The Cassandra Curse

by Chantel Acevedo

  “So that’s how it works,” I interrupted. “I go under the bed at home, and poof, I’m under the Great Bed here?”

  Thalia and Nia grew serious. “But it isn’t a game. You have to focus on your destination. You have to calculate the time difference. We’re only allowed here when the visitors are gone for the day. Or when we’re summoned. You can’t just come whenever. And you can’t leave the museum,” Nia said.

  “There are heaps of rules,” Thalia added.

  Nia thrust out her hand. “Muse of science here. I’m obsessed with NASA’s space program, zombie movies, and make the best grilled cheese sandwiches in Chicago. Basically, I’m the nerd of the group.”

  “We’re all nerds, frankly,” Thalia said.

  “I’m not dreaming, right? This isn’t a dream?” I asked, and the girls shook their heads. It was all feeling more real by the minute. “What about Clio? Is she here?” I asked.

  “She comes in through the library,” Nia said. “Also better than a fireplace.”

  “At least you aren’t Mela,” Thalia said. “Poor thing enters through a supply closet.”

  We heard a clatter, like a million brooms had fallen somewhere.

  “There she is,” Nia and Thalia said at the same time. I followed them through the gift shop and waited underneath a colorful glass sculpture that dangled from the very high ceiling. We were in the center of the museum, surrounded by balconies.

  I assumed the girl that was coming toward us was Mela. She was an Indian girl about my height, and she wore her hair in a long black braid over her shoulder. Headphones dangled around her neck. “Do you know what time it is in New Delhi?” she asked. Her voice was musical, but quiet.

  “Two in the morning,” Nia said without hesitation.

  “Well. Yes,” Mela said a little sadly, as if Nia had ruined something for her. “You are correct.” She reached me and shook my hand. I was struck by her formality, as well as her pajamas, which were hot pink with yellow trim. “Muse of tragedy,” she said, announcing herself.

  “Don’t let her fool you, she can laugh with the best of us,” Thalia said. Mela smiled softly at that.

  “Why has Clio summoned us today? Is it for her?” Mela asked, pointing at me.

  Nia and Thalia both nodded. “We’re the welcoming committee,” Nia said. “This is Callie.”

  Thalia wrapped her arms around her chest, as if she were trying to stop herself from combusting. “When was the last time the Muse Squad had four—four—kids on it? It’s usually all grown-ups all the time. But not this time.” Then she started to sing, “It’s a new dawn! It’s a new day! It’s—”

  “Control yourself, for the love,” Nia said, shaking her head.

  “Muse Squad?” I asked.

  Nia rolled her eyes. “She made it up. Nobody calls us that.”

  “Muse Squad is a brilliant team name,” Thalia said, stamping her foot. I noticed that she was still smiling. It would take a lot to get this girl angry, I thought.

  Mela scowled a little in Thalia’s direction. But then she gently took my hand. “Welcome, Callie, Muse of the epic poem.”

  I must have frowned. It sounded so . . . boring. Muses of science, of comedy, and even of tragedy, seemed infinitely cooler than . . . whatever I was supposed to be.

  Nia and Thalia looked at each other, seeming to communicate without saying a word.

  “You’re more important than you think,” Mela said. “Come on. We’ll let Clio explain it.”

  I let her lead me, followed by the others. Around us, moonlight poured in from windows. We stepped in puddles of light, then slipped back into darkness, back and forth, until we reached Clio’s door.

  Chapter 8

  Bracelets and Brownies

  “So, the V and A?” I asked as we stood before a set of huge wooden doors with the museum’s logo on them.

  “The Victoria and Albert Museum, named after Queen Victoria and her husband, Prince Consort Albert. She adored him, and when he died, she built a huge, and I mean ridiculously huge, golden statue in his honor. It’s in Kensington Park. I’ll show you sometime. But for now,” Thalia said, stopping mid-sentence and knocking on the door twice, “we’ve got work to do.”

  The doors creaked open, revealing a two-story library. On the lower floor were rows of glossy wooden desks, each with two chairs and two green lamps. Arched windows lined one side of the library. Wine-colored books lined the other side. In a distant corner, an iron spiral staircase led to the second floor.

