“I was just leaving—” I start to say as I rub away the tingling in my arm.
She’s already looking past me, though, toward the headmistress. She reminds me of the maracas in the music room: her large, round body balanced atop oddly slender legs. Her hands perpetually shaking and moving with nervous energy, just like they’re doing right now.
“It’s all right, Gloria,” Headmistress Fothergill tells her, standing up again behind her desk and waving her in.
Ms. Westbrook nods, and her hand-wringing subsides—just a little—as she enters the room. “It’s about the matter we discussed earlier.” She gives me a sideways glance, carefully selecting her words in my presence. “I’m afraid there’s been a development.”
The headmistress frowns. A deeper, more serious kind of scowl than she gave me a few minutes ago when she told me I might fail Poise and Charm. It makes her lips even more pouty than usual. “Yes, of course, come right in, then.”
I slip away while they start talking, closing the door behind me. Grateful to be forgotten. Gone, before Headmistress Fothergill can change her mind about giving me a second chance to graduate … or telling my parents.
A moment later, I find Kash waiting for me in the hallway around the corner from Headmistress Fothergill’s office. She stands by the community bulletin board, rereading the same notices that have been there for weeks.
Seniors: Cap and Gown Fittings, May 10, Harper Auditorium.
Exotic Languages Tutoring Now Available! See Ms. Westbrook for Details.
Spring Music and Dance Recital, May 25.
“Bee! Are you okay?” she gasps when she sees me weaving through the wall of chattering girls between us. “I was worried when I heard your name announced on the speaker. You didn’t get in trouble for being late to Poise and Charm, did you?”
She’s doing it again: bouncing. Her curls dance like silken springs against her shoulders as she bobs subtly up and down. Part of me wonders if she and Ms. Westbrook, both with their nervous twitches, might be distantly related.
“Yeah, I did, actually,” I sigh as we start toward the stairs.
Kash’s eyes widen. “It’s my fault—I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t taken so long to find a subject for Inspiration Practicum—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt, shaking my head and forcing a smile. “You’re not the one who stole from a street musician or decided to chase the thief down after. Besides, it’ll be okay. I have an extra credit assignment.”
“What kind of extra credit?” Kash asks.
We push through the cluster of girls still standing outside the Poise and Charm classroom. There are so many of them, still dressed in their gowns, that they partially block the stairs leading to the dormitories above. I can guess what—or who—they’re still crowded around. It must be none other than Sebastian Greenbriar.
But then I feel the warmth of a hand on my back, lightly brushing against the top of my dress, where satin meets skin. I whirl around to see a pair of bright, sea-swept eyes and a tangle of dark hair, like he just washed up on the sand. Sebastian isn’t submerged in the cluster of fawning girls after all. He’s headed toward the safety of the steps, just like me.
“What’re you—” I start to gasp.
He’s already moving past me, though. “See you tomorrow,” he whispers in my ear as he walks by. “We can spend more time not-flirting then.”
My cheeks burn, and I scowl as I watch him start up the stairs. He takes something small from his pocket as he walks—a butterscotch candy, I think—and pops it in his mouth, crinkling the wrapper in his palm. A strange action made even stranger by the coolness with which he does it. He doesn’t look back at me. There’s no waiting for my reaction, to hear what I have to say. It’s like he already knows. He’s probably got a smirk on his face this very instant, guessing how he’s made me blush. I bet he likes it. He probably finds power in it. Well, I won’t give him the satisfaction. Quickly, I turn away. I won’t follow him up the stairs. I won’t let him see me like this.
“Wait … who was that?”
Kash’s voice brings me back to reality. She must not have heard yet. Brightling Academy—although technically not a girls-only school—just went coed.
“My extra credit assignment,” I grumble.
I see the questions forming on Kash’s face. Shock in her eyes. Disbelief in the paleness of her cheeks. Bewilderment in the sag of her chin. But I don’t have the strength to clarify. Plus, there’s no time to. Harmony Dillard’s voice cuts through the air. A gasp—no, make that a shriek.
“Oh, noooooo,” she wails melodramatically.
