The Crickhowell School for the Muses

by Waxman, Rachel

  At the top of a hill sat a larger structure—castle-like, yet at most half the size of the Crickhowell School. The castle was constructed of stone like the other buildings in the town, though this stone had a yellow hue.

  “Awen!” Rosaline snapped.

  She pulled back immediately, leaping to her original position on the bench as if by instinct. Awen expected a tirade from Rosaline, but the woman said no more.

  The carriage began to slow, evening out as it reached the very top of the hill.

  “Girls,” Rosaline announced, “welcome to the Beaufort School for the Muses.”

  Eleven

  This castle had only two stories: the upper, designated for the student living quarters and practice rooms; and the lower level, for the instructors’ quarters, their offices, and a small dining area. Rosaline had left the girls each in her own room, telling them she would return later in the day, after she had settled everything on the main floor. She left them no explanation for the situation, though Awen—and, she supposed, Genevieve and Carmella—already knew most of it.

  Awen’s room was even smaller than it had been at Crickhowell, and the interior—which was stone, rather than wood—made it feel even more cramped. The one window was hardly a window at all; it had no glass and was more akin to a narrow vertical cut in the stone wall. Awen could barely fit her hand through it.

  There was, however, one improvement. Instead of a mattress on a floor, Awen now had what passed as a legitimate bed. It was not long, and it only stood about to her knee, but it was better than what she’d had before.

  When Awen tired of inspecting her new room, she sat on the bed, kicking her feet outward. She considered exploring the rest of the upper floor—she did not think she would run into anyone, as she had heard no passing footsteps—but felt too tired to bother. So, she remained on the bed, kicking her feet.

  Then, she did hear footsteps. Her door opened. It was Rosaline. Carmella and Genevieve were standing off to the side.

  “Awen, come downstairs with us. I feel I should inform you all of this new situation, and of the rules at the Beaufort School.” She smiled proudly, waiting for Awen to exit her room before continuing down the hall.

  Rosaline led the girls to the small, dark dining room on the first floor. The room had a large, doorless entryway and no windows, and it contained just two round wooden tables. Rosaline lit a candle in the center of one of them.

  “Sit.” She gestured toward the table but remained standing herself. “Mr. Berwick and Miss Tori are organizing their offices at the moment,” she began. “Anyway, if you have not yet all deduced, you are at a new school for the muses, of which I am the mistress. In the Beaufort School for the Muses, I have created a rival to Crickhowell, which, as you know, is run by Miss Nina. I selected the three of you,” she gestured, “as the first students for my school.” She leaned toward them and added in a whisper, “You should be very excited.”

  Awen pursed her lips.

  “Sooo,” she said with a clap, “that is that. You can go outside if you wish, as there is really no running away from this town, and the people here know not to assist you, were you to try. Tori will continue to teach you girls harp,” she pointed at Carmella and Genevieve, “and Awen will receive vocal lessons from Mr. Berwick until I find you a new patron. Lessons and practicing start tomorrow. And there will be dinner in here tonight at seven.” She turned and left the room.

  Awen stared opened-mouthed after Rosaline. A nauseous sensation rumbled in her stomach; fearing she might vomit, Awen closed her mouth and leaned forward across the table, resting her forehead on the backs of her hands.

  Awen heard Carmella’s voice: “Are you all right?”

  Awen knew she could not possibly have a lesson with Mr. Berwick. She had to get out of it, somehow: be sick, hide, escape during the night. She could not stand his leathery face and purple scar, his disgusting yellow teeth. And the way he looked at her, the way he watched her from the corner of his eye, winking. She shivered and pressed her head harder into her hands.

  “Are you all right?” Carmella asked again.

  Awen lifted her head slowly, just barely able to shake it to one side.

  “Do you want us to take you up to your room?”

  Awen turned her head to the other side.

  “Are you sure?”

  The nausea was beginning to subside; still, Awen did not bother with a second response.

  “Well, all right…feel better then.”

