Academy of Magic Collection

by Angelique S Anderson et al.

  “Yes, of course, right this way …” Butler’s reply is practically a whimper. A timid, shaky tone.

  “And what of the other matter we discussed—the one regarding the boy?” the man asks as he steps forward, standing on the threshold of the entryway. “Has he responded yet?”

  “No, sir, I’m afraid not …”

  I try to stretch myself just a little taller and lean in a bit closer. I know what to do now. If I could just get a better view of the man in the suit before he disappears into the building, I can inspire him to give the violin back to the musician down the street. There’s no promise that I’ll do any better with him than Kash did, but it’s worth a shot.

  “You will keep trying, then, Butler. The boy is essential to my plan.”

  Just a bit more …

  “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

  Come on …

  “And destroy this violin while you’re at it. I expect it to be a pile of matchsticks by morning.”

  “Yes, sir—right away.”

  But the second I lift my wrist and my palm begins to tingle with its familiar warmth, the man in the suit steps inside. Out of sight, and certainly out of my range of inspiration. The door squeals on its hinges again, then bangs against the frame, this time slamming closed with a thud of finality.

  I failed.

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen. I meant for him to give money, not steal the violin,” Kash tells me as we walk back to the academy. Disappointment weighs down her voice like an anchor, dragging her to the depths of some sea. “I mean, I know you’re way better at inspiring actions than me, but I still thought I could manage.”

  “You can, Kash,” I assure her. “We’re all good at different things, and we knew he’d be tough from the start.”

  She sighs and reaches over to push the button on the pedestrian signal at the corner. “I guess … I’ve just never seen anyone react that way to being inspired, have you?”

  Her eyes are so hurt and hopeful that even if I had seen a Mundane resist inspiration like that before, I’d lie to spare her feelings. Fortunately, I don’t have to.

  “Never,” I say, shaking my head. “He basically did the opposite of what you tried to get him to do. He’s either an extremely powerful Muse—or the most dreadful Mundane ever.”

  “It’s hard to think he could possibly have been a Muse,” she says, scoffing, her eyes wide with judgment and horror. “Not after seeing the way he treated that violinist.”

  The streetlight turns color and beeps, and across the road on the accompanying signal, a neon countdown begins. Ten seconds to cross the street … Nine … Eight …

  We step off the sidewalk with the rest of the crowd.

  “What were you going to do if you caught up with him, anyway?” Kash asks.

  I shrug. “Try to make him give the violin back.”

  She shakes her head disapprovingly but grins anyway. My recklessness bothers her, but she puts up with it. By now, she’s learned it comes with the territory of being my best friend.

  “One of these days, Bianca …” she mutters.

  Chapter Two

  “You’re late, Bianca. Again.” Despite the eyebrows raised in warning, Ms. Dashwood’s voice is soft and harmonic. Hardly threatening. It reminds me more of my grandmother’s pet songbirds, serenading one another in her aviary.

  “Sorry,” I mouth, closing the door behind me.

  I begin to make my way across the room toward my assigned chaise. Tiny steps are all I ever seem to manage in heels this high, so it’s a longer, more labored affair than I’d prefer—one made even harder by the layers upon layers of taffeta swishing around my ankles. And although Ms. Dashwood’s sing-song voice and petite frame may not be intimidating, it is menacing to have my every move followed by twenty-five pairs of disapproving eyes—all my peers, girls who radiate more poise and charm in a single blink of their lashes than I do in my entire body. My cheeks grow hot under their glares, and I look down at the garnet-colored carpet. I’m not sure what’s more red right now: the floor or my face.

  “Ow—watch it, Bee!”

  Juliette Atwell stifles her howl and reaches down to massage the toe I just stepped on, lifting it out of her jewel-encrusted stiletto.

  “Sorry,” I say again as I shuffle past.

  Another downside of these ornate ballgowns: it’s just as hard to see everyone else’s feet as it is my own. The hazards of being a Muse.

