“Hi,” the girl said timidly. “Do you want to sit down at a table with us?”
Awen nodded, a tear forming in the corner of her eye as she was reminded of Vivienne. Wherever she was now…
Awen blinked the tear away.
The girls sat at a square table as far from Rosaline and Tori as possible. A white candle in a small frosted jar glowed at the table’s center. Awen pulled it toward her with both hands and sat staring down at the light with her fingers wrapped around. She breathed in the smell of burning wick.
“So, ‘Awen,’ is it?”
Awen looked up. The girl directly across from her had spoken. She was pale, with strawberry-blonde hair that fell to her shoulders. Awen nodded.
“I’m Carmella. And this,” she said, pointing to the dark-blonde girl who had first spoken to Awen, “is Genevieve.”
“Hi,” Genevieve said quietly. “Good to meet you.”
Awen smiled, and then it was quiet again as the girls looked down at their hands, picked their nails and bit at their lips.
Carmella broke the silence. “Do you know,” she began, under her breath, “do you know what’s happening? Where we’re going? Why we had to leave?” Her eyes were big and earnest as she leaned across the table toward Awen.
Awen glanced over at Rosaline, still occupied at the bar, then back to Carmella. She knitted her eyebrows together in sad bewilderment, and shrugged. A loud outburst of laughter came from the bar, and Awen turned again to look at Rosaline, now deep in conversation with Tori. This time, a memory hit her. The library, the night she had sneaked in with Vivienne. Rosaline had mentioned names—names of other girls at Crickhowell. She wondered if it could have been the very girls across from whom she now sat. And the name of a town…but she could not remember it. And last night, when Rosaline came into her room to take her away. She said she would not be sent to Sir Robert, but to another patron. Something told her that this—whatever it was, and wherever she was going—had been planned, mapped out for weeks.
“Hello, girls.” A man’s voice interrupted Awen’s contemplations, and she started, momentarily mistaking the voice as Mr. Berwick’s. She turned around, looking up at the man. He held out a tray with three glasses, each containing a fizzy brownish substance. Awen recognized him as the owner and bartender. “Would you care for something to drink?” the man continued. His face was slightly weathered, but Awen could see a softness in his blue eyes.
All three girls nodded silently.
“Just a little something from the bar.” He winked, placing the glasses before them. “Can I get you anything else?”
Carmella looked up at the man, a hint of shyness in her eyes. “Maybe,” she asked quietly, “something to eat?”
“Sure can do,” the man replied with a smile. “I’ll be right back.” He turned and left.
“What is this?” Genevieve wondered aloud, cupping the glass of fizzy liquid between her hands.
Awen shrugged, pulling the drink toward her. She leaned over it and took in a big whiff: the drink had a raw edge to it, bitter and grainy. But her stomach rumbled again, so she lifted the glass to her face and took a large gulp of the liquid. The taste was just as she had expected from the smell, and although it was not pleasant, she continued drinking anyway.
“Whoa, slow down there.” The bartender laughed, walking toward the table. He produced a plate of sausages and a basket of rolls, placing them on the table. “Enjoy.” He walked away.
Awen reached out with both hands, grabbing a sausage in one and a biscuit in the other. She tore open the biscuit, placing the sausage inside, and broke off half of it in one bite. Still chewing, she picked up her glass and slurped down more of the liquid.
Genevieve and Carmella followed suit, albeit more slowly, chewing their food in cautious silence. Awen took another long drink from her glass, putting it down only to swallow, and then she drank again, this time emptying it. A strange, warm feeling began to course through her as she clinked the glass down onto the table. The sensation began in her chest, then worked its way up to her face and out through her arms. The room began to feel uneven, and, looking across the table, she noticed that Carmella’s face was just a little out of focus. She blinked hard, wondering if there might be something in her eye, but this did not help. Now, her face felt positively hot.
“Awen?” Carmella asked.
Her voice sounded different. Like it was far away and too loud, all at once.
“Awen, are you…all right?” There was concern in her voice, but she wore a humored expression, like she might just burst out in laughter. Then she giggled, and Genevieve joined her in laughter.