  Awen rested her forehead back down on her hands, the sick feeling almost gone. She heard the two chairs scrape against the floor as Genevieve and Carmella rose from the table. They walked quietly from the room.

  Awen lifted her head once they were gone.

  The castle seemed to be under a cloud of stillness, the only sound the ticking of a clock. Awen surveyed the room in one sweep but found no clock on the wall. She stood abruptly, her chair squeaking behind her. She froze.

  Awen quieted her breathing, listening for any noise upstairs, or in the hallway:

  Silence.

  She tiptoed out of the room, the soles of her feet cold on the stone floor. Awen hesitated at the staircase; after a moment, she turned away to walk down the first-floor hallway. She paused after every step, the ticking of the unseen clock growing louder as she progressed down the hall.

  Awen stopped when she reached the first door on the left, halfway down the corridor. She put her ear to it and waited.

  Nothing. Just the sound of her own breathing.

  Awen took in a nervous gulp of air and tiptoed to the next door, on the right. This one, she noticed, had a round brass knocker. She pressed her ear to this door, too, careful not to put any weight against it. At first, there was nothing but a ticking sound—she wondered if it was the clock she had heard in the dining room, but she did not think the sound could travel that far. She was about to pull away and head toward the next door when a hollow, metallic clang came from inside the room. Awen started, bumping her head against the door. More clangs followed. Pressing a hand against her temple, she pulled away to lean against the wall. The murmuring of voices from within the room coaxed her back:

  “Ah, yes, it is time for…”

  “Let me just finish…”

  Awen could only presume the sound she had heard was that of a clock, calling out some time of day. How many clangs had there been? She supposed it did not really matter.

  “I dare say we should head to…” The rest of the sentence vanished behind the door. Awen heard footsteps and more talking, but this time she could not make out a single word. She pressed her ear harder into the door, hoping to catch a bit more, but instead she heard a squeak close to her ear—a twisting doorknob—and the door moved away from her, opening from the inside.

  Awen sprang away, toward the third and final door, willing it to be unlocked. She heard the voices growing louder behind her, but she did not bother to turn. She leapt with her right hand outstretched and, in one swift move, turned the knob and pushed the door open. She whirled around immediately and pushed the door silently shut. She leaned against it, gasping for breath, and folded her arms. She closed her eyes. Awen listened as the two women—she knew it was Rosaline and Tori—passed down the hallway, away from her. Their footsteps, sharp and quick, rang in the reverberant hall for seconds; for the first time, Awen was glad she wore no shoes. The unmistakable sound of a heavy door swinging open—the front entrance—filtered in from the far end of the hall. It clanged shut.

  Eyes still closed, Awen exhaled at last.

  “Not gettin’ yourself into too much trouble now, are ya?”

  Awen’s body tensed. She knew who owned that voice. She did not need to open her eyes to check.

  “Sounds to me like you were runnin’ away from somethin’. Careful, now—don’t wanna fall on this stone floor. It’d mess up yer pretty face.” Awen heard the sound of Mr. Berwick’s leather boots approaching. Then, he stopped. She thought she could hear him breathing, fee
l his presence just above. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids would not pull back.

  “So…what are ya doin’?” He shuffled a foot against the floor. “If ya don’t mind my askin’, that is.” He chuckled.

  Awen took a deep breath, opening one eye at a time. Her line of vision was directed toward Mr. Berwick’s chest. She tilted her head slowly upward, dreading the sight of his leathery face and yellow teeth. The purple scar almost made her gag, but he did not seem to notice.

  “What now, don’t ya speak ever?”

  Awen wondered what her chances of escape were. She was standing closer to the door—against it, actually—and all it would take would be a sly slip of the hand to the knob, a slow turn…but the door opened inward, and surely he would grab her…and even if she made it out, there was no guarantee he would not follow her, and her room had no lock from the inside…and if she ran outside, where would she go…?

