The Crickhowell School for the Muses

by Waxman, Rachel

  She took a gulp of dusty air and, just before the door opened, blew out the candle.

  Five

  Awen pressed herself against a standing bookshelf in the middle of the room with so much force, she feared it might topple. She had positioned herself as far from the entrance to the library as she could manage, in those precious seconds before the door had fully opened. Awen tried to quiet her wheezing breaths, but she feared the violent pounding of her heart might give her away. She hoped whoever had just entered the room could not smell the smoky scent of the recently snuffed candle.

  “Hum hum hum…” A woman’s murmur emanated from the entrance of the library. As long as the woman remained there and had no reason to pace about the shelves, Awen thought she and Vivienne might go unnoticed.

  Awen heard the familiar chhk of a scraping match, and soon the candle was alight again. Now, she could just see the shadowy side of the woman’s face and half of her body.

  It was Rosaline.

  Awen squeezed herself more tightly to the shelf, praying she might be shrouded in shadow. She did not dare to move and join Vivienne, still crouching in the corner in which Awen had also meant to hide.

  “Now, where did I put those books?” Rosaline muttered to herself.

  Awen’s jaw tightened. The chair of books—now missing one—was still in the far left aisle of the library, a safe distance from where she hid. But Rosaline might not search there first.

  Rosaline disappeared from Awen’s view for a moment, only to mumble “Huh,” return to the table, and snatch up the jarred candle. She disappeared the same way again, with surprisingly delicate clinking footsteps, taking with her the yellow light, and leaving Awen in dim shadow. Awen heard the chair in the corner squeak, and she let out a silent breath of relief. Then, the footsteps again, but this time they were heavy, as if weighed down by a massive load: the stack of books. Minus one, of course; when might she notice?

  Rosaline set the candle down, then let the books thud onto the desk with a loud exhale. Awen heard some shifting around of volumes—Rosaline was almost completely hidden from view now, though Awen could see two of the tomes stacked, one atop the other, plus an additional, smaller paper book, on one end of the table. Some shuffling of papers and turning of pages told her that Rosaline was probably flipping through the third of the three volumes that had been stacked on the chair.

  “Carmella, Carmella…hmm. Insignificant little girl,” she huffed. “But her patron is offering a tempting sum.…Doubt he would mind where she came from.” She paused for a moment, as if waiting for outside validation. “Ah, why not?”

  Awen heard the scratching of a pencil, then the soft thud of a closing book. Paper on paper—she could almost smell the dust. She saw Rosaline slide the book over near the other stack and remove the top two books, replacing the small paper one.

  “Genevieve,” she said, fingering a page. “Certainly beautiful; mediocre talent. Ah, but easy to get to. Yes.” She scratched something down with a pencil. “Now…”

  Awen saw her pull the last large volume toward her.

  “Sarah. Incredible talent, almost as gifted as…” She stopped abruptly.

  The silence was unsettling.

  “Awen…” she murmured.

  Awen’s heart jumped at her name. She wondered if Rosaline had heard her, or suddenly sensed her presence. She pushed herself back into the crammed bookshelf again so that the spines of the books pressed into her own, but it did no good: she was as far back as one could go without being on the shelf itself.

  Rosaline scribbled something again, so fast that Awen wondered how it could be anything more than a jagged line. She slammed the book shut and hastily shoved it aside. Rosaline leaned across the table to the volumes she had just studied and began picking them up, sliding them around, as if another one—a fourth leather-bound volume—were hiding in the pile.

  “Hmm, back on the shelf, maybe? Ah, where could it be?” And now Rosaline was headed down the very aisle in which Awen stood, flat as a shadow against the wall. The woman moved forward one, two, three steps—then stopped. Rosaline tilted her head to the side, pondering something, then turned away to the far left wall.

  Awen listened carefully for Rosaline, but she was silent for thirty seconds, five minutes, a month, a year, an eternity.

  “Damn!” Rosaline ripped through the veil of quiet. “Where is that girl’s book?”

