“Dad had to miss a performance to come here,” Jai adds. “Some big illusion show for the king of Denmark. So he’s extra cranky.”
“Oh,” I say casually, as if missing performances for kings is a totally normal problem to have.
I can tell Jai is trying not to stare at me, but then he asks tentatively, “So . . . do you live on a farm or something?”
I glance down at my work boots, jeans, and T-shirt with a picture of Johannes Sebastian wearing sunglasses beneath the words I’LL BE BACH—all spattered with mud and chicken poop. At least they seem to have aired out a bit. That, or I’ve gotten used to the smell.
“Um . . . yes.” It seems to be the easiest explanation.
Gran is standing outside the ballroom, looking around nervously and fidgeting with her driving gloves.
“Where have you been?” she asks.
She gives Jai a quick, suspicious look—Gran’s gotten weird about me talking to boys, like they’re all on the verge of dragging me to prom or something—then pulls me aside. Jai heads on in with a grin and a wave, and I see his father’s hand clamp hard on his shoulder.
There are a bunch more kids waiting in chairs, and they’re all dressed like they’re going to a funeral—a very fancy funeral. The girls wear black dresses, the boys wear suits like Jai’s. Everyone is tuning up, but a sign on the wall reads NO MAGIC, so it’s just scales and random notes and handheld electronic tuners, no spells. There are warded practice rooms farther down, where I see sparks of magic beneath the doors.
“You’re sure this is what you want?” Gran asks, her eyes searching my face.
“Gran, you know it is.”
“Amelia . . .” Her hand grips my arm so tight, I worry she’s about to drag me out of the hotel. “This won’t be like your school, where you can play rings around everyone else.”
“What are you saying, Gran?” I frown. “Are you saying I’m not good enough for Mystwick?”
Her eyes widen. “No! No, not that. It’s only that . . . you’re so young to already have your whole life planned out. Maybe there are other things you’d like to try first. You never know—”
“Are you going to tell me I’m not allowed to audition?” I say it louder than I’d intended, and a few people glance at us. My cheeks burn but I don’t look away from Gran. “Are we really going to go over this again? Gran, this is what I want. This is the only thing I’ve ever wanted.”
“It would mean leaving me,” she says. “The school’s on the other side of the country, you know, way up in the Rocky Mountains.”
“Well, maybe it isn’t about you, Gran.” The words leap off my tongue before I can stop them, sharp as glass.
She looks at me a moment, and my stomach clenches. I so do not want to argue with her about this now, not in front of all those other kids, right before the most important audition of my life. Why can’t she just tell me good luck? Or even snap at me to be serious and focus, like Jai’s dad did to him? At least then I’d know she wants me to do my best today.
Then she says, “No. It’s about her. You think I don’t know that? I know you keep her picture in your flute case.”
“So what? You don’t want me to be like my mom?”
“Of course I want you to feel close to her. I’m just scared of you trying so hard to be someone else that you never find out who you are. And Musicraft, Amelia . . . it’s dangerous.”
My chest pinches. “Well, just because you’re scared doesn’t mean I have to be.”
She must see the determination in my eyes, because she finally sighs and shakes her head. “They aren’t letting adults into the waiting area. So I’ll be over at the restaurant, okay?”
That’s it. No hug, no advice. But that’s how it’s always been with Gran. I stopped expecting encouragement from her years ago. Suddenly I wish I’d asked Mrs. Parrish to bring me here today, not Gran. Deep down, I guess I’d thought if I did well here, Gran would finally accept my magic and realize I’m not giving it up, not for anything.
I just wish I understood why she hates it so much.
Face still red, I walk into the waiting room, where it seems like a million pairs of eyes fix on me. I can’t help but think they heard some of the argument, even though Gran and I were mostly whispering. Cheeks burning, I take the seat beside Jai, who’s got earbuds in, probably listening to his audition spell. There’s a pair of double doors at the end of the room, where the kids go in one by one to audition for the Maestros from Mystwick.