  “Follow me,” Mela said. I noticed she was still wearing fuzzy slippers. They were pink, too, and shaped like kittens.

  I pointed at the slippers and whispered to Nia, “This is the Muse of tragedy?”

  Nia shook her head, then said very quietly, “She loves cats. Me, I’m allergic.”

  We followed Mela up the spiral stairs. At the top was a white door with a brass handle. Again, Thalia knocked. Again, the door swung open on its own. A sweet smell poured from the dark space beyond, almost as if we were going in through the back door of a bakery.

  I remembered that Clio had smelled like brownies at the hospital. I never did get that bite to eat in the Tea Room that Thalia promised.

  “Come in, girls,” a familiar voice called.

  We stepped into a tight hallway, which opened up to the right into an office lit by two stained-glass lamps on either side of a glass-topped desk. Behind the desk was Clio. She didn’t have on doctor’s scrubs anymore, but instead wore a white suit. Her trumpet earrings still dangled from her ears. On her desk were reams of paper, books, half-worn pencils, and a plate topped with, you guessed it, brownies.

  On a mirrored tray was a charm bracelet with only one charm on it—a tiny golden book. It glittered in the office light.

  “A gift,” Clio said, motioning toward it.

  “For me?” The bracelet looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.

  “The book is your symbol,” she said, her fingers twirling one of her trumpet earrings. “And the bracelet is how I call you back to headquarters when I need you. You’ll find it gets quite warm.”

  “Ruddy hot,” Thalia said, showing off a ring with a smiling theater mask on it. Mela held out her left hand. There was the frowning mask on her finger. I noticed that she’d drawn a similar mask on her headphones, one for each ear.

  Nia drew out a long golden necklace from within her hoodie. At the end was a globe. She gave it a spin. “It’s how we knew to come tonight, to welcome you,” she said.

  “Take it,” Clio said, waiting for me to reach out. I pondered the bracelet, the room, and the people in it for a long moment. If this was a dream, then it didn’t matter if I took the bracelet, or tossed it out of a window, or set fire to the library. But if it wasn’t . . .

  “This seems like a . . .” I struggled for the words. “A commitment,” I said at last.

  Clio pushed back her chair, which slid with a swooshing sound. She walked over to a filing cabinet and opened the third door, then she pulled out a plain manila folder, stuffed with paper, which she laid on the desk. Inside was an eight-by-ten photograph of a group of people standing on the steps of a huge building. It was Christmastime in the picture—a tree was lit up in sparkling lights just behind the group in the lobby of the building.

  “This is the V and A just outside,” Clio explained. “Look closely.”

  I lifted the photograph. There, on one end, was Clio. She was wearing an ugly Christmas sweater with an embroidered reindeer hoisting a wineglass in his hoof. I counted eight other women—all grown-ups.

  “Closer,” Clio said.

  “Okay.” I looked at them each carefully. One seemed very old and was sitting in a chair. Her sweater was all sequins, with no particular design on it. Another had a walking cane, which she had decorated with a string of colorful lights. Then I spotted what Clio meant for me to see. I made a little sound—half whimper, half gasp.

  “Muses aren’t inherited roles, and yet here you are.” Clio p
aused, her eyes watering a little. “We miss her, very much.”

  There was Tia Annie, before she got sick. Her hair was long, curly, and a color some people called “dirty blond.” But she didn’t look dirty at all. She had a Santa hat on her head. She was a tiny woman, standing in the center of it all, her hands on the very old woman’s shoulders.

  “You’re related to Annie Martinez?” Nia asked.

  “She’s a legend,” Mela said.

  “So many heroes,” Thalia whispered.

  I put down the photograph. “I don’t understand. Why was Tia Annie here? Does my mom know?”

  Clio settled into her chair and motioned for me to sit, but I shook my head.

  “Nope, not sitting. Just talk. Lay it all out,” I said. I wrapped the cloak tightly around me and fought back tears. I wouldn’t cry here, I wouldn’t.

  The other girls didn’t sit either. Nia slipped her arm through the crook of mine. Thalia and Mela stood close by, too. It felt comforting, as if they were on my side. But a part of me doubted them, doubted everything.