  “What’re ya thinkin’ about, eh?” Mr. Berwick’s lips pulled back into a grin, showing off his disgusting teeth. “So, I’m to be yer voice teacher here, eh? Wha’dya think about that? I don’t actually sing, ya see—I did cleanin’ back at Crickhowell before I got kicked out.…” His eyes shifted sideways, as if he were recalling the event. “But not ever’body knows that. Rosaline, for one, thinks I was a voice teacher. Hah!” he chortled, eyes shining. “I don’t even look like a voice teacher!” He let out a whoop of laughter. “But I know how to play’t real smooth, make ’em believe whatever I want.”

  Awen gasped for air, unaware that she had been holding her breath. She had risen to her tiptoes and pinned herself against the door. Mr. Berwick saw the tension in her face; he leaned in closer, ever closer, placing his hands against the door, above her head. His breath reeked of tobacco and the brown fizzy liquid she had drunk at the Pickwick Inn.

  “So…since I don’t teach voice, what would ya like to do instead? We do have daily lessons planned, after all.” He leered at her.

  Awen scrunched her nose, trying not to breathe in the vileness.

  “Gotta do somethin’ with that time, don’t want Rosaline to suspect nothin’, eh?” He scrunched his forehead in concentration. “But, if ya don’t ever talk anyway…” The right side of his mouth curved upward. “Yeah,” he nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

  Almost involuntarily, Awen’s arm began to slide upward. Without so much as a shifting of her eyes, she reached toward the doorknob and wrapped a hand around the cold brass.

  “Well, as you know,” he grunted, eyes fixed on hers, “yer first lesson is planned for tomorrow, and it’s for an hour. Though, I s’ppose we could take more time if ya wanted to.” He winked. “So now, ya better get thinkin’, or else I’ll come up with somethin’ to do.” Suddenly, he removed his hands from the door and turned around. He took three steps away from Awen, who remained as she was, back against the door, hand gripping the knob. If he turned around again from this distance, Awen knew she would be seen. If she acted quickly though, quietly, by the time he noticed her absence she might be able to get far enough through the castle that he could not find her.…

  “Hmm, I have somethin’ for ya. Let’s see if I can find it.” He walked another few paces away, leather boots scraping the stone floor.

  Awen’s wrist turned, twisting the knob just a fraction. She left it there.

  “A jewel I acquired on the road. I got it by…hah! Don’t matter how I got it,” he snorted.

  She twisted the knob again, farther this time.

  “I think it’d look real pretty on ya.” He rummaged through some shelves or a box or a desk—Awen could not tell. She focused only on his back. “Hmm, where is’t?”

  An organized plan of escape from the suffocation of the room did not matter anymore. Awen just wanted out—if only for three seconds before getting snagged and dragged back in. She completed the turn of the knob and whipped the door open.

  “Wha?” She heard Mr. Berwick’s puzzled inquiry from behind but, flinging herself forward, did not turn to look. She threw her left foot forward, barely letting it touch the floor before pushing off again, both feet in mid-air, ready to land on her right and start the process over until she reached…

  Something grabbed her left arm. Before she could react, Awen’s legs crumpled beneath her, and she fell forward in a heap on the stone floor.

  “Aha! I see ya don’ talk, but ya do escape!” Mr. Berwick dragged Awen, still on the floor, back to the room. She had run no farther than three feet. “Thought you could run faster than me?” he sneered, closing the door hard. This time, he leaned back against it. “I ain’t such an old man. Naw, I ain’t so slow.”

  Awen stood up slowly. She fiddled with a loose thread on her dress—now more yellow than cream-colored. Regret washed over her. She wondered if her failed escape had been a silly idea; maybe he would have let her go sooner had she just stayed. Now, she was surely stuck in the little room until whenever Mr. Berwick might have to leave—dinner-time, maybe. Awen risked a quick glance at Mr. Berwick, and for that split second, she had the strange, unbidden thought that he looked just as trapped and directionless as she felt.

  In the distance, a door creaked, then thudded shut. Female voices.

  Rosaline and Tori.

  Mr. Berwick jumped away from the door. “Back already?” he mumbled. “That was real quick.” He scrunched his eyebrows together, standing still for a moment—then swung the door open. “Well, see you at dinner, then,” he said with a wink, and waved Awen out.