“So many people,” I say, taking out my flute and fitting the sections back together.
Jai nods, taking out one of his earbuds. “But Mystwick only takes the best of the best.”
I swallow. Hard. As a distraction, I point at his dangling earbud, from which a spell is blasting at top volume so it almost buzzes like a bee against his tuxedo, all drums and wild guitar riffs.
“You’re playing a rock spell for your audition?”
He laughs, but glances nervously at the corridor, where his dad is still lurking. “No, this just gets me in the zone. Besides, my dad would probably disown me if he ever caught me playing a spell that was so”—he drops his voice and does an impression of his father—“unserious. He says rock magic is for losers.” Jai rolls his eyes.
At least his dad doesn’t hate all Musicraft, like Gran does.
I wish I had something to listen to to get me in the zone, but I don’t think anything short of a hypnotizing jazz spell would work right now. My feet bounce restlessly, like they’re ready to take off at a sprint for the doors.
As if he can read my thoughts, Jai nudges me and says, “Don’t worry. You’ll get in. We both will.” He pauses, then adds, “Or we don’t. And we end up as street musicians, removing warts for a pound—er, sorry. Dollar.”
“Or charming runaway chickens.”
He laughs. “Never heard that one before.”
I could make a living as a Novice, sure, with a little silver pin on my collar. Anyone at all can be a Novice, even without going to a Musicraft school.
I’d just be unable to join a Symphony, and I’d never get to play high-level spells. I’d forever be a beginner, never finding out my true potential. And worst of all, I’d fail my mom.
I can still remember the day I found her flute. I was seven years old, digging around Gran’s attic for a sled, since it had snowed the day before. Instead, I found a slender black case, and inside it—the impossible.
A flute. Her flute.
I could remember her and me lying on a picnic blanket under a big tree, and her playing a spell to make the wind rustle the leaves. I could remember her polishing the flute, sitting on a faded blue couch while I lay with my feet in her lap, listening to music on the radio.
“Why do you listen to this?” I asked her. “It doesn’t make any magic.” Recorded music is just sounds. It has to be played live to become a spell.
“Oh, Amelia.” In my hazy memories, her voice was always shifting—sometimes light, sometimes deep—but it was always kind. “There is magic in just listening, you know. And if you listen close enough, you can hear music everywhere.”
Then she let me hold her flute and pretend to play it, my fingers on top of hers as she showed me the fingerings for her favorite spells. In a way, the flute and my mom are one and the same. If I hold it tight enough, sometimes I can imagine it’s her hand I’m holding.
I’d thought the flute had been lost after she died.
When I’d asked Gran about it, she got upset and hid it again. I was so mad that I tried to run away from home, but I only made it as far as Mrs. O’Grady’s. She was the one who told me my mom had gone to the Mystwick School of Musicraft and become a Maestro.
And that’s when I decided I would do everything it took to get there too. I would find out if I was good enough to follow in her footsteps.
“Two forty-one!” shouts the woman in charge of the audition room doors, startling me from my thoughts.
“Well, here I go,” Jai sighs
, taking his violin from his case.
“Good luck!”
“Psh! Who needs luck?” He grins. “The Maestros like confidence, Amelia Jones. Don’t forget it. Your magic is only as strong as your belief.”
He gives me a thumbs-up, then disappears through the double doors to the audition room.
If it’s confidence the Maestros want, then they might as well hand Jai his diploma and golden Maestro pin. I already saw him play like a master; he’s got the swagger of one, too.
I look around, my eyes falling on the girl beside me, who’s obsessively polishing her oboe.
“Hi,” I say, with a little wave. “Where are you from?”
The girl’s lips curl. “There’s something in your hair.”
I reach up and feel around until I find it—a fluffy white chicken feather.
These kids are all serious, well-dressed, shining. I bet their instruments cost a ton. Maybe they’ve had fancy tutors and all their relatives are famous and important Maestros like Jai’s. I wonder if any of them have ever charmed a chicken for five dollars or ridden their bike three miles through a rainstorm just to get to their music teacher’s house.