Though her senses still felt askew, a smile formed on Awen’s face. Trying to keep herself from giggling as well, she let out an unintentional snort.
This made Carmella laugh even harder.
“Enjoying yourselves, girls?”
The laughter stopped. Awen looked up to see Rosaline staring down at them, Tori close behind. Suddenly, Awen’s senses cleared, the strange warm feeling retracting from her limbs and face.
“Ah, I thought so,” Rosaline said slowly. “Well, sorry to end your fun,” she snapped, “but Mr. Berwick has returned.…”
Awen whipped her head around. Mr. Berwick was standing at the bar with a glass in hand. He met her gaze, and winked.
Awen turned back, a shiver running through her chest.
“And so, we must all go upstairs now,” Rosaline continued. “Come.” She pulled each girl up by the arm, one by one, and pushed them toward the wall opposite the main door. There was a dark wooden staircase there, so narrow that they had to ascend in single file. Rosaline led the way, followed by Awen and the two girls, each of whom pressed a hand against the wall to stay steady in the blackness of the passage. Tori went last, trapping them in.
Awen climbed the stairs slowly. They felt uneven—of different heights and widths, some warped into strange curves. From her observation of the building from outside, she knew there could be only one upper floor, yet she felt like she was climbing to the top of a tower. Awen lifted her right foot, expecting to set it down on the next stair, but she staggered, as there was only a flat landing. Rosaline, who already leaned against the wall to the right, waiting, shot her a strange look, as if contemplating some new idea. But she remained still until the rest of the group had made it to the top.
Once everyone had reached the second floor, Rosaline continued down the hallway. She did not speak, and so Awen could only guess that she meant for the others to follow. The hallway was cramped and dark, only a few unassuming sconces glowing from the walls. The air was cooler up here, and damp, with a hint of mildew.
Rosaline stopped at the end of the short hallway. As Awen came closer, she saw that Rosaline stood outside a battered wooden door. The wood looked soggy, as if a constant drip of water had run down it, softening the surface into mush. Rosaline removed a key from her pocket and, placing it in the lock, rattled it until the door creaked opened.
The room behind it was impossibly small. Awen took a step toward it to get a better look, but she stopped shy of where Rosaline might be able to push her in. The room held three small cots, each with a sheet, a thin blanket and a pillow. That was it.
Awen backed away from the room slowly so that Rosaline might not notice her reaction.
But Rosaline smiled and gestured toward the room with her left hand.
It was Tori who spoke, still some feet back: “Go in your room, girls.”
Genevieve and Carmella looked cautiously at each other, then stepped forward into the room.
Awen remained still again, waiting as she had outside the inn. But this time, she dared to look straight into Rosaline’s black eyes.
Rosaline remained expressionless…until under Awen’s stare, her eyebrows knit together in just the slightest hint of anger.
Awen let a tiny smile play on her lips, and then she walked into the room.
The door closed and locked behind her.
Ten
The three girls stood silently in the black room, breathing in the damp air. The only light came from the moon, its beams slipping in through a tiny window on the back wall. A slight chill in the air made Awen shiver. She crossed her arms in an attempt to stay warm.
Carmella’s voice broke the silence. “Well, I suppose…we may as well sleep?” Her voice wavered: “Or try?”
“Yes, I suppose…” Genevieve trailed off.
Awen’s eyes were getting used to the dark, and she could just make out the outlines of the other girls. She sighed, meaning to voice her assent, and edged forward, arms outstretched, feeling for one of the cots. She did not need to move very far, as her hands touched a cold blanket after only two steps. Awen cautiously rolled onto the cot, which squeaked under her weight, and sat up.
Hearing Awen’s movements, Genevieve and Carmella resigned themselves to their own cots, one on either side of Awen.
No one spoke for what seemed like a long time. Five minutes, maybe. Awen wondered if the other girls had fallen asleep.
