purple scar, his disgusting yellow teeth. And the way he looked at her, the way he watched her from the corner of his eye, winking. She shivered and pressed her head harder into her hands.

“Are you all right?” Carmella asked again.

Awen lifted her head slowly, just barely able to shake it to one side.

“Do you want us to take you up to your room?”

Awen turned her head to the other side.

“Are you sure?”

The nausea was beginning to subside; still, Awen did not bother with a second response.

“Well, all right…feel better then.”

Awen rested her forehead back down on her hands, the sick feeling almost gone. She heard the two chairs scrape against the floor as Genevieve and Carmella rose from the table. They walked quietly from the room.

Awen lifted her head once they were gone.

The castle seemed to be under a cloud of stillness, the only sound the ticking of a clock. Awen surveyed the room in one sweep but found no clock on the wall. She stood abruptly, her chair squeaking behind her. She froze.

Awen quieted her breathing, listening for any noise upstairs, or in the hallway:

Silence.

She tiptoed out of the room, the soles of her feet cold on the stone floor. Awen hesitated at the staircase; after a moment, she turned away to walk down the first-floor hallway. She paused after every step, the ticking of the unseen clock growing louder as she progressed down the hall.

Awen stopped when she reached the first door on the left, halfway down the corridor. She put her ear to it and waited.

Nothing. Just the sound of her own breathing.

Awen took in a nervous gulp of air and tiptoed to the next door, on the right. This one, she noticed, had a round brass knocker. She pressed her ear to this door, too, careful not to put any weight against it. At first, there was nothing but a ticking sound—she wondered if it was the clock she had heard in the dining room, but she did not think the sound could travel that far. She was about to pull away and head toward the next door when a hollow, metallic clang came from inside the room. Awen started, bumping her head against the door. More clangs followed. Pressing a hand against her temple, she pulled away to lean against the wall. The murmuring of voices from within the room coaxed her back:

“Ah, yes, it is time for…”

“Let me just finish…”

Awen could only presume the sound she had heard was that of a clock, calling out some time of day. How many clangs had there been? She supposed it did not really matter.

“I dare say we should head to…” The rest of the sentence vanished behind the door. Awen heard footsteps and more talking, but this time she could not make out a single word. She pressed her ear harder into the door, hoping to catch a bit more, but instead she heard a squeak close to her ear—a twisting doorknob—and the door moved away from her, opening from the inside.

Awen sprang away, toward the third and final door, willing it to be unlocked. She heard the voices growing louder behind her, but she did not bother to turn. She leapt with her right hand outstretched and, in one swift move, turned the knob and pushed the door open. She whirled around immediately and pushed the door silently shut. She leaned against it, gasping for breath, and folded her arms. She closed her eyes. Awen listened as the two women—she knew it was Rosaline and Tori—passed down the hallway, away from her. Their footsteps, sharp and quick, rang in the reverberant hall for seconds; for the first time, Awen was glad
she
wore no shoes. The unmistakable sound of a heavy door swinging open—the front entrance—filtered in from the far end of the hall. It clanged shut.

Eyes still closed, Awen exhaled at last.

“Not gettin’ yourself into too much trouble now, are ya?”

Awen’s body tensed. She knew who owned that voice. She did not need to open her eyes to check.

“Sounds to me like you were runnin’ away from somethin’. Careful, now—don’t wanna fall on this stone floor. It’d mess up yer pretty face.” Awen heard the sound of Mr. Berwick’s leather boots approaching. Then, he stopped. She thought she could hear him breathing, feel his presence just above. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids would not pull back.

“So…what
are
ya doin’?” He shuffled a foot against the floor. “If ya don’t mind my askin’, that is.” He chuckled.

Awen took a deep breath, opening one eye at a time. Her line of vision was directed toward Mr. Berwick’s chest. She tilted her head slowly upward, dreading the sight of his leathery face and yellow teeth. The purple scar almost made her gag, but he did not seem to notice.

“What now, don’t ya speak ever?”

Awen wondered what her chances of escape were. She was standing closer to the door—against it, actually—and all it would take would be a sly slip of the hand to the knob, a slow turn…but the door opened inward, and surely he would grab her…and even if she made it out, there was no guarantee he would not follow her, and her room had no lock from the inside…and if she ran outside, where would she go…?