  I lift my skirts even higher now, above my ankles—which Ms. Dashwood would certainly disapprove of if she could see through all the satin and organza stretching from here to the front of the room, where she stands. But at least I can see better. Finally, I make my way to the end of my row and half-trip over the hem of Melody Dillard’s gown into my chaise.

  “Graceful,” says a deep voice behind me.

  A boy’s voice.

  Except there are no boys enrolled in Brightling Academy’s Muse program. Boys are rarely Muses.

  Startled, I look over my shoulder. I don’t know whether to stare or to scowl as I gape at the face gazing back at me. A stone-sharp square jaw. Eyes as bright and frothy as seafoam. And dark hair—trimmed neatly along the edges but overgrown and tousled on top. Perfect and imperfect at the same time. He sits on a chaise of his own—one that’s slightly crooked, like it’s been hastily added to the end of the last row in the back of the room, directly behind me. He’s a student, I realize. Just like I am.

  Correction: there used to be no boys enrolled in Brightling Academy’s Muse program.

  My hands still their work of straightening my dress over my calf. I think I’m hallucinating. I may as well be staring at a pink unicorn or a two-headed dragon, which—despite Aurelia Ketterling’s often-discussed beliefs—do not, in fact, exist. But then the boy blinks, and a half-smile curls the left side of his mouth. And I know that he’s real.

  “Miss Harper and Mr. Greenbriar,” Ms. Dashwood chirps, “eyes forward, please. This is a class in poise, not flirting.”

  I whip my head back around again and feel my cheeks burn with a new shade of scarlet. “We’re not flirting!” I burst. Quite the opposite. At least where I’m concerned, anyway. The words come out louder and more defensive than I intended, though, and a couple of girls giggle around me.

  “That’s enough, ladies,” Ms. Dashwood says. She claps her hands rapidly in an attempt to restore order to the room. Then, abandoning her critique of Bernadette Norcott’s posture entirely, she sets her sights on me once more. “Miss Harper, outbursts like that are hardly acceptable behavior for a Muse. A Muse is graceful and calm, and she exhibits refined manners.”

  “She or he, apparently,” I mutter under my breath, thinking of the boy behind me, as I resume straightening my gown.

  “What was that, Miss Harper?”

  There goes Ms. Dashwood’s eyebrow again. I wonder if she’s aware that doing so makes her look more like a bird-of-paradise displaying its feathers than an authoritative professor.

  “Nothing,” I say quickly.

  Shaking her head, Ms. Dashwood sighs. Her pursed lips jut out like a beak. How appropriate. But before she can scold me further, a series of chimes twitter over the speaker system. The tightness in my chest eases—I’m saved.

  The only thing better than having no Poise and Charm class is having only five minutes of one.

  There’s a rustling of dresses and chatter as the other girls rise from their chaises. We look like a room full of living doilies and flower blossoms. I expect the others to rush toward the door—that’s what I intend to do, at least—but instead, they move to the back of the room. To the new student. To him.

  Of course, they are. He’s a novelty. A shiny new toy wrapped up in a tuxedo instead of paper. It’s not often we get new students this late in the term—so close to graduation, no less—let alone a new student like him … a him.

  For a moment as I stand by my chaise, I watch the way everyone gathers around him. Fawning and fussing. The Dillard twin
s bat their eyes, and Juliette Atwell’s toe seems miraculously healed by his mere presence.

  “Where are you from, Sebastian? Oh, is it all right if I call you that?”

  “What was it like at your last academy?”

  “Do you like it here so far?”

  “If you need anyone to show you around, I’m free—”

  “Me, too!”

  Their questions fill the air like gnats on a summer evening. So thick that I can’t even see the boy’s face or hear his responses. Maybe Ms. Dashwood should inform these girls that drooling over and throwing oneself at boys is also unbecoming of a Muse.

  At least my path to the doorway is clear. No hems or toes to step on between me and freedom for the rest of the night. I gather up my skirts and hurry toward the door, already thinking about how I’ll meet up with Kash for dinner later, then head to the library to start a reading assignment for my Conversational Arts class. Maybe after that I’ll take a long, hot bath and try to steam away my memory of following the man with the green handkerchief earlier.