Awen sat cross-legged on her cot with her back straight but her head falling slightly forward. The silence and the cool, damp air felt unexpectedly calming, as if the atmosphere in the little room were giving her a massage. The coolness cleared her head, erasing the strange warmth that had pervaded it in the tavern below. And now she began to think, her mind wandering back to the thoughts that had disturbed her earlier. Rosaline and her plans, the names, the town, the library…
Genevieve’s whisper penetrated the silence: “Awen. Carmella.”
Awen, still looking down, resituated herself on the cot, its squeaks acting as her reply.
“Yes?” Carmella whispered back.
“You asked…before. If we knew what was going on…?” Genevieve seemed to be waiting for another response.
Awen looked up to her left, toward the dark shape of Genevieve.
“Mmm,” Carmella murmured.
“Well, I heard something.” And then she gasped.
Awen whipped her head around, trying to see, or hear, whatever had stopped Genevieve. There was more silence. And then she heard it, too: creaky footsteps, slow—too slow to be anything but the steps of an eavesdropper, just outside the door. Awen did not move. The steps lacked the clink of Rosaline’s heels; they sounded more like the crunch of leather boots. She thought of Mr. Berwick. Her heart banged in her chest.
The girls were all silent, the only sound their breathing. The footsteps ceased.
Awen’s throat tensed. She held her breath.
The footsteps started again. One…two…three…They were getting softer, receding back down the hallway into nothingness.
Awen exhaled audibly.
“I was going to say,” Genevieve continued, her voice quieter, hardly audible, each word spoken with care. “I heard Tori and Rosaline talking, when I was waiting outside the door for my harp lesson. Tori is the harp teacher,” she added, for Awen’s benefit. “And Mr. Berwick, well, I heard he used to teach at Crickhowell, many years ago, but was dismissed for something terrible. I don’t know what…” she trailed off. “Anyway, both Carmella and I play harp. But, well, I heard them—Tori and Rosaline—discussing something. A school for the muses—but it wasn’t Crickhowell. I heard the name of a town—Beaufort, or Goodwick, or, I don’t know…but I heard my name, as well.” Then, even more quietly: “They wanted to take me there.” She paused for a moment. “This was a month ago.”
Awen knew, then, that they were the beginnings: Genevieve, Carmella, herself. They would be the first students at a new school—but this time, with Rosaline as the head. Awen guessed that was where they would travel to now—to a new town—and Rosaline would be like what Miss Nina was at Crickhowell, and Tori would teach, and Mr. Berwick—Awen shivered at the thought of his horrible face—he might teach something, too. She prayed it wouldn’t be singing. How could a man like that know music?
Awen felt a tingling in her legs, and, realizing they had been crossed this whole time, stretched them out in front of her. Then she bent her knees, hugging them to her chest. She glanced to either side, wondering what expression she might find on the other girls’ faces. But it was too dark to tell. She could only see that they were both lying down, stretched out awkwardly on the inadequate cots.
She heard a sigh from her left—Genevieve. Awen saw her dark shape turn over uncomfortably. She whispered, “So, you understand now?”
Awen swallowed.
“We’re going away. Somewhere…I don’t know where. I don’t know for how long.” Her voice broke off, and Awen heard the squeak of the cot as she shifted. “Well,” her voice was stronger now, “I’m going to sleep.”
No one spoke again.
Awen carefully turned herself around so that she faced the back wall. There was a tiny rough-cut window just above her cot; yellow light poured in, shining down on her like a spotlight. She straightened up onto her knees and placed her hands on the wall to steady herself. From this angle, she could see the full moon in its entirety. She leaned her forehead against the pane. The glass was strangely clean—she could not imagine how a room like this could be anything but filthy all over. Awen yawned, then folded herself back down onto the cot.
She thought she should be terrified of the events about to take place, of what had already begun to happen. Crickhowell had been no home to her, but at least she knew what waited behind its closed doors, even if she feared some of those things. Now, she was headed toward the unknown. But the strangest thing to her was that she was not afraid. She could not let herself be.