  A wave of nerves flowed through Awen as she turned her eyes toward the corner where Vivienne, and the large volume for which Rosaline hunted, lay hidden.

  Awen heard a stream of frustrated mumbles from the far wall where Rosaline had been searching. “Thought I left it here” and “Nina must be on to me” were all she could make out.

  Half of Rosaline came back into view at the candlelit desk. She seemed to have composed herself, and she reached now for the little paper book at the end of the table. Awen could see the pages just well enough to know that there were no words printed on them; instead, there were outlines, shaded areas, and squiggly lines. Rosaline traced her finger around a page; then, shaking her head, she flipped it and did the same to the next one. This time, her face lightened and relaxed. A new gleam slid its way into her inky black eyes.

  “Beaufort,” she said confidently. “It must be Beaufort. A perfect town, really. Goodwick could be an option if there were no other choice…hmm. Yes…” She scratched something in pencil, slowly, delicately this time. Rosaline closed the book and tucked it away in a pocket. Now, she took the three volumes, stacking them one on top of another—first the two deep-red ones, then the green. She paused for a moment, staring upward, then blew across the top of the green book. She disappeared down the far left aisle with the heavy stack in her arms, and Awen heard her replace the books on the wooden chair with a paper-muffled thud.

  Rosaline sighed. “Must find that book,” she mumbled. “I have to get that girl.…I’d give up the rest just to have that one.…” She let out a low grumble and returned with severe, measured footsteps to the desk at the entrance of the room. “Well, then…” she trailed off, reaching into her pocket for something. Rosaline leaned across the table, then blew out the candle.

  Awen blinked in the darkness. She held her breath. The door creaked open, and Awen saw bits of light from the hallway creeping in—and then all was black again as Rosaline quietly twisted the knob and pulled it shut. Awen began to exhale, but the unmistakable sound of a metal key jiggling around in the door handle stopped her.

  She heard a click, and she knew.…

  She was locked in.

  Awen felt her way through the darkness, throwing her hands against the bookshelf, and slid her body across it until she reached the end of the row. She moved precariously, like a climber shimmying across a narrow ledge—only what lay below was not a mile drop-off but a black lake, a murky pool waiting to catch her.

  She had reached the far back wall when Vivienne called out:

  “Awen!”

  She heard Vivienne heave herself to her feet, reach out and pat the bookshelf to keep oriented.

  Awen felt her way along the back wall—one hand on the shelf, the other reaching forward for Vivienne.

  “Awen!” Vivienne whispered.

  She felt Vivienne grasp her arm and begin to shake it.

  “Was that…Rosaline?”

  Awen grabbed Vivienne’s hand and squeezed it.

  She kept her voice low: “What does she want with you?”

  Awen raised her eyebrows and shrugged in the darkness, knowing her movements were invisible to her friend. These questions—they needed time to answer, space, light…the door. Now, it was all about the locked door.

  Awen began to pull desperately on Vivienne’s hand, taking a timid step backward.

  “Wait! Where are you…your book?”

  Awen shook her head. The heavy leather volume with the text about her patron, and her own name scrawled across the top, could not tell her anything more. She kept walking backward, more r
apidly, no longer sure of her direction. Still clutching Vivienne’s hand, Awen twisted around to resituate herself, but her foot landed all wrong, her big toe curled under, and she was falling—falling down an invisible staircase, bringing her friend down with her.

  “Awen!” Vivienne screamed. They were both strewn across the floor, Awen’s legs twisted awkwardly. “What are you doing? What’s going on?”

  Awen ignored the questions, righting herself, but this time she stayed down on her hands and knees. She gave Vivienne’s arm a yank, then began to crawl forward, hoping her friend would follow. Awen reached her hand out as she moved, feeling for the edge of a bookshelf. She edged herself to the right until her hand hit it, then kept forward in a straight line. She could hear Vivienne panting behind her.

  A thin line of yellow glowed ahead—light from the entry hall, streaming in through the crack under the door. Awen moved faster, until she could just make out the dark shape of the table that stood before it. She kept her head down to keep from smacking it on the table’s underside, hoping that Vivienne might do the same.

