I can’t help it though. I’m so exhausted I can hardly see straight. My fingers feel heavy and useless.
The fourth time this happens, Miss Noorani calls a stop to it all. “We’re out of time today,” she says, and everyone groans. “We’ll try again on Wednesday, don’t worry. Now go on to study hour.”
I keep my head down as the other kids and I head up the hill toward the school.
“Nice work, Jones,” says Claudia, glaring at me. “We could have been done with this thirty minutes ago and had extra free time to skate.”
“Hey!” says Jai. “We all mess up sometimes. Leave her alone.”
“Sorry if I offended your girlfriend,” Claudia sniffs.
Jai turns beet red, and we shout at the same time:
“She’s not my girlfriend!”
“I’m not his girlfriend!”
Claudia waves a hand as if to say whatever. George laughs at Jai’s red cheeks.
“All I’m saying,” Claudia adds, “is I can’t understand how she even got in to Mystwick if she can’t handle a simple piece.”
My heart flips over, and I can only stare as she and George head into Harmony Hall, leaving us alone on the front steps.
“For the record,” says Jai, “I saw Claudia hit five wrong notes that last time through.”
“You don’t have to defend me, you know,” I sigh. “I did mess up four times, and ruined everyone’s hope of skating.”
He rolls his eyes. “Am I invited to your pity party, or is this a solo thing?”
“Hey!”
“Do you remember the first thing I ever said to you?”
I think back, screwing up my nose. “Um . . . something about my spider being a pyromaniac?”
“What? No, not that. I told you the Maestros like confidence.”
I snort and pick at a thread on my skirt. “It’s hard to be confident when your fingers turn into noodles every time you get to your part.”
“Okay, that’s it!” Jai jumps up.
“What’s it?”
“You. Me. Free time. The Echo Wood. There, out of the goodness of my enormous and generous heart, I will teach you, Amelia Vanessa Jones, expert chicken charmer, how to be confident. You’re always saying you’re too busy to practice with me, but this time, I’m not taking no for an answer.”
“I may not have enough confidence,” I mutter, wishing I’d never told him about the chickens, “but you have too much. I think that’s what they call egotistical.”
“Whoa, whoa.” He waves his hands. “No need for that kind of language. So, we have a deal?”
“Well . . .”
“I owe it to you,” he says quietly.
He means the test in the Shell, when I got between him and the dog. This is the first time he’s brought it up since then, and I can tell he doesn’t really want to talk about it. But if this is his way of saying thank you . . .
I sigh. “Doesn’t sound like I have much choice.”
“You never did,” he says with a grin.
* * *
I wait for Jai deep in the Echo Wood, on a bank over a splashing stream. Our meeting place is a big mossy rock that juts over the water, shaped like a turtle’s head. Jai and I found it last Sunday while we were exploring. Sundays are good for that—I usually manage to finish all my extra homework on Saturday, so I have the whole next day free. Most of the kids hit the computer lab or hang out around the lake, but the Echo Wood has become my favorite place to escape to besides the library. It reminds me of the forest back home, though of course, the sound of the Echo Wood is nothing like my old, normal trees.
I take out my flute, deciding to start with or without Jai. I have the nonet memorized, but even so, I take out the music sheet and rest it on my knees. I play the melody and don’t miss a single note.
Below me, the stream crusts over with ice in response.
“Why can’t I do that during class?” I moan.
Staring at the ice as it begins to melt again, I find my mind wandering back to the illusion test in the Shell, and the feeling of drowning I’d experienced. Since Miss March had played the calming spell, I haven’t been dreaming about it, but every now and then, my thoughts return there anyway. And before I know it, it’s like I’m sinking into the memory that’s not quite a memory, groping in the dark for something—anything—concrete to hold on to. Panic begins to burn in my chest.
What happened that night?
Suddenly a wind picks up, blowing the sheet music from my lap. I lunge after it, nearly falling into the water, but the papers are quickly lost into the stream.
