I see Darby watching me with burning eyes.
“That was the ghost who chased you,” she whispers.
I nod.
“She’s not Amelia.”
“I’m sorry, Darby. It was . . . my mom. I’m sorry it wasn’t your friend. But I need your help now. I know the spell that will stop the ghosts, but I can’t play it alone.”
I turn to the others, raising my voice. “My flute won’t be enough—the sound of the tornado will drown me out. We need an orchestra. As many students as we can gather. Then we have to go outside and finish this.”
“If the Maestros couldn’t stop this, how could we?” Jai asks.
I draw a deep breath, then say, “Because the spell that let those ghosts into the school? It’s mine. I Composed it.”
Claudia shoulders through the others. “You’re a Composer? That’s ridiculous! You’re delusional. The real Amelia—”
“I am the real Amelia!”
I don’t realize how loudly I shouted it until I see all the students in the room are staring at me.
For a moment, I want to run away and hide from all those stares. An hour ago, I was ready to do just that. I was ready to give up.
But not anymore.
Because I am the real Amelia Jones.
I always was. Somewhere along the way—even before coming to Mystwick—I lost myself. I tried too hard to become someone I wasn’t, the perfect, model musician. I tried to be the other Amelia, or my mom, when instead, I should have done what my mom has been trying to tell me to do all along: listen to the music inside. Because that’s my strength.
That’s what makes me real.
And it just might be what saves Mystwick.
“Darby,” I say, letting out a long breath. “I’m sorry your friend died. It wasn’t fair. She should be here. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t. I’m here now, and I’m asking for your help.”
She’s glaring at me, her eyes wet with unshed tears. “You want my help?”
I nod. “I need you to Conduct.”
I hand her the baton I plucked from Mrs. Le Roux’s pocket. She stares at it like it’s a snake.
“Please?” I wrap her hand around the baton. “I need you, Darby. Only you can lead us through this spell. I know the notes, but I need someone to weave them together.”
Every moment we waste arguing, more ghosts escape the tear. If we wait much longer, they might be too strong and too many for us to repel.
Darby glares back at me. I can see her at war with herself, and I’m not at all sure she’s going to help. But I have to ask. Because it’s true—I need her. I need all of them.
Finally, Darby looks down at the baton, her face crumpling. “I . . . I don’t know. The last time I tried . . . You remember. I totally failed.”
“You’re the most fearless person I know,” I say. “But your magic is only as strong as your belief. Well, I believe in you, Darby Bradshaw. Do you?”
Her fist tightens around the baton.
“Well?” I ask. “Do you?”
She looks up, a spark igniting in her eyes.
“I’ll do it,” she whispers.
I wrap my hand around hers. “What’s that? I can’t quite hear you.”
She gives a weak grin. “I can do it?”
Leaning forward until our noses are inches apart, I say through my teeth, “I. Can’t. Hear. You.”
Darby throws back her head and yells at the top of her lungs, “I CAN DO IT! Everyone! Get into marching formation!”
Students grab instruments, tuning up, jumping in place, moving toward the doors. Darby sticks to my side, holding her baton like it’s a sword.
She suddenly seems like a totally different person, not the Darby who hung out in the back of the classroom every day, staying quiet and avoiding everyone. Now she shouts orders and even the seniors listen to her, everyone falling into neat lines and readying their instruments.
I find myself standing just in front of Jai, and with a deep breath, I turn around to face him.
“I was wrong,” I say, before he can avoid my gaze. “I was stupid, and mean, and wrong. You’re not a coward, Jai, but you are a good friend, a better one than I deserved.”
He looks down at his violin, his thumb rubbing the E string. “You were right, actually. I am too scared to tell my dad how I feel. And I pushed you the way he’s always pushed me, and I hate when he does that. I should have known better.”
“Well, maybe I needed pushing. I was just so scared of messing up, I couldn’t even try.”
“Your magic is only as strong as your belief, Amelia Grace Jones.”
I blink. “You—you guessed it. You actually guessed it!”
He laughs. “Nah, I just peeked at your student file when Mr. P. left it on his desk during detention one day.”
“Kapoor!” snaps Darby. “Would you shut up already? It’s time to kick some ghost butt!”