  Awen reached her palm out, not stopping until she felt the door. She heard a thunk from behind.

  “Oww!” Vivienne had forgotten about the desk.

  Awen could not help but smile, and had to bite the tip of her tongue to force back a giggle.

  “We’re here,” Vivienne whispered, her voice edged with pain. “Let’s go, then.”

  Awen squatted and stood, using the door for support. She reached out for the knob, already knowing what would happen. She twisted the knob to the right—it moved a bit, then stopped. She twisted it to the left—it moved a bit more, then stopped. She twisted it to the right again. Stop. Left. Stop. Faster and faster, until the knob merely jiggled in place.

  Vivienne gasped, and Awen knew she finally understood. “Oh. Oh, I…wait…” Her voice took on a frenzied exuberance: “Wait, wait!”

  Awen stood still for a moment, wondering what idea had fallen upon her friend. But suddenly, Vivienne had taken Awen’s left palm, dropping into it a thin, warm piece of metal. Awen clasped her hand around it, rolling it about.

  “My hairpin!” Vivienne exclaimed in a whisper. “Try it—in the door!”

  A flurry of excitement bubbled in Awen’s chest. She took the pin in her right hand, feeling for the hole in the knob with her left. She pressed her thumb into it and then, moving it aside, dug the pin into the doorknob. The pin veered left and stopped, hitting some inner gut of the knob. Awen pulled the pin out, half expecting to find brass entrails hanging from it.

  “No, not at an angle,” Vivienne directed. “Here, let me.”

  Awen waved her friend’s hand away and reinserted the pin into the knob herself, this time forcing it in straight.

  Pop!

  Awen took a deep breath, then slowly twisted the knob—farther…farther…all the way.

  She exhaled.

  * * *

  Awen lay on her stomach, stretched across the mattress on the floor of her room, and stared absentmindedly at the sheet of music she could not yet read. She tried to focus on the patterns of black and white—Get familiar with the notes, Mr. Whitewood had said. But the events of the past hour were too powerful a distraction, and the little black lines and dots began to blur together into a fuzzy cloud of grey.

  Sir Robert Thomas. The name sounded so…inconsequential. He was somewhere far in the distance—perhaps a year away—a dot waiting for her on the horizon.

  But Rosaline…she stood closer, close enough to touch. There was something going on behind those black eyes.

  Six

  The dining hall was surprisingly loud for being only half full. Though the girls, scattered randomly around the circular tables, spoke rather quietly, their voices bounced off the wooden floor, echoed, so that it was impossible to tell whose voice was whose. Awen, who sat with her back facing the entryway, shot her eyes around the room, looking for Vivienne, but she was not there—most likely in a dance class. She turned back to her muffin, picking at it, slowly crumbling the pieces between her fingers. She had counted eight bleeding blueberries baked inside.

  Awen had woken up with the sun that morning and had now been in the dining hall for at least an hour. If lessons were only once a week, on Mondays, then what was she supposed to do on the other days? Listen to the hours pass? It was only Tuesday. Awen twisted her face at the sour-tasting thought. She squished some muffin crumbs between two fingers, then licked them off.

  Slowly, the other girls, mostly in pairs, began to get up, wiping their hands on their cream-colored ruffle dresses. They disappeared up the stairs with soft bare footsteps. The dining room became very quiet, and Awen was conscious that she was the only one left. Breakfast must have been over.

  Awen finished off the last chunk of muffin, chewing slowly, trying to think about the flavor. She rubbed her hands together in an attempt to get the grease off, and was about to leave the table when she heard clanking footsteps, even and close together, from the hallway.

  “There you are, child!” Rosaline’s voice echoed from the entryway. It was excited, hurried.

  Awen stood and turned in Rosaline’s direction. She looked cautiously into the woman’s black eyes, wondering if she had discovered evidence from last night’s escapade—had perhaps returned to the library to find the door unlocked—but her eyes showed no trace of suspicion. Rather, they looked larger than normal, shiny, and her eyebrows arched upward in anticipation.