“Two forty-two!” calls the lady.
I look up to see Jai leaving. He gives a small fist pump. I guess his audition went well. My eyes follow him as he leaves, and I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. I hope he gets into Mystwick. But then, why wouldn’t he? His family is a tradition there.
And so is mine, I remind myself.
“TWO FORTY-TWO!” the voice calls again, louder, and I jolt upright, remembering that I’m 242.
The woman in charge of the doors waves, urging me to hurry. Her brown hair is tied into a sleek ponytail, and it swings as she shakes her head, her eyes taking in my appearance with disapproval.
“Sorry,” I say quickly.
“Two forty-two?”
I nod.
“Through here, dear. Quickly, now! And good luck!”
Drawing a deep breath, I walk past her and into the next room, clutching my flute case like it’s a float and I’m about to jump into a stormy, shark-infested sea.
Chapter Three
Sonata in Oops Minor
THE DOUBLE DOORS LEAD into another ballroom, this one even bigger than the first. The floor is shining marble and my steps echo off walls paneled with mirrors. Fragments of light dance everywhere, thrown by the prisms dangling from crystal chandeliers overhead.
The place is empty except for four people sitting behind a table at the far wall, two women and two men. They watch me silently as I cross the wide open space. Three of them are wearing tuxedos, and the woman on the end is wearing an elegant black dress. Each one wears a golden Maestro pin.
It takes a century for me to reach them. Their faces are completely blank, eyes fixed on me. I feel like they can see every speck of dirt on my clothes, every bad and unmusical thought I’ve ever had.
Now I know exactly why those kids before me left looking like they’d learned the time and place of their own deaths. All except Jai, of course. How had he handled these four stony-faced Maestros and still come out smiling?
And here I am with my muddy clothes and frizzy hair and no sheet music. For a minute, I can only stare at the floor, face on fire, wondering if I could get my audition fee refunded if I left now.
But then I tighten my jaw.
I didn’t come all this way to chicken out. Anyway, it doesn’t matter that my clothes are messy and my sheet music is burned to a crisp, or that I’ve never played in front of a real Maestro before.
Like Jai said: they like confidence.
I lift my chin and remind myself to breathe.
“Two-four-two?” says a grumpy-looking Maestro with more hair in his mustache than on his head.
I nod.
In front of me is a small table, and on it sits a clay pot. Leaning over, I see it’s filled with dirt, and on top of the dirt rests a small acorn. There’s a music stand, too, but it’s not like I have anything to put there.
“Excellent, another flute,” Mustache Man sighs, as if there are a million other things he’d rather be doing. “You have before you an acorn and ample soil. I trust our expectations are clear. Now, what piece will you be performing?”
“Handel’s—”
“Speak up! We can’t hear you when you squeak like that.”
I clear my throat. “Handel’s Flute Sonata in E minor.”
My hands shake like they’re made of paper. Wiping them on my jeans, I take two deep breaths before placing the silver barrel to my chin, my bottom lip lightly resting against the lip plate.
Three of the Maestros stare with flat eyes, but the lady in the dress gives me a small, encouraging smile.
The instructions on Mystwick’s audition website had been vague: Prepare a healing spell, it had said, and the rest of the instructions would be made clear at the audition itself. Now it all makes sense—healing spells also double as growth spells if you know how to alter the tempo just a bit. And I’ve had a lot of practice with that, helping Mrs. O’Grady in her vegetable garden.
But I’d counted on having my sheet music with me. I’ve played the spell a hundred times, but right now, I can’t even think of the first note.
Panicking, I press down and blow, producing a high, smooth note—E-flat.
It’s the right one.
After that, it all comes back to me: the notes, the tempo, the melody. My fingers dance over the keys.