Kash and I glance over to see her in the epicenter of the crowd beside us, her hand draped over her brow like an overacting soap opera star.
“Harrison was supposed to take me to the museum this weekend to see that exhibit!” she moans. “It’s our three-month anniversary, and he promised.”
She turns, lips pouting, to look at her twin. A mirror’s reflection of her own oval face and sleek, auburn hair. After almost four years of studying with them at Brightling, I still have a hard time telling them apart. If it weren’t for the freckle on Melody’s cheek—high on the right, beneath her eye, like a star without a constellation—I don’t think I’d succeed at all. Some of the teachers still get it wrong. It’s a fact the twins have used to their advantage occasionally when one hasn’t studied enough and needs the other to stand in for her on a test.
“It’s all right, Harmony,” Melody coos sympathetically, patting her sister on the arm. “Maybe they’ll catch the thief by the weekend—this could all be behind us by then. And if it’s not, I’m sure Harrison will have something else just as amazing planned for you.”
“But why—and how—would someone do it?” Ellabelle Cranshaw chimes in.
Ellabelle’s brow wrinkles as she stares at the screen in Georgiana Sutton’s hand. Stepping closer, I see that it’s Georgiana’s cell phone that the group is clustered around—not the Dillard twins. They’re reading something. News, maybe. And I have a feeling that whatever they’ve learned is much more serious than a spoiled, teenaged Muse not getting to see an exhibit at a museum with her latest boyfriend.
“And who would do such a thing to begin with?!” Ellabelle continues to sputter.
“What happened?” I ask.
A dozen eyes turn toward me—even Harmony glances up after she wipes away a forced tear from the corner of her eye.
“Someone’s stolen the Laffitte painting from the Museum of Fine Arts,” Georgiana tells me. Her eyes are wide and heavy with the threat of an impending monsoon of tears, and her tone is grave. Someone may as well have died.
And I understand why. As the Americas once were to explorers—as the Egyptian pyramids once were to archaeologists—and as the findings of Pythagoras once were to mathematicians, so is the Laffitte to artists. To Muses. To us. We’ve been hearing about the Laffitte for months now. The rarely displayed masterpiece is on tour—its first time in the country, let alone New York. Not since the Mona Lisa has a woman’s portrait caused such a fuss. Tickets to the museum have been sold out for weeks because of the exhibit. Even a socialite like Harrison Johnson-Jones would have had a hard time securing them. Harmony Dillard may be acting like a two-year-old in need of a nap, but at the same time, she’s not completely out of line.
“The Laffitte …” I find myself repeating dazedly. The syllables hang heavy on my tongue, hard to get out, like taffy stuck to my teeth.
Georgiana nods, and her slim fingers tremble as she swipes up on the screen of her phone, scrolling down to more text. “‘Police suspect the robbery took place sometime in the early morning hours, between two and three o’clock,’” she reads to the group. “‘Detectives are still investigating how security at the museum may have been breached. No witnesses have stepped forward to offer any clues.’”
“Read Bianca that part about it being the ‘crime of the millennium,’” Aurelia Ketterling mutters darkly. Her eyes are a pai
r of brown moons. Their glistening expanse compared to her tiny cheekbones only emphasizes her gaunt, perpetually terrified look.
Georgiana opens her mouth to follow Aurelia’s instruction, but before she gets the chance, Harmony snatches the phone out of her hand.
“You already spoiled that part of the news, Aurelia,” she snaps as she resumes paging through the article. “Let’s move on to something we don’t already know—like when the exhibit will open again.”
Aurelia cowers, her petite frame made smaller and meeker by her sagging shoulders. I smile at her sympathetically, hoping it’ll lessen Harmony’s harshness. She blinks wordlessly back at me but stands a little straighter, and a grateful grin tugs at the corners of her mouth.
“Ugh!” Harmony rolls her eyes, and her whole face tremors with anger. “This says the whole museum’s closed until further notice. They can’t risk more thefts until they figure out what went wrong with security around the Laffitte.”
She shoves the phone back at Georgiana with a mix of hostility and accusation, as if the robbery and closure of the museum is entirely her fault. “My six-week anniversary with Harrison is ruined now—ruined!”
