“Is it a spell, you think?” Mr. Pinwhistle asks.
I walk a little more quietly, leaning toward the door to hear.
“It’s certainly magic of some sort. And until we know the source, there isn’t much we can do about it.”
“Our attempts to clear the clouds with elemental magic only bring an hour or so of relief,” says Miss Becker. “When normally, they’d result in a full day of clear skies. This is definitely magic, and it’s getting stronger.”
“What do you mean?” asks Mr. Walters.
“I mean, the storms are growing more frequent. The lake is nearly twice its usual depth, and at this rate, the other dorms will flood too. I fear the bad weather isn’t the spell itself—but the side effects of the spell.”
“If you’re right,” says Miss Noorani, “then this is all leading somewhere. Something is about to happen, and we have no idea what it is. Nor do we know whether it’s an accident, or something intentional, someone targeting Mystwick. Without knowing the source, how can we defend the students?”
“We might have to start thinking about evacuation.”
“We haven’t had to do that in over twenty years,” Mr. Pinwhistle says. “We’ve dealt with all manner of strange magic. We can deal with this too.”
“Yes, but usually we know what the problem is and can make a plan to fix it. This time is different. This is something we’ve never seen, and our contacts in the other Musicraft schools are as baffled as we are. All we can do is wait and see what happens.”
“What do we do in the meantime?”
“We continue as usual.” That’s Mrs. Le Roux. I didn’t know she was in the room too. Her deep voice cuts in like the calming, steadying note of her cello. “We stay watchful and wary, but we do our jobs: instructing and protecting our students.”
The others murmur agreement. I turn and tiptoe quickly away, wondering what it all means.
Something is about to happen.
I glance up at the high window above, where rain runs down the glass in thick streams. Beyond it, lightning bursts in a sky dark with clouds.
For some reason, I think of spilled tomato soup, the color of blood, and an invisible finger writing Watch out.
Why can’t I shake the feeling that this weather, and the Maestros’ fears, are somehow linked to the ghost of Amelia Jones?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Desperate Measures
ON THE LAST DAY of our detention, I get official notice: my test is set for a Friday evening two weeks from now—Halloween.
I guess when Mrs. Le Roux said things would continue as usual, she meant it. The Maestros might be worried about the weather, but it was too much to hope that might be enough to make them forget about my test.
I have no idea what it will involve, but I know I’m nowhere near ready.
I’m falling even further behind in my classes. None of the Maestros even try to give me solos anymore. Instead, they ask me to sit out when the class attempts more difficult spells. “Watch and learn,” they tell me, as if I’m going to get better that way. But I think what’s really happening is they’ve given up on me.
And I can’t figure out if I’ve given up on myself.
I still practice as much as I can. I do all my homework, take lots of notes, and let Jai tutor me whenever he offers. Why he’s still hanging out with me, I don’t know. All I do is get him in trouble.
“You need to relax,” he says. “Anybody would make mistakes playing that tense.”
But that’s easy for him to say. He’s already better than a lot of the high schoolers.
Me? I’m just lucky to be here. But my luck is running out.
Darby and I don’t talk again after the night in the woods. Every morning, I wait until she’s dressed and gone before I get out of bed, and at night, she’s already asleep when I get back from my late practice sessions. Even when we get stuck together one day under the cafeteria awning, a storm raging all around us, she waits for the rain to end in silence and totally ignores me.
And the ghost is definitely still around.
Even when she’s not doing anything to mess me up, I can still feel Other Amelia hovering around me like a shadow. I never really feel alone, and sometimes, my skin breaks out in goose bumps for no reason. I wonder if it’s because she brushed against me.
The night before my test, it pours harder than it has all month; rain runs down the windows and the path from the dorms to Harmony Hall is under an inch of water. I tie plastic bags over my shoes and slog through it, my flute case double-wrapped in ponchos, which Miss March has been handing out like breath mints.
I shut myself in a practice room and play the same piece of music, over and over and over. It’s a calming spell, but it doesn’t seem to be working, even though the air around me is full of bright white magic, like glowing feathers drifting in the air.
I finally take a break, stretching my kinked-up muscles—and that’s when I see an outline in the wisps of magic, an empty spot where no glowing lights appear. Something is there the same way the mountains are there at night—visible only by the hole it creates.
“Amelia?” I whisper, freezing. “Amelia Jones, is that you?”
The emptiness moves, and feathers of light flutter around her, and then I’m sure she’s there.
My whole body turns into one big goose bump. It feels like ice slips down my back.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask. “Why can’t you just leave me alone? I know I took your place, I know this isn’t fair. But . . . I just want a chance. And it’s not like getting me kicked out will help you any.” I glance around, having lost sight of her. “Amelia? Hello?”
A loud thump sounds right beside me, and despite myself, I let out a shriek.
Then I realize it was just someone knocking on the door.
“Come in,” I say weakly.
Jai pokes his head in. “Well, somebody’s jumpier than a jitterbug today.”
“You surprised me,” I grumble. “And what the heck’s a jitterbug?”