  “Your aunt was the Muse of epic poetry, like you. Don’t scrunch your nose at me, Callie. The Muse of epic poetry is not really about poetry at all. It’s about heroes.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said. Comedy, tragedy, science, and even poetry—these were things I understood, sort of. But heroes? What could I possibly have to do with that?

  Clio went on. “All the epic poems of old tell us the stories of heroes—heroes who lived and fought and, sometimes, saved the world. But heroes haven’t gone extinct. They are among us, and they need their muses. And the Muse of epic poetry is the first muse, the oldest muse, daughter of Zeus, the one who gathered the original nine together, the one who saw a need in the world. And no, your mother does not know. We must keep it that way.”

  “Why?” I asked. I didn’t like keeping secrets from my mom.

  Clio smiled gently. “Annie wanted to tell her too, you know. But eventually she came to understand that concealing our identities is part of the job, that it keeps us and our loved ones safe.”

  Next, Clio pulled a small book out from her desk. She opened it, revealing picture after picture. “Odysseus, Aeneas, Nefertiti, George Washington, Toussaint L’Ouverture, José Martí, Rosa Parks—and these are only the ones you’ve heard of. The muses, all of them, inspired these men and women to reach the heroes within. As the Muse of epic poetry, you’re the most powerful of all, because what you inspire is courage. Daring. Compassion.”

  I was quiet, of course. You don’t learn about a sudden and great responsibility and just up and accept it. At least, you shouldn’t. That’s something my mom always taught me—you don’t have to say yes to anything right away. She also taught me that “No” is a complete sentence. But I wasn’t ready to say no just yet.

  “I need to think about it.”

  “Of course,” Clio said. “But take the bracelet. It’s not binding. You can always give it back.”

  Slowly, I reached out. I picked up the bracelet. I’d expected to feel a surge of . . . something. Energy, warmth, a magical breeze to whip through the museum and blow through my hair. I got nothing.

  “You sure it works?” I asked.

  “Positive,” Clio said. “Annie wore it for many years while in service.”

  “Oh,” I said. Of course! That’s why the bracelet had looked familiar! I slipped it on, struggled with the catch for a second, then managed to get it secure. It fit perfectly. Just over Clio’s head, a small golden clock chimed. I had been gone almost an hour.

  Mela nudged me with her elbow. “You’re worried someone will miss you at home, yes?”

  I nodded. “If my mom wakes up and can’t find me—” I stopped. I could only imagine the scene. Cops up and down the street. Helicopters, even, if she could manage it.

  “No worries,” Thalia said, gesturing to Clio. “She’s got it handled.”

  “Quite right,” Clio said. “You’ll find that hardly any time at all has passed for you back home. I can’t hold this moment indefinitely, however, so off you go.” Clio gathered the folder and the book, and put them away. “The girls will escort you to your entry point. The Great Bed, eh? Not too shabby. We’ll call you soon.”

  I turned to leave.

  “No popping over here without a call from me first, understand?” Clio added. “For all you know the Prince of Wales himself could be here for a visit and there you go, emerging from under the Great Bed of Ware like some sort of fairy or troll. Can’t have that,” she said, a look of horror on her face.

  “Right,” I said.

  “Oh, and put the cloak back on the hook in the dress-up room, please,” Clio added.

  “Of course,” I said. “Anything else?”

  But Clio was now scribbling in a notebook with one hand and eating a brownie with the other.

  Mela cleared her throat. “Pardon me. Clio?”

  Clio looked up midscribble. She arched one eyebrow.

  “My entrance point,” Mela said, lifting her chin in the air.

  Clio closed her eyes and said, “Ah, yes. The paperwork on that has been brutal. So sorry about the mix-up. You may use the unicorn tapestry on the first floor from now on. It’s linked to the curtains in the parlor of your home.”

  Nia snorted at the mention of the tapestry.

  Mela smiled for the first time since I’d met her. “See?” she said, turning to face me. “The supply closet was temporary. Just a matter of paperwork.”