Hands on her hips and Melody trailing at her heels, she turns sharply and starts stomping up the stairs toward the dormitories. She almost trips over the hem of her gown after the second step. Under other circumstances, it may have been almost funny: Harmony Dillard—Miss Perfect—failing to pull off a flawlessly executed tantrum. But not today. Today, none of us are laughing.
Every Muse has a specialty. When we graduate Brightling Academy—only a few weeks from now—and go out into the world to fulfill our assignments from the Board, we pledge allegiance to one of the original Muses. Our ancestors. The nine legendary sisters, each gifted with the power to inspire, their energy drawn from the epic force we call the Well of Imagination. Dance and music, comedy and tragedy—subjects that just scratch the surface of what we’re capable of inspiring. At the graduation ceremony, we will stand before our closest friends and family on stage in the school’s auditorium and select the symbol of the Muse whose realm we vow to embody in art, word, and deed for the rest of our lives. Afterward, Headmistress Fothergill will register our selections with the Board, and then we begin fulfilling our ancient mission: to bring beauty to the world.
Nine Muses. Nine paths. Nine Board members. Infinite possibilities.
If I had to guess, I’d say Harmony Dillard will pledge herself to Erato, the Muse of romantic arts. Her trail of relationships, tendency toward melodrama, and the way she’s passionate about everything are all signs of her predisposition to the fire and thirst that comes with being Erato’s disciple. Meanwhile, her twin, Melody, has the voice of an angel—as I’m sure their parents hoped when picking out her name. She’ll choose Euterpe for sure. Kash is also obvious. She’ll pledge to Terpsichore, the Muse of dance. She moves like a dove across the studio floor in Brightling’s lower levels—all her nervous bouncing simply melts away.
As for me, I’m too practical for romance; I sing like a dying crow, and I’m about as graceful as a newborn horse learning to stand. That’s all okay, though. I’m going to pledge myself to Clio. The great historian. The proclaimer of all who’ve done good deeds. Harper-related women have been disciples of Clio for generations. Carrying on their legacy is what’s expected of me. I’m the last of our line. I have to … Plus, I won’t need sonnets or ballet shoes to fulfill my assignments from the Board of Nine. Which is a good thing—and probably the only thing in the world that Ms. Dashwood and I can agree on. I’ll only need ideas. And action. And noble intentions.
I try to remind myself of this as I show Sebastian to his Performing Arts class the next morning. We wind our way through the halls on the floor beneath the academic classrooms. The gray stone archways are dotted with girls in azure and gold plaid uniforms, each with gaping stares. Some haven’t heard about Sebastian’s arrival yet, and those who have are wondering why they weren’t picked to show him around.
“Ladies,” Sebastian nods, grinning, as we pass. His chest swells beneath the laurel-crested badge on his blazer. The one that marks him as one of us. “Hi, hello …”
I roll my eyes. “You must be used to getting all this attention at your last academy, too.”
He shrugs and straightens the strap of his messenger bag across his chest. “Not really, no. Why would I?”
I pause and stare at him, an eyebrow raised. “Wasn’t your old school mostly girls, too?”
Color rises in his cheeks, and he looks down quickly as if to hide it. “Oh … yeah … I guess.”
Sebastian clears his throat as we begin walking forward again. His chest seems rather deflated, I notice, and he doesn’t greet anyone else as we pass. Whatever I said bothered him. Maybe I meant it to. But I’m not quite sure why.
“Were you the only male Muse there, too?” I ask, trying to draw him out again. Trying to normalize our conversation.
He doesn’t look up. “I was,” he says. “The thing is, I think I was there so long that I wasn’t different to them. I was just regular, old Sebastian. Like a brother or best friend. No one special.”
So that’s what this is about. He has Bridesmaid Syndrome: always a bridesmaid, never a bride—but in his case, always the brother-figure, never the boyfriend. What I’ve taken for arrogance is simply surprise. Feeling flattered. Being overwhelmed. I get it. Maybe he’s not as much of a self-absorbed heartbreaker as I thought.