Handel’s Flute Sonata in E minor. It starts out slow and steady, adagio, notes marching in an orderly line, smooth as glass. I take my time, settling into a series of rolling measures, my upper half swaying as I lean into the music and feel each note.
As the Third Rule of Musicraft states, With all your soul do play your part, for magic rises from the heart. That’s why recorded spells don’t work. They might sound nice, but magic comes from the musician, not the music—the notes and instruments are just how you control it. And that means you have to stay focused and keep your attention on the spell, or you won’t produce so much as a curl of magic. It takes your whole heart and soul to pull off a proper spell, and a good musician knows controlling your thoughts is just as important as controlling your breath and fingers.
Sweet tones turn into curls of green light and swirl through the air. Most of them, directed by my focus on the acorn, drift to the pot and sink into the soil. The magic smells like water on leaves, a rainy day in spring.
The first movement goes perfectly.
I transition into the second, picking up the tempo, allegro. Now my fingers begin to race, notes trilling and fluttering. And the magic changes accordingly, the green curls of light shortening into brief bursts, drifting like dandelion fluff through the air and hovering around the acorn. The longer I play, the more lights come to life, until my skin and the table and the flute are illuminated with dancing green sparks. The chandeliers overhead refract the lights until the whole room glitters, the mirrored walls reflecting endless Amelias.
Finally the acorn begins to jiggle, then splits into two pale halves as a tender white shoot pries its way free.
Growth spells are one of my favorites—they’re so full of hope and happiness. Seeing the little plant burst into life, straining to reach for the sun, makes my soul expand.
I risk a quick glance up, just as the sprout begins to unfurl its first leaves, and I see the Maestros watching just as grimly as before. They don’t look too impressed. Mustache even looks a little bored.
My heart squeezes.
What if I’m doing something wrong? What if I misunderstood the instructions or picked the wrong spell? What if they don’t like my technique? Or what if they decided the moment they saw my muddy shoes and my chicken-poop jeans that I’m not Mystwick material?
SQUEEEEET!
The jarring note splits the air like a scream and my whole body contracts, my fingers momentarily freezing on the keys. The fragile shoot shivers in its pot.
No no no no no!
Desperately, I keep playing as if the bad note never happened. I don’t dare look at the Maestros. But then I hit a wrong note, and another squeaky A, and sweat runs down my face and my neck and slimes my palms.
I keep picturing their stony expressions, especially Mustache Man, frowning at me and thinking, Who is this weirdo? She doesn’t belong here. Send in the real musicians!
Suddenly I hear a shout from the Maestros, and I look up.
And I’m so startled by what I see that I stop playing altogether. The green motes of light all die as suddenly as they appeared, like startled fireflies.
I stand frozen in horror in the following silence, gaping at Mustache Man.
Or rather, at the mustache.
It has sprouted so much hair that it now hangs to his belly. He could braid it and toss it over his shoulder, if he wanted. He could string it between two trees and use it for a hammock.
By letting my mind get distracted, I lost control of the magic, and it fixed on the Maestro instead of the acorn. The growth spell worked, at least . . . just not on the right thing.
The other three Maestros gape at the man, who is slowly lifting his ridiculously long mustache with both hands.
Then his eyes rise to me, shiny with rage.
“Young lady,” says the Maestro in the dress, “finish your spell, please.”
Shaking, I raise my flute and play the last few measures, but it’s too late to undo the damage.
The sprout had put out three leaves, but that last awful note had not only broken the spell—it had twisted it completely. In response, the shoot bent sideways at a ninety-degree angle, so the whole thing is now shaped like an upside-down L. The leaves droop sadly, as if heartbroken.
Kind of like how my heart is breaking.
I lower my flute and stare numbly.
“Somebody bring me a pair of scissors!” bellows Mustache Man. “And you!” He points at me. “Get out of here!”
“I—I’m sorry!” I say. “I can start over. Or I—I can play a trimming spell and fix it! Please, you’ll see—”
The Mystwick School of Musicraft Page 3