The knock outside her room grew louder and quicker. Awen opened her eyes, taking in her new surroundings—the room the size of a closet, the tiny window at the end opposite the door, the white walls and the white ceiling, and the dusty floor in a light-colored wood. The room was empty except for the mattress on which she lay, and a small sign on the door. Awen knelt and squinted to see it. There were words in black script centered on the parchment sign, but she could not make them out. She rose from the mattress to inspect it more closely, the door now jangling in its frame, and read the command: Learn, but seek not too far. For you shall aid in the seeking of others.
Awen’s eyes widened as she tossed the statement around in her head. She reached out to touch the framed command, as if that would help her understand what was happening to her—what part of her she was losing, and what remained that she could hold onto.
The door burst open, nearly knocking Awen back down to the floor. A blonde woman thundered into the room.
“Get up, you lazy girl!” she cried. “What do you think you’re doing, sleeping till the sun comes up?” She reached out her right hand, grasping for Awen’s arm, while waving an open silver pocket watch in her left. “I don’t know what you’re used to, but at this school we start our days on time!”
Awen backed away from the woman, into the corner of the room, and turned her head to set her eyes on the tiny window. All she could see outside was fog and the distant orange glow of the sun.
“You think you can get out of that window? Ha-ha! Good try, girl! We’re on the third floor!” With that, the woman walked forward and, in a sharp movement, seized both of Awen’s wrists in one hand. This time, Awen put up no resistance as the woman hurried her out of the room and through the hallway.
As in Awen’s tiny room, the walls and ceiling of the hallway were a blank white, and the floors the same light-colored wood—only these floors were glossy and swept clean.
“I am Rosaline.” The woman tilted her head slightly toward Awen, keeping her chin up. “I wake you up, I show you around, tell you what to do, you understand,” she trailed off. Rosaline had the same ivory skin and piercing black eyes as Miss Nina, but her hair was a blinding white-blonde. Awen thought of a ghost.
As Rosaline spoke, they passed a large, open room full of mirrors, where small girls spun in tight circles and leapt across the floor. A voice from inside yelled out instructions and clapped out a beat. Another room revealed a handful of older girls plucking at strangely shaped stringed instruments. The music reverberated off the walls—it sounded like a waterfall of notes. Despite the fear of the past night, and the unfamiliarity before her, Awen could not help but feel a bubbling of awe in the bottom of her stomach—a nervous curiosity about what might come for her.
Rosaline led Awen to a curving stairway at the end of the long white corridor. But Awen, green eyes still full of images from the rooms she had passed, was staring somewhere off to the side, and did not see the first step. Her left foot reached for some surface that was not there, her heel catching on the edge of the stair. She tumbled forward, twisting sideways, and Rosaline let go of her wrists to let her plunge down the steps like a torrent of white water over rocks.
Awen screamed as the hard wood thumped against her face, her arms, her back. Her black hair swirled around her head, and she could not see—did not know how many stairs lay below, waiting for her. But all that remained was the hard white wall at the foot of the staircase. Her back was the first part to smash into the wall; then her neck snapped back, and she screamed again as her head banged into the wood.
Awen clenched her teeth as she pulled in her legs and arms to form a tight, protective ball. With the few drops of strength left, she tried to push away the pain and focus instead on the cool wooden floor beneath her. She closed her eyes, but a soft chuckle from above forced them open again.
A smooth voice called to her: “What, are you going to just stay there on the floor, girl?” Rosaline still stood at the top of the staircase, leaning against the wall. “Stupid girl, you should watch where you are going. We wouldn’t want one of our students to go to waste. And now your pretty skin will be all bruised up.” She made a disapproving clucking noise, then padded softly down the stairs.
Rosaline pulled Awen up by her aching arms. She dragged her out from the stairwell into a hallway that looked onto a large, open dining room. This room contained the same white walls and wooden floor as the rest of the castle, and a number of round wooden tables stood inside. Each table had a bowl of muffins at its center and a group of young girls seated about. They all looked very much alike. Each girl wore the same cream-colored dress, with ruffles on the short sleeves, collar, and hem. Their hair was pulled back into tight buns, and their faces looked unnaturally pale. Awen saw that, like her, the girls wore no shoes.