“What’re ya thinkin’ about, eh?” Mr. Berwick’s lips pulled back into a grin, showing off his disgusting teeth. “So, I’m to be yer voice teacher here, eh? Wha’dya think about that? I don’t actually sing, ya see—I did cleanin’ back at Crickhowell before I got kicked out.…” His eyes shifted sideways, as if he were recalling the event. “But not ever’body knows that. Rosaline, for one, thinks I was a voice teacher. Hah!” he chortled, eyes shining. “I don’t even look like a voice teacher!” He let out a whoop of laughter. “But I know how to play’t real smooth, make ’em believe whatever I want.”

Awen gasped for air, unaware that she had been holding her breath. She had risen to her tiptoes and pinned herself against the door. Mr. Berwick saw the tension in her face; he leaned in closer, ever closer, placing his hands against the door, above her head. His breath reeked of tobacco and the brown fizzy liquid she had drunk at the Pickwick Inn.

“So…since I don’t teach voice, what would ya like to do instead? We do have
daily
lessons planned, after all.” He leered at her.

Awen scrunched her nose, trying not to breathe in the vileness.

“Gotta do somethin’ with that time, don’t want Rosaline to
suspect
nothin’, eh?” He scrunched his forehead in concentration. “But, if ya don’t ever talk anyway…” The right side of his mouth curved upward. “Yeah,” he nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Almost involuntarily, Awen’s arm began to slide upward. Without so much as a shifting of her eyes, she reached toward the doorknob and wrapped a hand around the cold brass.

“Well, as you know,” he grunted, eyes fixed on hers, “yer first lesson is planned for tomorrow, and it’s for an hour. Though, I s’ppose we could take more time if ya wanted to.” He winked. “So now, ya better get thinkin’, or else I’ll come up with somethin’ to do.” Suddenly, he removed his hands from the door and turned around. He took three steps away from Awen, who remained as she was, back against the door, hand gripping the knob. If he turned around again from this distance, Awen knew she would be seen. If she acted quickly though, quietly, by the time he noticed her absence she might be able to get far enough through the castle that he could not find her.…

“Hmm, I have somethin’ for ya. Let’s see if I can find it.” He walked another few paces away, leather boots scraping the stone floor.

Awen’s wrist turned, twisting the knob just a fraction. She left it there.

“A
jewel
I acquired on the road. I got it by…hah! Don’t matter how I got it,” he snorted.

She twisted the knob again, farther this time.

“I think it’d look real pretty on ya.” He rummaged through some shelves or a box or a desk—Awen could not tell. She focused only on his back. “Hmm, where is’t?”

An organized plan of escape from the suffocation of the room did not matter anymore. Awen just wanted out—if only for three seconds before getting snagged and dragged back in. She completed the turn of the knob and whipped the door open.

“Wha?” She heard Mr. Berwick’s puzzled inquiry from behind but, flinging herself forward, did not turn to look. She threw her left foot forward, barely letting it touch the floor before pushing off again, both feet in mid-air, ready to land on her right and start the process over until she reached…

Something grabbed her left arm. Before she could react, Awen’s legs crumpled beneath her, and she fell forward in a heap on the stone floor.

“Aha! I see ya don’ talk, but ya do escape!” Mr. Berwick dragged Awen, still on the floor, back to the room. She had run no farther than three feet. “Thought you could run faster than me?” he sneered, closing the door hard. This time, he leaned back against it. “I ain’t such an old man. Naw, I ain’t so slow.”

Awen stood up slowly. She fiddled with a loose thread on her dress—now more yellow than cream-colored. Regret washed over her. She wondered if her failed escape had been a silly idea; maybe he would have let her go sooner had she just stayed. Now, she was surely stuck in the little room until whenever Mr. Berwick might have to leave—dinner-time, maybe. Awen risked a quick glance at Mr. Berwick, and for that split second, she had the strange, unbidden thought that he looked just as trapped and directionless as she felt.

In the distance, a door creaked, then thudded shut. Female voices.

Rosaline and Tori.

Mr. Berwick jumped away from the door. “Back already?” he mumbled. “That was real quick.” He scrunched his eyebrows together, standing still for a moment—then swung the door open. “Well, see you at dinner, then,” he said with a wink, and waved Awen out.