“Anything. I just want to know your sound.” He paced a short line in front of his easel. “I’m thrilled to have some extra inspiration! You can’t imagine my excitement, especially to learn that you’d be here so quickly. Usually, we have to wait for a year, and my friend—a composer down the way—waited one year plus a half for his muse!”
Awen shifted her feet. She was not quite sure what to do, nor how she should react to his words. It was as if what he said should make her feel special, but its effect was quite the opposite.
“Now, now.” He clapped his hands once, then motioned to her. “Go on.”
Awen cleared her throat a second time. She thought through the tunes she had learned and selected her favorite. She started with a few warm-up tones, then began her song.
The notes came out clear and fluid, containing not a trace of the nerves she felt. The sound was somehow detached, as if it were shielded from her emotions, no longer a part of her.
Sir Robert was silent for a moment after she finished. He smiled. “Brava! Beautiful; I love it! This will be wonderful for my art.” He raised his arms up to his sides, as if he were a king showing off his lands. “I must get started immediately. I can already feel the creativity seeping in through my skin.”
He dashed to a set of drawers and a cabinet at the perimeter of the room, and pulled out supplies at random. Arms full, he moved to the center of the studio to dump everything on the table where he had placed the burlap sack, then pushed that table right up next to his easel. Then he emptied the sack, tossed it aside, and began to uncap tubes and squeeze out paints. Awen watched in fascination as Sir Robert mixed colors with wooden spatulas—a little more blue, a little less green—hmming and ahing as he went. He worked so fast that by the time she identified what he was doing, what color he was mixing, he had already moved on to the next. Soon, he had a full palette before him. He approached the painting on his easel, eyeing it like a wild animal poised to attack.
Awen inched herself slowly away from the easel and piano, not quite sure what to do.
He sashayed sideways, crouched and stalked, finally pouncing upon the canvas with paint brush held high.
He began to paint.
“My dear,” Sir Robert chuckled, without once removing his gaze from the canvas, “do not worry. I have a different…er, approach from that of most other artists you’ve probably seen.” He brushed vigorously, working all across the canvas. “I take my work seriously, and it shows in both my preparation and my technique.”
Awen nodded slowly in reply, though she had never before seen any artist work. She knew Sir Robert could not see her reply anyway, with his eyes focused on the canvas.
Or could he?
“Go on, sing a little something,” he urged, eyes still on his work. “It doesn’t have to be anything you learned; just create something on the spot.”
Create something on the spot? Awen had never considered that. It would be just like the piano—pick out a note here, a note there, and pull something together. She started with a low, soft note, then slid stepwise up the scale.
“Perfect.” Sir Robert smiled, sending his brush in an arc across the entire painting.
Awen quickly settled into the music, mixing in some leaps with the stepwise motion. She felt the beginning of a tune working its way out of the texture—it was not so hard after all. From the corner of her eye she could see Sir Robert working the brush, lost in the world he had created on his tableau. Awen could see the painting only from the side, but it looked colorful—magical, even. She wanted to be in that world, too.
Then a strange thing happened. Although Awen knew it had not actually changed, she felt her song begin to sag and grow dull to her ears; she struggled to hold on to the tune. Sir Robert, however, noticed nothing. Awen had to wonder if he was even still aware of her presence, or if she had simply become a bodiless voice in his head. She pushed through her song, paying more attention to Sir Robert’s painting than to the notes coming out of her mouth. Singing was tedious again, in the way it had been in the cramped practice rooms at Crickhowell. Awen wanted to stop, but she knew that if she did, all of the magic in the painting would break apart, and it would be her fault.
* * *
Sir Robert stuffed a forkful of cherry-glazed chicken into his mouth, following it with a swig of red wine. “Today was quite productive,” he said, still chewing.
“Mm-hm.” Awen nodded. The dining room was situated on the first floor, off the first hallway to the left. It was spacious and dark, just like the rest of the castle, and the abundance of candles lent it a certain coziness. Awen was seated across from Sir Robert, at the opposite end of a long rectangular table. She looked down at her own plate, spearing a green bean and raising it to her mouth, then poking at a cherry and watching it spring back.…
“It’s a shame I couldn’t give you a tour today; you would’ve met our cook and maid, Abigail. She makes a wonderful dinner. Lives far back in the house, so unfortunately, I never see her unless she’s bringing me my meals—but she’s a lovely girl.”
Awen nodded, swallowing a small bite of chicken. She had not tasted anything so delicious in a long time, but still, she could hardly eat a thing. She had to put her fork down after just four bites.
“My son will be back in a week,” Sir Robert said after a long silence.
Awen looked up from her plate, where she had been moving a cherry around in circles.
“Been away on some business,” he continued. “He’ll have to leave again, of course, but he’ll be around long enough. It’ll be nice to have some more noise in this place!” He chuckled.
Awen stifled a yawn and wiped her drooping eyes with the back of her hand.
“Say, maybe your music will give him some inspiration in his work. It’s not exactly art, those business deals, but even the businessman needs a muse sometimes!”