Wonderful. How will I explain that to Miss Noorani in class tomorrow?
Lying back, I shut my eyes and listen to the music of the echo trees, sighing, whispering notes so faint I can barely make them out. The air is thick and warm, making me sleepy, and I let out a long yawn. I kick off my too-tight shoes and let them clatter onto the ground, stretching my toes with relief.
Putting my flute to my lips, I start to play, half-asleep and lulled by the breeze.
I push away all the things worrying me—my pile of homework, keeping the truth of my Mystwick acceptance hidden, all those unanswered emails I’ve sent to Gran, the disturbing memory of the dark water.
Just like the day I got the Mystwick letter, I don’t think—I just listen to the notes inside me trying to come out. They spark in my fingertips, guiding my hands, coiling from the flute in low, undulating scales. Mr. Pinwhistle would probably combust if he saw me lying on my back, lazily playing without a care, but I’ve been so stressed over getting everything perfect in class that it’s nice to just let go. It’s just me and the music, nothing in between, nobody to judge me, no one to impress.
I imagine myself playing so perfectly that the lake will freeze over from one end to the other, but I won’t stop there. I’ll make a whole blizzard. That will show them. That will make Miss Noorani believe that I belong here. We’ll make snowmen and have a snowball fight and even Darby will be amazed . . .
The air turns chilly, and I shiver a bit, opening my eyes.
Blue curls of magic are rising from my flute, wrapping around my fingers and drifting through the air like feathers. They’re hypnotizing. I feel trapped in my own spell, hardly thinking about what I’m doing. I close my eyes and lean into the music, letting it take control of my fingers. Last time this happened, I panicked. But now I don’t fight back. I don’t feel nervous or anxious. I just feel like . . . myself. Like this is me in my purest form.
The essence of Amelia.
I finish the spell with one long vibrato note that fades gently into silence.
“Amelia Jones!”
Startled, I open my eyes and sit up.
Jai is standing on the mossy stream bank, holding his violin case. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.
“You’re late,” I say.
He says nothing, just keeps staring, until I start to squirm.
“What is it?” I pat my face, wondering if I splashed mud on myself or something when I crossed the stream. “What’s wrong?”
“Amelia Jones,” he says again, quieter this time. “Why didn’t you tell me you could do that?”
“Do what?”
“Compose.”
“I—” Surprised, I look down at my flute, then back up at him. “I wasn’t Composing.”
He sets down his violin and waves a hand, gesturing for me to make room. I scoot aside so he can sit on the rock beside me. His face is flushed and his eyes bright.
“That spell you played just now, what was it?”
“It . . . it wasn’t anything. Just random notes. Me messing around.”
“Have you messed around like that before?”
I shrug. “Once. Nothing really happened, though.”
He jumps up and paces around the rock, fingers drumming against his case. “You have no idea, do you?”
“What are you talking about?”
Stopping dead, he looks me in the eye. “Amelia, you
were Composing. Writing your own spell.”
That makes me laugh. “No I wasn’t! Composing is . . . is when you sit down with a pen and paper and work out melodies and harmonies and tempos. It’s for, I don’t know, old dead guys like Handel and Mozart and Schumann.”
“No, it’s not!” He stops walking and looks at me. “Or at least, it’s more than just that. Composing is twisting raw magic into your own shape. It’s inventing a spell on the spot, something completely new and unique. It takes an incredible amount of skill to control magic like that! It’s like—like grabbing a tornado by the tail and tying it in a knot. Do you have any idea what this means?”
My heart is starting to pound faster. I don’t understand what he’s getting at, but I’ve never seen him so keyed up.
“It’s not anything special, Jai. Anyone can make up music.”
He laughs like he can’t believe I said that. “Are you serious? Anyone can try, maybe, but most people would either make dud spells—music with no magic, what fun is that?—or the magic they did conjure would blow up in their faces.”