  Twelve

  The first rays of sunlight flecked through the slotted window in Awen’s stone room. She rolled onto her stomach, bending her knees to squeeze herself into a ball, and tucked in her head to stretch her neck. She figured if she did not get up on her own, someone would be there soon, pounding at the door to do the job for her. She counted slowly, silently, promising to roll out of bed when she reached ten.

  Ten. Awen did not move. She sighed, and this time began counting to twenty-five. At thirteen she heard faint footsteps in the hallway; in a flurry of adrenaline, she rolled herself over to stand on both feet. She quieted her breathing, listening for more movement in the hall:

  Nothing.

  Awen walked the few steps required to reach the door, then pulled it open. She stuck her head out, peered to the left—empty—and then to the right. The hallway clear, Awen stepped out and turned to close the door behind her. When she swiveled back to face down the hall, Carmella had appeared outside her own room, a few paces away.

  “Good morning,” Carmella quietly greeted her, the shadow of a smile on her face.

  Awen returned the smile.

  “Are you going down for breakfast?”

  Awen nodded.

  “I think it’s just like Crickhowell: muffins in a basket; we eat as soon as we rise. I wonder if the cook stays in here, or somewhere in town? Hmm.” Carmella glanced around her as if looking for the cook’s quarters. “Well, all right then, let’s go.”

  The pair tiptoed silently through the hall and down the stone steps, all the while unsure of why they were moving so quietly. In this castle, even the most normal of actions felt taboo.

  Upon reaching the small dining area, they found the room empty. However, as expected, a wicker basket full of muffins had been placed at the center of the table.

  Carmella reached in first. “Mmm,” she mumbled through a mouthful of muffin. “Raspberry. Good.”

  Awen reached into the basket, and for a moment, it was like that morning at Crickhowell when she had first met Vivienne—except now, everything was different. She shivered at the nostalgia she felt for such an awful place.

  The girls sat, Carmella already halfway done with her breakfast, and Awen yet to take a bite.

  “I hope you slept well last night,” Carmella said as she chewed the final bits of her muffin.

  Awen shrugged. She had, in fact, slept surprisingly fine. She had only awakened once, the image of Mr. Berwick at the periphery of her dreams.

  Carmella s
ighed abruptly. “All right, I don’t mean to offend you, but…do you ever speak? I get nothing but nods and shrugs, and smiles on occasion. It’s…” She struggled for the right word. “It’s frustrating,” she finally admitted. “You and me and Genevieve…we’ve only got each other.” Carmella shifted her eyes downward, seemingly to hide an embarrassed expression. She reached for another muffin, barely looking up, then picked and chewed it in silence.

  Awen shrugged, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. Then she rose, her chair pushing out behind her. She made a move toward the hallway, reconsidering only because of her untouched breakfast still on the table. She turned with a soft sigh, retrieved it, and walked out.

  Awen bit into the raspberry muffin. She felt a tingling in the back of her mouth as the tart juice ran over her tongue. She began up the stairway, staring down at the bleeding raspberries in her hand.

  “Don’t take your food out of the dining room.”

  Awen’s head shot up. Rosaline stood at the top of the staircase, one foot dangling above the next stair, ready to step. Genevieve waited behind her. “You girls woke earlier than I thought.” She looked pleased somehow. “I’m headed to the dining room myself, and I suggest you do so as well.”

  Awen turned back, but she kept her eyes fixed on Rosaline. She stood awkwardly like that for a moment, head twisted to peer over her shoulder, until Rosaline squinted at her. At that, Awen whipped her head back around and drifted back to the dining hall, where she reclaimed her chair. Carmella still sat quietly, done with her breakfast. Awen slowly finished her muffin as Genvieve and Rosaline entered the room.

  Rosaline cleared her throat.

  Awen turned in her chair, which let out an ear-splitting squeak that nobody seemed to hear. Rosaline was leaning against the wall, staring upward, the throat-clearing apparently not an attempt to gain the girls’ attention. Awen turned back toward the table in puzzlement.