The dining room was unsettlingly quiet. The girls sat picking at their breakfast in near-silence, every now and then someone sneezing, or speaking in low tones. Awen stared. A cold shiver ran through her.
“Dining room.” Rosaline’s voice sounded exceedingly loud against the noiseless background. She motioned toward the tables. “We have muffins every morning. You have ten minutes to find yourself a seat and eat something. I will return for you then.” And with that, she walked off.
Awen stood still, expressionless. She let her eyes focus on the leg of a chair in the middle of the room, and she clasped her hands together. She did not notice the dark-haired girl walking toward her.
“Hello?”
Without moving her head, Awen shifted her gaze to the girl standing before her.
“I’m Vivienne.” The girl’s voice was soft, angelic. “Are you new?” She tilted her head and peered into Awen’s green eyes.
Awen stared at the other girl for a long moment and then, very slowly, gave her a half-nod.
“What is your name?”
Awen blinked. She wanted to respond, but something stopped her. She pressed her lips together in silence.
“Well, would you like something to eat then? The muffins are strawberry this morning.” She raised her eyebrows, and Awen could not tell if that was a good thing, or not.
Awen gave no reply, but Vivienne took her hand anyway and led her back to the table from which she had come.
“Take one,” Vivenne said quietly, pushing the bowl of muffins to Awen.
Awen reached out a hand, gingerly picking up the smallest muffin she could see. She placed it directly in front of her, then folded her hands together and rested her chin on top. She stared at the muffin. Awen could not even begin to think about eating. Her stomach was already too full of bubbles, fizz, and skittish butterflies, and her head hurt from the fall down the stairs. She started to count the strawberries baked into the muffin.
Vivienne said no more—just watched her new acquaintance with a curious eye.
Awen stopped counting after the sixth strawberry and let her eyes glaze over so the outlines of everything blurred. She tried to think about nothing, but that was impossible. Instead, she concentrated on the throbbing in her head, but that only made it worse.
“All right, we’re going!” Rosaline’s voice cut through her daze. Awen turned in her chair to watch Rosaline approach. This time, she did not grab Awen’s wrist, but gave her a severe look and began to walk away from the table.
Awen squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then rose to follow.
“Goodbye!” Vivienne called after her. Her cheerful voice sounded oddly out of place—a church bell rung from a dungeon.
Awen followed Rosaline back toward the stairwell. A fluttering sensation danced in her chest when she saw that there was a second flight to descend. Awen paused at the top of the stairs and grasped the wooden railing, but Rosaline continued down without waiting for her.
Awen lifted her right foot off the floor and onto the first step, followed by her left, then slid her hands a little down the railing to steady herself. Her feet tingled each time she lifted them off the ground.
&n
bsp; “Hurry up, girl!” Rosaline’s voice echoed from the bottom floor.
Awen stood on a step near the bottom of the spiral staircase. She counted the steps: eight more. Her gaze moved over them, one by one—they looked smooth but uneven, and curved at the edges—until her eyes found the grand doorway of the first floor.
She wondered if it was kept locked.
Awen abandoned the railing and took the last eight steps in small leaps, ignoring the pain in her head and back that accompanied each one. She whipped her head around to look for Rosaline, just as her right foot landed on the dark wood of the first floor. Awen could see no one in the entryway; Rosaline must already have gone off down some hallway.
Awen sprinted for the door, holding her hand out for the brass knob and praying it would turn. She imagined herself bursting forth from the castle, running away down the path and into the woods.…
“This way.”
Awen snapped her hand back to her side and swiveled around, her feet slipping slightly at the change of direction. Rosaline had suddenly reappeared, standing with her hands on her hips at the mouth of a dark corridor. She motioned down the hall with her head. Awen did not dare look back at the brass knob, but followed after Rosaline down the corridor.