  But first thing’s first: I have to get out of this dress.

  “Bianca Harper, please report to the headmistress. Bianca Harper, please report to the headmistress.”

  Just as I reach the stairs to the elevator and dormitory levels above, a voice on the speaker system calls me right back down again. Ugh. I relinquish my grip on the ornate marble finial at the head of the staircase, and my shoulders sag. Not just because I’m stuck in this ridiculous dress and shoes even longer—but because I have a sick feeling that I know what this is about.

  A very sick feeling.

  Headmistress Fothergill has always reminded me of an old-fashioned pinup model. She’s curvy, with a round face and curled, bleached-blond hair that Marilyn Monroe would envy. As she shuts the door behind me and saunters back to her desk, she motions for me to sit down. I drop into my seat, and she stares at me a moment over the rim of her cat glasses, her lips pursed.

  “I suppose you know why you’re here, Bianca?” she asks. Her voice even has a throaty, breathy quality to it, like she’s trying to perpetually blow out a candle.

  “Not really, no,” I lie.

  Sighing, she lowers herself to sit, smoothing her sheath dress over her hips as she perches at the edge of her chair. “Ms. Dashwood tells me you were late for class today,” she says.

  Exactly what I thought. Add this to the list of reasons why I hate Poise and Charm: Ms. Dashwood is a snitch. This may even rank above the itchy dresses, scary shoes, and uncomfortable positions we have to practice in class. Still, I try to act normal. Natural. Unphased.

  “Was I?” I ask, batting my eyes in what I hope is a good imitation of innocence. If I’ve learned anything about charm, now is the time to use it.

  “She assures me you were,” Headmistress Fothergill continues. “Extremely late, in fact. And it’s far from the first time, I understand.”

  Ugh. Maybe I haven’t learned quite as much after all.

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Suddenly, I feel much more exposed in my thin-strapped ballgown than I care to be. “Well, Kash—I mean, Kassia Beckett—and I were out on a homework assignment for our Inspiration Practicum. I guess we got a little carried away and lost track of time.”

  Headmistress Fothergill isn’t impressed with my excuse, though. She shakes her head, but even as she scolds me, she seems more sad than angry. “I’m afraid Ms. Dashwood has serious doubts about your ability to pass Poise and Charm this semester, Bianca. She feels you don’t take it seriously and intends to fail you.”

  A wave of heat rolls over me, and my insides writhe like snakes in a box, turning and twisting over on one another. “Fail … me?”

  I must’ve heard wrong. Poise and Charm is a fluff class. Failing it would be like failing lunch break or study hall. I’d probably be the first student in Brightling history to manage this feat. Plus, the shock of it would likely kill my grandmother—one of the academy’s former headmistresses.

  But the headmistress nods. “Poise and Charm is a required course to graduate, Bianca. While you may not see its value, it is just as essential to the Muse’s toolkit as your other courses. You never know when you may find yourself at a gala or art show opening—perhaps even one attended by high society, world leaders, or royalty. It is essential you learn to conduct yourself appropriately so you can fit in seamlessly.”

  I could take this opportunity to remind her that creating beauty isn’t exclusive to those already successful and famous. I’m far more likely to be assigned to inspire a struggling artist living in an apartment the size of a tent than I am one already featured in galleries or textbooks. But by the way she continues to squint at me, I have a feeling it would be prudent not to bring this up just now.

  “It just seems so worthless,” I say instead. “What does a Muse need to know about wearing flouncy dresses and holding her head just so?” For emphasis, I pause to contort my neck and twist my chin in exactly the sadistic, spine-crunching position Ms. Dashwood taught us last week … And I promptly gasp and bring my hand to my shoulder as I pull a muscle in the process.

  Headmistress Fothergill sighs. “Believe it or not, I’m encouraged that you’re at least familiar with the Portrait Poses, even if you don’t care to use them.” She pauses, then takes off her glasses and rubs at the inner corners of her eyes. “Unfortunately, that alone is not enough for you to pass Poise and Charm, Bianca.”