“Hey! Some people like music just because it’s music,” I say, thinking of my mom listening to the radio with her eyes shut, her hands lazily swirling to the beat. “Just because it isn’t a spell doesn’t mean it’s not special. Or that it doesn’t have its own kind of magic, the sort you feel.”
He waves my words away. “I’m talking about serious magic here. Try to focus! Do you know how rare Composers are?”
“Rare?” I laugh. “Okay, now I know you’re just—”
“Amelia. Petunia. Jones. Listen to me!”
I frown. “Petunia? Really? That’s your worst try yet.”
He groans. “Listen to what I’m saying: there’s a reason Composing without permission is against the rules at Mystwick.”
“It’s against the rules?” My stomach sinks. What if a Maestro had seen me?
“It’s against the rules because it’s incredibly dangerous! Do you know what happens when most people try to Compose?”
I shrug.
He kneels beside me. “When most people attempt Composing, if they produce any magic at all, they burn themselves up. Set their instruments on fire or warp the metal. Blind themselves, or char their hands. They start fires or even make explosions.”
A chill goes down my spine. “I’ve never done any of those things.”
“Because you’re actually a Composer! Someone who can invent new spells. Amelia, this is huge. Don’t you see? You’re going to be rich! You could Compose spells for the best Maestros in the world! What kind do you think you’ll do? Classical spells? Jazz? Rock? You can make loads of money doing rock spells, though my dad would say that’s not real Musicraft. But who cares about that? You’ll be famous!”
“But I didn’t do anything. It was hardly a spell, Jai. Just music.”
“Just music. Just music!” He stands up and points to the woods behind me. “Look what your just music can do.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn to look—and freeze.
The woods behind me are covered in fresh snow.
It piles on the ground and on the branches of the echo trees, sparkling in the sun. Looking up, I see a small, wintry cloud formed over the canopy, but it’s already dissipating.
Jai tramps into the snowdrifts and makes a snowball, then hurls it at me. I duck, but not fast enough, and it smashes my arm.
I wipe the snow from my sleeve and stare at it as it melts on my fingers, as cold and real and white as actual snow. It’s no illusion spell, but elemental magic—one of the most difficult types, and this spell is far more powerful than anything I’ve ever done on my own before.
“I—I couldn’t have done that,” I say.
“Amelia! I watched you! I stood there and watched you create a snow cloud.”
I had been thinking of snow when I played the music. But I shake my head, unable to believe it.
“Play it again,” says Jai. “Don’t you see? The Maestros will go crazy over you if they find out you can Compose!”
“I thought you said it was against the rules.”
“To do it alone, yeah, because it’s so dangerous. But if they know about it, they’ll probably get you special training and everything. You’ll be like a celebrity around here!”
I stare at him, my heart skipping a beat. Would Mrs. Le Roux be so impressed she’d forget about my test and just let me stay?
“Okay,” I say quietly. “I’ll do it again.”
He nods eagerly, eyes rapt as I raise my flute to my lips.
But no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to make the spell work. I vaguely remember the tune I made up, but my fingers can’t seem to replay it. I stumble and make mistakes until sparks begin bursting from my instrument instead of graceful curls of magic. The flute seems to be getting hotter and hotter.
“Amelia, stop!” Jai cries out. “You’re going to make it explode!”
My fingers begin to burn.
With a shout, I drop my flute and it lands softly in the snow, which hisses as the heat turns it to steam. I bury my hands in the cold slush.
“Ow, ow, ow . . .” Moaning, I slump down and stare at my pink fingertips. “It’s no good, Jai. I can only do it when I’m not trying. If I were to show the Maestros, I’d only make something terrible happen. They’d expel me in a heartbeat!”
He sighs. “Maybe you just need to practice it some more.”