Still, as we round the corner by the dance studio, I take odd delight in pulling a pair of tap shoes out of my own bag and thrusting them into his grasp.
“Headmistress Fothergill asked me to give you these,” I tell him.
For a moment, Sebastian stares down at the shiny leather and cold, metal soles of his new footwear. His sea-green eyes froth with panic as he turns them over in his hands, searching for words. “You mean … I have to … wear these?” he chokes.
A smug grin threatens to curl my lips, but I try to restrain myself. “They should be your size—the headmistress said she has all your measurements in your file.”
“And I have to …?” He’s drowning in his own ocean of disbelief, humbled by the horrors and humiliation he seems to already sense the next hour has in store for him.
I shrug innocently, enjoying his discomfort a little too much. Maybe Headmistress Fothergill knew I would. Maybe she knew this would even the playing field a bit after how he embarrassed me in Poise and Charm yesterday.
“Tap dance was the only Performing Arts class with space in it still,” I tell him. It’s what the headmistress told me this morning when handing me a copy of his schedule and the shoes, after all.
Frowning, he glances over his shoulder into the room where the other students are already assembling. Some sit on the ground, tying the laces on their own tap shoes. Others are stretching. And an eager handful are getting a jump start on the day’s lesson by practicing moves: a loud, fast spin of their limbs that reminds me of a human windmill. A wing step. That’s what Kash called it, I think, when she took this course.
“You’re in this class, too, right?” Sebastian asks as he looks back at me.
I can’t hide my amusement anymore. I shake my head, barely able to suppress my giggle. “Nope. I quit Performing Arts sophomore year. I have Exotic Languages now.”
The panic in his face intensifies. He gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his tie like an avalanche tumbling toward his rib cage. It leaves behind a surprisingly vulnerable shell of the confident boy who walked down the hall with me just a few minutes ago.
That’s when I realize the truth. He wasn’t counting on this. He doesn’t want me to leave him. He’s been at Brightling Academy for less than twenty-four hours, and whether I like it or not, I’m the one he knows best here. I’m the closest thing he has to a friend.
So I take pity on him. Unfolding the copy of his schedule in my hand, I quickly map out the rest of his day. He’ll have Studio Arts after this—a sculpt
ing course. And after that, we’ll be together again.
“Look, we’re in the same Inspiration Practicum session,” I assure him, pointing to the block of time before lunch. “I’ll meet you after your sculpting class, and we can walk over together, okay?”
Sebastian’s eyes brighten, and his grin returns. A half-smile. Confidence, charm, and a smirk in one. Like he’s cheated and won. Like he’s getting away with something.
As I turn away, I can’t stop myself from wondering if maybe he is.
Chapter Four
“How long do you have to be his personal tour guide?” Kash asks, barely moving her mouth so Ms. Applegate doesn’t notice us talking.
We stand in rows, watching Ms. Applegate’s cautionary demonstration about over-inspiring our subjects at the front of the room. I glance quickly to my left, where Sebastian stands on my other side, hoping he can’t hear her whisper either. If he can, he doesn’t show it; he just watches, transfixed. Mesmerized by the scene before us. So I answer.
“I’m not sure. Until graduation, I suppose—or until I flunk out, whichever happens first,” I mutter back darkly.
“Are you going to all his classes with him?”
I give my head a quick shake. After yesterday’s Poise and Charm class, l’d like to avoid getting in trouble and landing in Headmistress Fothergill’s office again, so I keep my voice low when I reply. “I practically threw his tap shoes at him this morning.”
“He’s taking tap dance?!” A smile cracks across Kash’s face, and she claps her hand to her mouth to stifle her giggle.
I’m not sure if it’s the motion of Kash’s arm rising or the sound of her suppressed, mouse-like squeal that catches Ms. Applegate’s attention more. Either way, our Inspiration Practicum teacher pauses. She lowers her hand, and although I can’t physically see the sparks of influence flowing between her and Ellabelle Cranshaw, I can witness the way Ellabelle’s whole demeanor changes with the motion: the saccharine grin on her mouth fades, her blue eyes seem less misty, and her posture relaxes.
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