  I look down at my hands in my lap. My gnawed-down fingernails against the elegance of my gown seem the embodiment of the exact problem at hand.

  “Your other teachers report that you’re excelling in your studies,” the headmistress continues to lecture. “High marks in Exotic Languages, Studio Arts, and Conversational Arts. And I hear from Ms. Applegate that you’re at the top of your Inspiration Practicum class. You are a bright young lady, Bianca, and your future is promising. I can see you having a great deal of influence over some of the greatest artists and intellectuals of our age. Maybe you could even make the Board. But you must pass Poise and Charm first. Without it, you put your diploma—not to mention your future—in jeopardy.”

  I may not be filled with poise or charm, but at least I can recognize defeat when I see it. My spine practically gives out, and I slump in my seat. A decidedly un-Muse-like pose. I’m sure Ms. Dashwood would be thumping her knuckles against the back of my chair and scolding me on posture if she was here right now.

  “All right. What do I have to do not to fail?” I begrudgingly ask.

  “Well, to begin with, you can show up for class—and do so on time,” Headmistress Fothergill tells me as she puts her glasses back on. “And while you’re in class, I expect you to engage with the lessons and your peers. We also have a new addition to the academy, as I’m sure you’re aware—a young man named Sebastian Greenbriar. As a way to make up for your absences from class, I’d like for you take him under your wing a bit—help him to catch up on his studies so he can graduate with the rest.”

  No matter how hard I try to stop it, my nose crinkles with distaste, like I’ve just opened a bottle of vinegar. Any number of other girls in our class would not only do better—but also enjoy—this task far more than I ever could. “You mean, like extra credit?”

  The headmistress is thoughtful a moment, considering. “If it’s easier for you to think of it that way, then yes.”

  My eyes roam the room, and I nibble on my fingernails as I mull over the request. I can still hear the sarcasm in Sebastian’s voice as he mocked me. Graceful, he’d said. As if I wasn’t already mortified enough. It’ll take a lot more than well-chiseled features, broad shoulders, and oceanic eyes for me to forgive him for his rudeness.

  But maybe that’s part of the point. If our short time together earlier today is any indication, Sebastian may be the one student in Poise and Charm who’s less of a delight than I am. We’re two hopeless cases reliant on one another for survival. This sounds like a recipe for disaster … or a perverse socia
l experiment orchestrated by the faculty. Either way, I have to swallow my pride if I’m going to graduate.

  “If I do this, you won’t tell my parents or grandma about my grade in Poise and Charm?” I ask.

  Visions of how my mom will sigh and my dad will lecture play through my mind. What I really can’t stand, though, is picturing how my grandma—with her tiny, frail figure—will react. She won’t yell. She won’t scold. She won’t even bat an eye. She’ll just stare at the gold-framed painting of Brightling Academy that hangs on the wall in her library, and I’ll know enough from the quiet, sad look on her face that she’s disappointed. Profoundly, irrevocably disappointed.

  “No, Bianca,” Headmistress Fothergill says, sighing again. “As long as you uphold your end of the bargain and pass, I won’t tell them. Your grandmother was my mentor. I don’t want to upset her any more than you do.”

  I nod. “Okay, then. I’ll do it. I’ll go to class, I’ll do the assignments, and I’ll tutor Sebastian Greenbriar—or whatever it is you want to call it.”

  Starting tomorrow, I add silently in my head.

  Chapter Three

  “Evangelina—oh, good, you’re here—”

  Ms. Westbrook, one of the Exotic Languages teachers, nearly knocks me over as I open the door to leave Headmistress Fothergill’s office. She stops short, her face falling when she sees it’s just me in the doorway, but she’s not quite quick enough. Her attempt at forced entry leaves me little room to maneuver, and I slam my elbow against the doorframe. A quick reminder that there’s nothing humorous about a blow to the funny bone.

  “Oh, Bianca, it’s only you,” Ms. Westbrook says, as though seeing me is a supreme disappointment. Like I’m leftover meatloaf on her dinner tray.