  Rosaline hurried toward Awen, nearly breaking into a run. “You must be quick! You have another lesson with Mr. Whitewood today!”

  Awen raised her own eyebrows, but in suspicion rather than anticipation. She had just had her first lesson yesterday.

  “Yes, yes; I know,” Rosaline seemed to answer her. “Most girls here are only taught their lessons once a week. But for you…yes, I have arranged something special.” Her eyes glowed. “You will have lessons every day of the week except for Saturday and Sunday. And you will be expected to practice much more, too, but we will discuss that later,” she said, laughing, as if making a joke. “You are on a sort of, hmm…special, compacted schedule. Instead of staying for a year, it will be for much less long.” She smiled euphorically. “That should make you excited, yes?” She leaned in toward Awen until her face hovered just inches above.

  Awen tried to smile, but the expression stopped at her lips, her eyes conveying a much different countenance. She thought maybe she should be excited to be leaving this place in less than a year—but not knowing exactly what she was leaving it for.…A lesson, though. At least she would have more lessons. She would not mind seeing Mr. Whitewood more often.

  “Well, hurry along now!” Rosaline yelled into Awen’s face. “There’s a sheet of music you must retrieve for your lesson, I believe!” She grabbed Awen’s arm and led her quickly out of the dining hall.

  “Because you are getting instruction every day,” she said as they reached the foot of the stairs, “you will not be having any manners, beauty, or cooking classes. This is unfortunate, as every other girl at Crickhowell is expected to be well-versed in those areas. But your patron will just have to understand the situation.”

  Awen barely kept up with Rosaline’s speedy pace, almost slipping on the hem of her ruffled dress. She wondered at Rosaline’s choice of words—situation.

  Rosaline did not speak again until they had reached the top of the curved staircase. “Now, since you will not be receiving any training in these fundamental subjects, you will be held to an even higher standard in your music. Anything less than what is expected of you…” She stopped abruptly, turning to Awen. “Anything less will not be tolerated.” She smirked, dropping Awen’s arm, and continued down the hallway, calling behind her shoulder. “Now, go fetch your music. I will wait for you outside Mr. Whitewood’s office.”

  Awen stood still for a moment, watching Rosaline’s shoes bob up and down as she walked past the closed doors off the hallway. She had never really looked at
those shoes before, only heard them, listened for them. They were black, probably leather, with a rounded-off toe and thick heel around three inches high. Awen looked down at her own feet: bare, slightly dirty. She imagined Rosaline’s heel squishing down on her foot, pinning it to the wooden floor.

  Awen scrambled off to her room to grab the piece of music. The song, “A Rainbow,” was lying on the floor next to her mattress, with specks of dust dotting the page. She picked it up with two fingers, the paper folding a little under the pressure, and shook it off. Awen turned left out of her room and began toward Mr. Whitewood’s office at the end of the hall.

  Awen’s eyes flickered across the tops of the door frames as she passed, silently reading the names carved into the wood. Crisp—she remembered that one from yesterday. Then, a new name, Rusch, and a blank door to her left.

  As she walked toward Rosaline, who waited outside Mr. Whitewood’s room with her back turned, Awen felt an unexpected surge of elation. It was the feeling of desire for something—what for, she did not know. Singing. The possibility that what waited for her after Crickhowell might be good. Hope for something. Maybe just the fact that it was all unknown, and she could imagine it to be however she wanted.

  She wondered how long this feeling would last.

  When Awen reached the end of the hall, Rosaline was leaning against the wall, arms folded, countenance unreadable. Mr. Whitewood’s door was open, and he stood just inside, an angry expression with an edge of concern pulled across his face. When he saw Awen, his mouth relaxed into a welcoming smile. He flicked his eyes toward Rosaline, not bothering to move his head. “Well, I suppose you can go now,” he said flatly. He did not move or speak again until, with the trace of a grin, Rosaline turned and headed back down the hallway.

  Mr. Whitewood sighed. “Well, hello, dear. How have you been?”

  Awen raised one corner of her mouth in a half-smile.