At the end of the passage stood a dark wooden door, slightly ajar. Rosaline stopped in front of it and tapped twice with one knuckle. “Hannah?” she called through the crack. The door opened just the tiniest bit farther, but Awen could not see the woman behind it. Rosaline turned toward Awen with an exuberant smile, and gestured. “Our newest.”
“Ahh!” Hannah exclaimed, now flinging the door wide open. “Well, aren’t you something?” Hannah eyed Awen for a long moment, as if she might perform a trick.
Awen saw something flash across Hannah’s face, and then shivered, realizing the woman had not blinked once so far. She had the same pale skin as the other women, but her eyes were dark green and her hair an unnatural shade of red.
“Well, do come in, my dear!” the red-haired woman gushed.
Awen had no choice but to follow Rosaline through the door.
Hannah’s room was small, but the floor-to-ceiling mirrors on each wall gave the illusion it was double its size. In the corner, facing a small window, stood a wooden desk with stacks of paper, combs of all sizes, and tubes of colorful pastes strewn about. A tall wooden stool was situated in the center of the room.
“So, what does this girl need today?” Hannah turned to Rosaline. “Cut? Dye? Everything?” She gave a euphoric laugh. “Here, jump up on the stool, would you, now?” This time she spoke to Awen, who was looking down at her feet—bare, just like every other girl’s at Crickhowell.
Awen hesitated, but a word of encouragement from Hannah made her climb up onto the stool. She winced slightly, feeling the bruises from her fall.
“You have very pretty hair,” Hannah said, twisting a section in her hand. “Nice and black, thick, wavy…but I think… Hmm.” She dropped Awen’s hair and put two fingers to her lips. “Yes, I think we need a good trim.” She ran her other hand through Awen’s tresses, pulling through the tangles. “It’s a bit of a mess.
“Now…” She took Awen’s chin in her hand, examining her face. “White powder, of course…hmm, very pretty eyes, yes. Ah, this one is easy—already pretty! They haven’t all been so, recently,” she added in a lower voice. With that she turned to Rosaline, who was leaning against the wall opposite Hannah’s desk.
“Stupid, though,” Rosaline muttered. “Stupid girl, she can’t even walk down the stairs without tripping over herself.”
Hannah dismissed this with a click of her tongue and turned back to her black-haired project sitting silently on the stool. She eyed Awen once more, walking a circle around her, then glided over to her disorganized desk. From the reflection in the mirror, Awen could see her pull out a large comb, a silver pair of scissors, a jar of white powder, and a thin glass vial. She slipped all but the comb into her pockets.
Awen watched in the mirror as Hannah combed through her straggled mess of dark hair. The tangles were so entrenched that the movement of the comb pulled her head sideways. She had to squeeze her fingernails into her palms and squint her eyes to keep from tearing up. Then, Hannah pulled out the scissors and began to clip off chunks of hair. Awen let her eyes close most of the way as Hannah worked.
The sound of clipping scissors eventually stopped, and Awen opened her eyes, assuming Hannah was done. Before she could look at herself in the mirror, Hannah’s hands were at the side of her head, pulling on her hair with the force of a rider reining a wild horse. Awen felt the skin on her forehead pull upward. Her hair was yanked tighter, twisted around on itself.
“Ah, beautiful!” Hannah exclaimed, jumping back, and praising her work from all angles.
Awen gazed at her own reflection in the mirror. Her hair had been twisted into a bun so tight, it looked like her eyebrows were raised.
“Now just a little makeup, and we will be done! Oh, brush!” she exclaimed, skipping back to her desk for the tool.
While Hannah rummaged in her desk, humming to herself, Awen peered out the small window, through its reflection in the mirror. She heard slowly approaching voices coming from outside. The words were hard to make out—something about a window, an accident and, most startlingly, the word child…and the word dead. Two women walked by the window without looking in. And then she saw it. A man carried a dark-haired girl halfway wrapped in a blanket. Awen could see her face: drained of color, expressionless, blue lips, blue eyes and a big gash across the top of her forehead. Awen’s eyes widened, and a sick feeling waved across her stomach.