“Here’s a hint: if you ever see your dog mysteriously start tap dancing, it’s probably infested with singing jitterbugs. They’re like fleas, but . . . musical.” He slips into the room, holding his violin. “I had a free period, and thought I’d see if you wanted to practice together.”
“Don’t bother. I’m a lost cause.”
“I can help you.”
“I’m beyond help.”
“Oh, stop being so mopey. The Maestros like—”
“Don’t!” I slam my flute against my palm, glaring at him. “Don’t tell me the Maestros like confidence, or that if I just relax I’ll magically get better!”
“If you’d just let me help you,” he presses, “you might figure out how to Compose again and show them you do belong here! There’s no way they can kick you out of Mystwick if they know you’re a Composer! Or if you want, I could just tell them that I saw you make that snow spell—”
“Then I’d definitely get expelled! Just stop with the helping me, will you? You’re always pushing me, like you have any right to do that, when you’re too much of a coward to even tell your dad you want to play rock spells!”
As soon as I say the words, I kick myself. What am I doing? Jai is my only friend here, the only person who has stood by me no matter what. He’s given up so much of his own practice time to help me, never asking for anything in return. And I just burned all that to the ground in a fit of anger and fear.
But the words are out, spilled like garbage juice. There’s no taking them back.
Jai’s eyes darken. “If that’s what you think, then maybe you deserve to be expelled.”
He steps out and slams the door.
“Jai! I’m sorry! Wait—” I run after him, but by the time I reach the hallway, he’s gone. I sink to the floor in the corner of the soundproof little room, clutching my flute and staring at my shoes.
Finally, I take the photo of my mom from my case and stare at it.
“I made it,” I whisper. “I made it to Mystwick, just like you did. Just like I thought I was supposed to. This is what I’ve always wanted, but now . . . I’m about to lose everything.”
I can’t help feeling that if I lose this place, I’ll lose her too, all over again.
What if Jai is right?
If only there were a way to prove to the Maestros, beyond all doubt, that I belong here . . .
Shutting my eyes, I imagine them watching, shocked, as I conjure snow from thin air, with a spell all of my own making. Maybe that would show them. Maybe they’d be so impressed they wouldn’t even care that I was breaking the rules.
I lick my dry lips and raise my flute.
Just like that day in the Echo Wood, I try to let my fingers take over, allowing my mind to relax so music can flow through me. My fingers press keys at random, feeling out a melody, searching for guidance from my subconscious. If I could just control this deep, strange part of myself, if I could only figure out how to unlock that power—
Sparks burst on my flute and fall to the floor, catching the crumpled music sheets on fire. In moments, I’m surrounded by leaping flames. I scream and press myself against the wall, my body going cold with terror.
Then the sprinklers overhead click on, and me, the papers, and the whole room get doused with a sudden freezing spray. I quickly cover my flute with my shirt, protecting it, but there’s no hope for my collection of spells. The drizzle lasts a full minute, long after the fire is out, and the whole time I stand there in shock, water dribbling down my face.
When the sprinklers finally shut off, I find my flute covered in scorch marks. They’ll wash off—the fire wasn’t that hot, and it’d take a lot more heat than that to permanently damage the instrument—and the more delicate parts of the instrument, like the flute pads, are still intact and unharmed, thank goodness. One of the perks of playing flute, instead of something wooden like violin or piano. But still, that was a close call. Too close.
The hall monitor who watches over the practice rooms runs up, looking pretty angry that I’ve just made his job a whole lot harder. He’ll have to mop up the mess and scrub the scorch marks off the floor.
“You okay?” he growls. “Need to see the nurse?”
“I’m fine.” I slip away, flute in one hand, case in the other. I wonder if he’ll report this to Mrs. Le Roux.
My last hope is gone. There’s no way I can Compose for the Maestros. Mr. Pinwhistle had been mad enough when I made his mustache grow. I don’t even want to imagine his reaction if I set it on fire.
My test is tomorrow. I should go to dinner, but even the thought of food makes me sick. So instead, I go to my room and start packing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
In the Key of Perfection
I MEET THE MAESTROS on the steps of Harmony Hall. They’re all there—along with Mrs. Le Roux—dressed in coats and hats, since the night is cold. At least the rain has stopped for now, though the ground squelches and puddles lie everywhere. Students are scattered across the grounds, many in costume. I can hear the boom of Rebel Clef’s drums in the gym, where the Halloween party is taking place. Instead of their usual rock spells, they’re playing a version of one of my favorite blue spells, In the Hall of the Mountain King, by Edvard Grieg. The eerie, suspenseful melody drifts over the school grounds, and a few loose illusions slip free of the gym, shadowy specters conjured by the band members. Looking like ghosts draped in black shrouds, they float through the air, then vanish when they stray too far.
But the sky is as dark as midnight, even though it’s only just after dinner. Black clouds knot and bunch over the mountains. The air feels tense, like one wrong move will make the whole sky break loose. A cold wind prowls the school, ruffling the skeletal trees and the peacock feathers on Mrs. Le Roux’s broad-brimmed hat.
“Good evening, Miss Jones,” the headmaestro says. The others just nod at me. Not even Miss Noorani has a smile for me now.