Awen wondered if Sir Robert ever grew tired, or even slept. His excitement had not wavered all day; his quick movements had never slowed—it seemed he could paint for hours on end. Awen feared that, just maybe, he could paint all through the night, too. If that were the case, she hoped he would not need her around.
“Interested in any dessert? Abigail usually makes a cake of some sort. I do love sweet things.” He winked good-naturedly.
Awen tried to smile back, but it turned into a yawn, which she did not bother to hide.
He finally seemed to understand. “Ah, never you mind; you’re probably very tired. Go on to sleep, then. There’ll still be cake tomorrow.”
Awen nodded sleepily in gratitude and rose from her chair. “My plate?” She motioned toward it and gave him a questioning look.
“Abigail takes care of that.”
Awen drifted out of the room and toward the main staircase, battling both fatigue and that strange feeling of not existing. Candles still glowed in the hallway upstairs. Either someone had refreshed them, or they did not ever burn down.…Awen dismissed the latter thought and grabbed a candle from one of the sconces, knowing her room would be dark now with the setting of the sun.
Awen saw the light emanating from her room from halfway down the hall.
For a moment, she thought she had the wrong hall, or the wrong floor, though she knew full well that was impossible. Still, Awen had left her room that morning lit only with sunlight, and now the sky was shrouded in darkness. She hurried toward it, sleep unraveling from her with every step.
“Ah!” she gasped upon reaching the threshold. Someone—Abigail?—had lit five luminous lanterns and spread them about the room. One stood on her trunk, which had been positioned at the end of the bed. The trunk had been unpacked, too, her clothing folded on a table with the powder makeup and vial placed on top. The bed no longer contained a heap of dusty-looking fabric, but had been made up, though modestly, with one large pillow. The chipped frames and furniture were still there but had been pushed to the side of the room to make space on the floor.
Awen blew out her candle and set i
t on the trunk. Next, she carefully removed her leather shoes, placing them one by one beside the candlestick. Looking up, she saw that a nightgown had been left at the end of the bed. It looked like the dress she already wore, but without all of the ruffles. She traded her dress for the nightgown.
Awen surveyed the scattered lanterns. She wanted to leave them burning but knew that if she did, she would be unable to sleep. She picked up the one on her trunk and moved about the room, blowing out the rest of the lanterns, until the only light came from the one she held. She set that lantern back on the trunk, the glow just dim enough for sleep, and climbed into the four-poster bed.
The high ceiling seemed to recede into the darkness. With her arms folded back behind her head, Awen pictured the night sky above her. She created her own constellations, imagining the stories behind them. She was no longer as fatigued as she had been at dinner, but with each new point of light she envisioned on the ceiling, another cloud of sleep condensed in her body. Sir Robert’s comment about his son drifted into her thoughts; for a moment, she tried to imagine what he might look like…but her eyes drooped, and she was too tired to care.
* * *
The room flooded with light. Awen’s eyes opened slowly, then immediately shut again.
“Up, Miss! Sir Robert needs you straight away.” The female voice was heavily accented.
Awen re-opened her eyes, trying to remember where, exactly, she was.
A young woman in an apron dashed about the room, pushing back curtains and rearranging things.
Awen turned over and buried her head under the pillow.
“There’s some breakfast waiting for you downstairs, but you must be quick,” the woman continued, urgency in her voice. “Sir Robert has begun his work already, and he needs you.”
Awen tossed back her pillow and sat up straight. “Abigail?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s me. Now hurry!”
Awen jumped out of the bed, threw on her dress and grabbed her shoes, which she put on as she half-ran down the hall. She took the stairs at a near sprint.
In the dining room, at the same spot where she had eaten the night before, sat a silver plate with fruit and a biscuit. Without sitting down, Awen took a bite of the biscuit, then stuffed a few grapes into her mouth. She stopped there, still not very hungry.
Awen headed toward Sir Robert’s painting studio, chewing some stray bits of grape skin that had stuck to the roof of her mouth. She wondered what time he had woken up—or if he had even gone to sleep.
“’Morning there!” he greeted her exuberantly as she stepped into the brightness of the room. “You’re just in time.”
Just in time for what? Awen wondered, trying not to let her face reveal the question.
Sir Robert, however, seemed to read her. “I’ve decided not to have you sing today; I’d like you to sit for my painting instead. It’s not a portrait, but sometimes visual inspiration is far more powerful than auditory.”
Awen crossed her arms in front of her. She was not accustomed to being looked at.
“Do not you worry, dear.” Again, he seemed to read the anxiety on her face. “You don’t need to do anything—you don’t even need to change your hair. Just sit right here.” He pointed a blue-tipped brush toward a small wooden stool situated diagonally from his easel.
Awen stood still for a moment, biting her lip, then let out an acquiescent sigh and sat down on the stool.
“Good.” Sir Robert smiled. Awen watched as he silently mixed up another color on his already overflowing palette—a green. He added a touch of black, swirling it around until it had darkened all the way through.
Awen felt a light breeze ruffle her hair. She waited until Sir Robert’s attention was fully concentrated on a spot on the canvas, then turned her torso to face the window behind her. It had been opened—the pushed-aside curtains swirled in place.
“I like to keep the windows open when I can, but face forward, please.”