The other women in the room gave no response. Awen wondered if they had not heard, or if maybe the event meant nothing to them.
Hannah, still singing to herself, returned to Awen with brush in hand and dug the jar from her pocket. She lightly applied the white powder over every inch of Awen’s face, seemingly oblivious to her wide-eyed stare. “Tilt your head,” Hannah said, pushing back on Awen’s forehead. Awen heard the clink of glass, and suddenly a drop of liquid was falling into each of her eyes.
Her face contorted—the liquid burned, and she squeezed her eyes shut, rubbing at them, blinking them furiously.…
Hannah laughed. “Don’t worry, the searing sensation will subside.”
A shot of fear burst through Awen’s chest, as she wondered if she was being blinded. She opened an eye, slowly: her vision was blurred, but the burning had begun to dissipate. She opened her other eye.
“Extract of belladonna.” Hannah waved the glass bottle in front of Awen’s face. “Always makes for beautiful eyes.” She paused for a moment, gazing into the mirror.
Awen craned her neck forward to get a better look at her reflection. Her face was a shocking pale white, and her eyes…they looked bigger. The black of her pupil overtook them, so that the green was just a bright corona around the edges.
“Yes!” Hannah chirped.
Awen flinched.
“Let’s find you a dress!” She was back at her desk, haphazardly pulling out drawers. She danced back to Awen with a bundle of fabric in hand, unrolled it, and shook it out. It was the same ruffled, cream-colored dress that Awen had seen all the other girls wearing in the dining hall. She looked down at her own raggedy clothing with a sour face and was almost grateful.
Hannah pulled Awen down from the stool and swapped out her rags for the new dress. She turned to Rosaline, who looked bored. “Here’s your girl, Rose. She’s got a pretty little face; don’t let her mess it up.”
Hannah turned back to Awen, pulling the brush and white jar of powder from her pocket. “Take these. White powder is for every-day application!” She smiled, teeth glinting in the light, and took Awen’s right hand, placing the objects inside her palm.
Awen stared at the powder and brush momentarily, then closed her hand on them.
A long moment passed in silence. Awen could feel the eyes on her: the scrutinizing gaze of Rosaline,
and the excited eyes of Hannah, adoring her own handiwork.
Awen felt Rosaline’s hand wrap around her wrist, and then she was being led out of the room, through the halls, and back up the staircases. When they reached Awen’s tiny room, Rosaline opened the door and motioned Awen in. Awen planted her feet on the floor and stared at them, attempting to resist Rosaline’s command. Rosaline laughed at this, gave an odd half-smile, and shoved Awen inside. She shut the door and disappeared back down the hallway.
Three
Awen stared out of her tiny, rain-soaked window. She watched the drops race down the glass pane—racing toward…she did not know what. Racing to the bottom of something. To the end. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass. A heavy grey cloud obscured the sun.
It had been twelve days. Twelve days since her hair had been cut and her face transformed into white porcelain. Twelve days since she had seen the dead girl carried out of the castle. Twelve days since anyone had come for her. Awen had left the room only to eat in the dining area, one floor below. She had no desire to walk idly about in that blank white hallway outside her room, nor to stare into the grand hall of dancing girls that had first fascinated her. She could hardly even bring herself to leave the window and sleep at night.
She shuddered, remembering the dream she had been having, over and over. It really was just a sequence of blurry images: white faces with empty expressions, dark eyes peering in from every direction, lanterns in the darkness, and then, always coming last, the dead girl from the window. But in her dream, the dead girl was not expressionless. She stared at Awen with pursed lips—and blue eyes that gleamed in warning.…
And then, Awen would wake up.
She rubbed her eyes, picturing the dark circles that must have been hanging beneath them. Her nightmare always left her sleepless for the rest of the night.
As she focused again on the window, searching for another racing raindrop to observe, a light but urgent knocking sounded at her door. She drew in a breath and turned toward it.
The Crickhowell School for the Muses Page 2