I fidget with my flute case, unsure what to do, then fall behind them when they start walking, limping a little. My too-small uniform shoes are pinching more than usual today.
I’d expected us to go inside, but it seems this test will take place outdoors, behind Harmony Hall, in the Echo Wood.
Or at the edge of it, I discover, when the Maestros all stop and circle around a waist-high tree.
My tree, of course.
It’s still bent like an elbow, its leaves fallen, leaving it even more scraggly. Looking at it, I think, One day it will be perfect to hang a swing on.
If I can save it from being uprooted, that is.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask.
Mrs. Le Roux gestures at my tree. “This is your opportunity to show us what you’ve learned.”
For a moment I wait, to see if she’s going to add anything more. But it seems these are all the instructions I’m going to get.
But it’s pretty clear what she means: This is my chance to redo my first audition. My chance to get it right.
I’m surprised.
I’d expected something much harder—a grueling, hours-long exam demanding me to play spell after spell, throwing obscure magic theory questions at me.
But this?
This is . . . easy. In fact, I couldn’t have hoped for a simpler test.
Then I realize: Maybe this is just a formality. So they can say I earned my way here, instead of landing here by accident. Maybe they were never going to kick me out at all.
My heart starts to beat faster. I can do this. I know I can.
As long as Other Amelia doesn’t interfere. Now would be the perfect time for her to strike, if she wants to get me kicked out for good.
Please, I think. If you’re here, please just give me this. I’m begging you.
Since it’s clear the Maestros want to see which spell I’ll choose, I go with “Papageno’s Aria,” a quick green spell from my favorite opera, The Magic Flute, which is based on my favorite book. And probably my mother’s favorite book—so that has to be lucky, right? It’s an intermediate spell, not as high-level as some of my classmates might be capable of, but impressive enough. At least, I hope so.
It’s a light tune, notes bouncing happily along, and I have the whole thing memorized.
And as I play, the magic spirals from my flute and wraps around the little tree, straightening its limbs, pushing the trunk upward. It even puts out fresh new leaves, which unfurl like tiny petals of silk. The tree creaks and sways, glowing with green light. I don’t look at the Maestros once. I learned that lesson. Instead I focus wholly on the tree. The perfect musician. Everything I’ve learned in my classes I pour into my flute, even remembering to keep my posture just right.
I don’t miss a note.
I don’t think even Other Amelia could have played better, and she doesn’t so much as pull my ponytail as I play.
As I hold the final note, the little tree’s leaves shiver, sending a shower of sparkling magic dust shimmering to the ground. And then it’s done.
Breathing hard, I lower my flute and can’t help the smile that spreads over my face.
My echo tree is straight. Strong. Perfect. Just like all the other echo trees in the Echo Wood. Before, it looked out of place, crooked and strange. An accident.
Now it belongs.
Now you could walk right past it without ever knowing it was different.
I look up at the Maestros. They exchange looks that I can’t read.
Miss Noorani then glances at me and raises a finger. “Wait a moment, Miss Jones.”
She and the other Maestros move a few feet away, where they whisper among themselves. Urgently. Like they can’t agree.
Uh-oh.
Not good.
My heart starts to sink again. What did I mess up? I hit every note, I fixed my tree. Was it my spell choice? Did they expect something more advanced?
While I watch them, I pass my flute from hand to hand, sweat starting to slide down my temples despite the cold. Overhead,
the echo trees groan with their orchestra sound, dissonant notes that usually seem beautiful, but tonight they have an eerie, flat tone. Like a warning.
The wind is rising, stronger and stronger. Looking up, I see the clouds are lower than they were, and they’re moving around, swirling and swelling. A burst of lightning cracks inside them, lighting them up from the inside, searching for a way out. The air tightens up more. If the wind were a violin string, it would snap at the first touch of the bow.
The Maestros are still arguing. They don’t seem to notice the storm that’s about to break loose. Mr. Pinwhistle is smashing his fist into his palm, his mustache fluttering in the wind.
Oh, no. Please, please don’t let it come down to Mr. Pinwhistle convincing the others to expel me. I don’t get why he hates me so much. I’ve never complained once about the extra homework he assigns to me. And it’s not like the mustache growth was permanent. So what’s his problem?
I can’t watch them anymore. It’s just making me feel sick.
Instead, I pack away my flute and then grip the case with both hands, staring hard at the ground. My echo tree, which shone with magic just minutes ago, now sits dark and dull. But as the wind strengthens, its leaves rustle, then clatter like chimes.
“Miss Jones.”
Looking up, I see Mrs. Le Roux and the others watching me.
I swallow hard. “If there’s a problem, I can do it again. I can play a harder spell, I know I can. If—”
“Miss Jones, you played very well.”
Then why does she look like she’s about to deliver bad news?
“However,” she adds, “we feel that . . .”
I don’t hear the rest, because it’s plain on her face what she’s saying:
I failed.
They’re sending me away.
A roar fills my ears that has nothing to do with the weather. I sway on my feet, my stomach dropping to the ground. My flute feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, and my hands begin to sweat as I cling to the case.
The Mystwick School of Musicraft Page 20