  “Hold up,” I said, laying my hands upon Clio’s desk. “Paperwork? To who? Where do you send it? Mount Olympus?” I could feel my heart clamping tight as my mind buzzed with possibilities. “Are there gods? Is my dad actually Zeus or something? Because that would suc—”

  “Stop,” Clio said forcefully. “If you must know, the gods of old have . . . semiretired, so to speak. Humans stopped building them temples, quit writing epic poems with the gods in them. Thus the gods got grumpy, and they quit. Kind of.”

  I felt like my brain was going to explode. All those gods and goddesses I’d learned about in elementary school were . . . real? “So, like, Athena?”

  “Real.”

  “Poseidon.”

  Clio sighed. “Very real. He likes paperwork a lot.” Her mouth tightened into a grim line.

  I cracked my knuckles out of nervousness. “Um, that underworld one. That guy?”

  Mela sucked in air behind me. “Hades,” she whispered.

  “Yep. Hades. Him?”

  Clio rose from her seat, lifted a file bigger than my head from where it sat on the floor. “Would you like to parse through Hades’s forms regarding the deaths of Fated Ones?”

  “Fated Ones?” I asked.

  “The heroes and artists, scientists and makers that we inspire, the ones whose fates are tied to the well-being of the world and its people,” Clio said.

  Taking a deep breath, I asked one last question. “If the gods quit, then why didn’t you . . . I mean we. Why didn’t we quit?”

  Clio sat down again. She lifted a brownie to her lips and nibbled at a corner before answering me. “The muses, you mean. We’ve decided to stick it out. The humans need us. Without us, the world is a much duller place.” Clio smoothed her hands over a file folder. “There are others still about. Demigods. Minor deities.”

  “Like nymphs?” Nia asked, and Clio nodded.

  “Satyrs? I always liked those,” Thalia said.

  “Here and there,” Clio answered.

  “Mr. Tumnus! Yes!” Thalia said.

  Mela touched Thalia’s arm. “We’ve talked about this, Thalia. Narnia isn’t real.”

  “But, Mela,” Thalia whined.

  I remembered what I’d learned in school about the gods. They were sometimes petty, but super powerful. And sometimes, there were monsters to fight, too.

  “What about the bad guys? The monsters and stuff?” I asked.

  Clio nodded. “A fair few of those are still around, too,” she said quietly.
/>   I leaned against Clio’s desk, feeling suddenly a little light-headed. Mela patted my shoulder kindly. When I spoke, my voice was a little shaky. “How come I’ve never seen any of these beings?”

  Clio arched an eyebrow at me. “You haven’t been paying attention. You’ll learn to do that, too. Paying attention is everything. Paying attention will let you know what’s an invention, and what isn’t.” Clio straightened up the files on her desk before continuing. “Bureaucracy, well, that’s a monstrous invention, indeed. One of the gods’ own making, and they require it. It’s how they keep tabs. It’s how they tell themselves they are still making a difference.”

  Mela sucked in another loud breath and Clio clucked her tongue. “Oh, Mela, don’t be so tragic. The gods stopped interfering in any substantial way years ago. We are perfectly free to say what we want. Understood?”

  Mela nodded. Thalia opened her mouth to say something, but Clio stopped her with a terse “Don’t push it, you,” and Thalia snapped her lips shut.

  “You do the paperwork, the muses make the magic, and the gods eat bonbons on Mount Olympus,” I said, trying not to glance at the brownies on Clio’s desk.

  “A-plus, Callie,” Clio said.

  I had one more question. “So my parents are—”

  “Your parents are the people they’ve always been. I know what you’re wondering. We aren’t sure how Annie’s muse magic transferred to you. Maybe it was a coincidence,” Clio said, but her face seemed to say that she didn’t believe a word of that. “For now, I have paperwork to attend to,” Clio finished.

  “Okay, but—” I started to say. “If Tia Annie was a muse, then how come she died?” I asked this last bit in a whisper. It still hurt to say it out loud.

  Clio’s face softened a little. She reached out and took my hand. “Our powers are immortal, but we are mortal. Don’t take unnecessary risks, any of you. You need to take care of yourselves because the world needs you, okay?”