“No!” I yell, snatching my cooled flute from the snow. I hold out my burned hands to him. “I don’t need practice, I don’t need confidence, and I don’t need your help! I’m hopeless, Jai. I’ll never be like you and Claudia and Darby. You’re all prodigies. You’ve had the best teachers and the best instruments and I . . . I’m just a chicken charmer, and maybe that’s all I’ll ever be.”
“If that were true, you’d never have gotten into Mystwick in the first place. You’re one of us!”
I stare at him, the truth clogging my throat for a moment. I didn’t get in! I’m not one of you! But I don’t have the guts to come clean with him and risk losing the only friend I have. So I slam my flute into its case and then jump over the stream. But I don’t get a good enough start, and I just slip on the bank and land in the bottom, splashing mud and water all over myself.
Great.
I start to climb back up the bank, and a hand grabs mine and pulls me up. I collapse onto the leaves, panting.
“Thanks,” I mutter, looking up.
But no one is there.
Jai is still behind me, on the other side of the creek.
A chill races over my skin.
What just happened?
Jai jumps across, landing beside me. “I’m only trying to help you, but you’ve got to want to help yourself.”
He heads back toward the school, but I can’t move. I’m still trying to figure out who—or what—grabbed my hand and helped me up the bank.
Did I imagine it? Am I going crazy?
Or am I not alone out here?
Shivering, I race to catch up to Jai. I can’t get out of the woods fast enough.
Chapter Fourteen
Go Yell It on the Mountain
A WEEK LATER, MR. PINWHISTLE tells us Aeros we’re going to go outside for class, and has us all bring our heaviest winter coats, even though it’s still warm out.
George waves his in the air. “Are we going skiing? Or doing ice spells? Or—”
“Don’t think for a minute that this will be fun,” Mr. Pinwhistle warns. “In fact, it will be extremely dangerous.”
Hooray. I need danger right now the way I need a case of pneumonia.
I suppress a yawn. My mind is foggy with exhaustion. I could curl up in my old blue jacket and go to sleep.
My nocturnal visitor was at it again last night, waking me up every few hours with the sound of rustling and a bright, glowing light. I finally told our dorm captain, Phoebe, about it, but she just said it was probably my imagination.
I know it wasn’t.
I keep glancing at Darby, to see if she’s yawning too. But if she’s the one keeping me awake, she doesn’t show any signs of exhaustion herself. She stands with a black pea coat folded primly over her arms.
Mr. Pinwhistle waits until we’re quiet before saying, “For this exercise, we’re going to need a little help.”
He opens the door and steps back, waving someone into the classroom.
“Miss Myra,” he says. “Please come in.”
The old organist from the Mystwick zeppelin walks in with a crafty smile. Her sharp eyes sweep across the room, and I feel a knot of worry form in my stomach.
“Well, hello, my naive little turtles,” she says. “Shall we begin?”
* * *
Five minutes later, I find myself standing on top of the tallest mountain peak for miles around. Mystwick is far, far below us, no bigger than a pea, and in every direction is a sheer cliff leading to instant death. All around us are jumbled boulders and pale clouds, with no sign of stairs or any other way down. Twenty-four other Aeros are shivering around me, eyes wide with shock. The cinnamon scent of Miss Myra’s teleportation spell still lingers in the air.
Seconds ago, we were all standing in the Aero classroom, in a circle around Miss Myra as she played her organ, which Mr. Pinwhistle had rolled in himself. He told us that we were going somewhere only accessible by magic, and that we wouldn’t need our instruments. So, like dummies, we left them behind.
So not only are we stranded on top of a freezing mountain with no way down, we don’t have any magic to help us. And of course neither Mr. Pinwhistle nor Miss Myra bothered to come along for the trip. I imagine them both right now, warm and smug back in the Aero classroom, as I pull on my winter coat—that, at least, suddenly makes sense.
We’re cut by a wind that’s icy cold and dusty with snow. Even in our jackets, we huddle miserably like a bunch of freezing burritos.
At least I don’t feel tired anymore.
The Mystwick School of Musicraft Page 12