Awen fought back another yawn and sank farther down, so that she lay on her back. There was something else she had to think of. Something else she knew she had to…Her eyelids drooped. Something she needed to…Her head lolled to the side. There was a reason why she was not afraid. Because ultimately, she had to…Her eyelids closed all the way.
Yes, before too long, she would have to escape.
She faded into sleep.
* * *
A loud knock resounded throughout the room. No, it was more of a banging sound. Awen yawned, fitfully turning half of her body over. She kicked her feet, tangled in a thin layer of sheet.
The banging sounded again.
She curled into a ball. She wanted Rosaline to go away, to let her sleep. She did not want to practice, and she did not want a lesson, either. Maybe she would have lunch with Vivienne later.…
She opened her eyes and sat up stock-straight. She was not at Crickhowell. Vivienne was gone. She would not be having a lesson with Mr. Whitewood. Ever again.
Alarmed, she whipped her head around—there was Genevieve, and Carmella. They were both yawning and stretching, seeming to fight the urge to curl back into their beds. Awen turned around. There was the tiny window: the moon gone now, though it was hardly light outside. A misty dark blue. She wondered if it was morning.
The knocks on the door stopped. “Get up! We’re going now!” And then it opened, Rosaline stepping in behind it, one hand still on the outside knob. “Hurry along, now; we want to get an early start.”
The girls struggled, finally, out of their beds.
“You have nothing with you, nothing to gather, so hurry up!” Rosaline fiddled with the doorknob.
Genevieve and Carmella scrambled out the door first, followed closely by Awen. Rosaline shut the door after them, moving to the front of the line in three long strides.
“No time for breakfast,” Rosaline clucked. “We’ll eat on the way—there’ll be bread in the coach.”
Awen struggled to keep up with Rosaline in the darkness, precariously feeling her way down the hallway and stairs. The tavern below was empty, the candles around the room now mere glowing stumps, a few smoldering as they burned down. Awen crossed her arms, bracing herself for the cool air as she stepped out into the dark morning. But the action was unnecessary: the air was startlingly warm—warmer, in fact, than it had been inside the Pickwick Inn. She dropped her arms to
her sides.
The carriage was already waiting out front for them, and Awen was glad, in the half-light, she could not see Mr. Berwick, who was probably up in the driver’s seat. Her guess was confirmed by Rosaline, who called out to him that they were ready to depart.
Awen was the last to enter the carriage. The arrangement was exactly as it had been during the first trip: Rosaline and Tori on the bench to the right, and Genevieve and Carmella in the middle. Awen scrambled to the empty bench on the far left, sitting down just as the carriage lurched forward.
Awen leaned back against the side wall and stretched out her legs across the bench. She closed her eyes.
“Awen.”
She opened her eyes drowsily, wondering if she had been asleep.
“Bread.” Carmella had turned around on her bench, toward Awen; she held before her a cloth-covered basket. Awen reached for the basket with both hands, grabbing three hard rolls at once. She put two of them in her lap and stuffed the other one in her mouth, devouring it so rapidly that she did not have time to taste it. She ate the second piece in this same manner, slowing only for the third.
Then Awen wiped the crumbs from her dress and leaned back against the wall of the carriage again, letting her eyes close once more.
* * *
Golden light glimmered before her heavy lids—the rays of early morning. Awen had dreamt something, but all that remained of it were remnants of color: golden browns, deep blue, and an ember-red that burned through the darkness. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to remember a face, a shape, a place. But she could recall nothing.
Awen felt a change in the motion of the carriage, which caused her center of balance to shift, and suddenly found herself sliding toward the floor; she pushed her hand against the back of the other bench, steadying herself just in time to avoid falling. She glanced out the pane-less window to see that they were ascending a rather steep hill. Awen crawled forward on the bench until her face was just in front of the window. From here, she could see a very small town—a mere handful of dark stone buildings, sprinkled on either side of the path. Then, with a quick glance toward Rosaline, who seemed to be absorbed with some book, Awen stuck her head out the window to see where, exactly, the carriage was headed.
The Crickhowell School for the Muses Page 8