Awen snapped back to face Sir Robert.
He had his brush in his right hand and was gazing at her over his golden glasses. “Keeps the air fresh.”
There was something about the way he looked at her. As if he knew something about her, something about her past, or her future; as if he did not trust her—or maybe he himself had a secret. Awen could not put a finger on it. But the thought unsettled her, like an ominous sky before a great storm.
Sir Robert kept his eyes on her for a moment, then turned back to the canvas. He worked mostly in silence, glancing up at Awen every now and then, telling her not to fiddle with her hands. Eventually, he began to hum.
Awen had to admit that there was something pleasant about this process. The sunlight through the window warming her back. The almost-silence—the only sounds being the bristles brushing against canvas, and the wind and birds outside. After she settled into it, she was afraid to move, afraid that she might throw the atmosphere off balance.
A light knock sounded from the hallway.
“Come in, Abigail,” Sir Robert said without looking up.
Awen glanced toward the hall, shifting only her eyes.
Abigail appeared, carrying a cloth-covered basket. “Just some breads and cheese,” she said, setting the basket on a table. “I can also bring some fruit if you’d like.”
“No, just that is fine. Thank you, Abigail.”
“Sir.” Abigail gave a small curtsy and left.
“Feel free to pick out whatever you’d like for your lunch, Awen.”
She could not believe that so much time had passed, yet she could feel the twistings of hunger in her stomach. Awen hopped up, selected a piece of yellow cheese and a slice of hard bread from the basket, and returned to her chair. She made a sandwich out of it and tried to eat it without dropping crumbs all over the floor.
“Now, don’t you want to know a little something about me?”
Startled, Awen looked up, accidentally dropping the last small chunk of cheese.
Sir Robert was not looking at her, but was still painting, and did not seem to be partaking in the lunch. “I know a few things about you—admittedly, not much—but I think you should know something about me, too.” He smiled. “Ask me anything.”
There were some things she wanted to know—but did he really mean she could ask him anything? She glanced at the back of the easel, trying to formulate an innocent enough question. “What are you painting?” She had not seen his work since the morning before, when it was still a blue wash with wandering brown strokes.
“Ah, yes. I thought you might ask about that, eventually.” Sir Robert put down his brush and palette, then took the easel in both hands and carefully turned it so that the painting faced Awen.
It still was not yet close to done, but Awen could tell the painting would be beautiful. Dark greens and brown dominated the canvas, with some red tones toward the top, and a touch of gold here and there. It looked as if it might become a forest landscape, although a woman’s face seemed to be emerging from the texture at the very top. Her face had little detail, except for a pair of bright green eyes that seemed to burn the canvas. Awen pointed to it. “What’s this?”
“That, my dear, is the Lady of the Forest, looking down upon her realm. Anything else?” He began to turn the easel back around.
Awen glanced around the room, trying to come up with another question; now that she had the opportunity to ask them, they all seemed to flutter away. “Does anyone else besides Abigail live here?”
“Hmm. Not that I’m aware of! I suppose there could be secrets hidden away in the castle depths, but hopefully not any people!”
* * *
The sky was beginning to darken with the onset of evening. Awen thought she spotted a cloud or two rolling in, blotting out the sun even faster. She was sprawled across her bed, feet on her pillow, and would have opened a window to find out if she could smell rain, but her head was getting heavy, and she thought she might fall asleep. The last thing she heard before drifting off was the u
nmistakable sound of hooves against a dirt path.
* * *
Taptaptap. “Awen!” Taptaptap. “Dinner is ready. Sir Robert wants you downstairs.”
Awen turned over and hung her head over the foot of the bed. How long had she been asleep? It felt like hours. She looked up at the window, but saw that the sky had not yet even turned black; she could not have been sleeping for long. “On my way,” she called to Abigail. She yawned, rolled herself off the bed, and rearranged her dress, then drifted out into the hallway and down the stairs.
As Awen turned the corner, approaching the entrance to the dining room, she thought she heard two voices conversing. Two male voices. She recalled the question she had asked Sir Robert earlier that afternoon—Does anyone else besides Abigail live here? She paused just outside the room to listen, but there was a lull in the conversation, and all she heard was the clinking of forks against plates.
“Awen, come in and join us, dear,” Sir Robert called from inside the room.
Her breath caught in her chest. How did he always know where she was? Awen slipped into the room, hoping to go unnoticed.
The first thing she saw was the back of a young man’s head, and then his hand, which he pulled through his ruffled, golden-brown hair. He was sitting where she had sat the night before and was facing away from the entrance.
“Awen,” Sir Robert motioned to her.
The young man slowly turned in his chair.
“He arrived earlier than expected. This is my son, Francis.”
Seventeen
Awen’s eyebrows shot skyward. Her jaw dropped. Then she closed her mouth before Sir Robert could notice.
Francis looked just as surprised, and he, too, tried to suppress his reaction lest his father know he had met Awen before. But then, as he molded his face back into a neutral expression, a twinkle surfaced in his eye, as if he had known this moment was coming all along.
Awen cocked her head back, furrowing her brow in a second bout of confused surprise.
The Crickhowell School for the Muses Page 13