Jai whoops and waves his violin over his head. “Hey everyone! What’re we gonna kick?”
“Ghost butt!” we scream.
“What are we gonna kick?”
“Ghost butt!”
“Blocking spell!” calls Darby. “Beethoven’s Fifth, first movement! On my count, one and two and—”
We fall into two lines and strike up the powerful spell. Golden light explodes from our instruments and spreads overhead, then down to the ground, forming a glittering shell around us all. We parade through the front doors of Harmony Hall, almost the entire seventh-grade class and a few older kids, our spell ringing out. Even the cellists and bassists walk with the rest of us, their huge instruments strapped to them in marching harnesses. The drummer from Rebel Clef pushes Victoria’s wheelchair, while she adds powerful guitar riffs to the spell. We’re not the most organized marching orchestra in the history of Musicraft, but we just might be the loudest.
I spot my mom nearby, and she raises her hands together to give me a little victory cheer. I nod back, keeping my flute pressed to my chin. Above me, the rain hits our shield and slides down, so we seem to walk in a moving dome of water. All around, the other students play with all their might, the Chordos taking the melody and everyone else filling in the harmonies and countermelodies. It helps that we’ve been practicing this particular spell in Orchestra for the last two months. I wonder if anyone could have guessed it might one day save us all.
For the first time, I really do feel like I belong with them. I play as loudly as anyone, my fingers moving with a grace and surety I didn’t know I had.
But it’s quickly clear that this is not going to be easy.
The tornado twists and writhes, ghosts swirling from its depths and diving at us. The storm is worse than ever, with thunder cracking and rolling while lightning streaks from east to west. Behind Harmony Hall the echo trees whip around like they’ve been caught up in a frenzy spell.
The ghosts who swoop our way bounce off the ward and flee, screeching in rage. It’s like walking under a giant, transparent turtle shell veined with gold. Where the ghosts hit, shimmering dust rains down on our heads, but the ward holds strong. And my mother floats beside me, a few steps away, separated by the glowing barrier but sticking as close as she can.
“It’s working!” Jai shouts, scraping furiously at his violin. “Don’t stop!”
Darby walks backwards down the hill, flicking the baton, eyes focused and jaw tight.
When we reach the water’s edge, she stands on the dock and faces us. Behind her the tornado writhes, churning up the lake’s flooded waters. She looks tiny with that thing looming behind her. This close, I can see the edges of the rip fluttering like cloth. The depths are black and shadowy.
But worse, as I lower my flute to catch my breath, I can see the tear inside the tornado is getting wider. The spell I began months ago is bigger and stronger than I could have ever imagined. More and more ghosts are finding their way out, shrieking with delight as they see the world of the living open to them at last. I remember what my mom said abo
ut these ones being the worst of the worst, and what they’ll do to stay in this world they don’t belong in.
We have to make this work.
I have to make this work.
Or Mystwick and the Maestros and all these students will pay the price. This isn’t about me anymore. It’s not about proving myself or earning my place here. If I fail now, there won’t even be a here.
Darby has us finish the blocking spell, and the students fall silent. The ward remains in place, but soon it will fade away and leave us all exposed to the ghosts and rain, so I don’t have long. Everyone else looks as scared as I am, but nobody breaks. They await Darby’s instructions.
“Ready?” Darby asks me.
“Ready.” I raise my flute, inhaling deeply.
“Okay, Amelia,” she says. “What’s the spell?”
I stand beside her and start to play the tune I invented months ago. At first I’d worried I wouldn’t be able to remember it, but it comes to me as freshly as if I were still lying in my treehouse. I played then with the fear that I’d never even see this school.
Now I play with the hope of saving it.
The melody is simple and sad, filled with longing. I know now that it’s my love for my mother spun into sound, all my heartache and wishfulness and regret pouring from me, into my flute, turning to magic. Each note feels like a piece of me, raw and real, unwinding from my heart; it’s like letting everyone look straight into my soul.
I feel more exposed than I ever have before.
And I also feel more powerful than I ever have before.
I run through the melody twice, and then Darby turns to the other students and signals for them to get ready. They stand with instruments poised, as around us the ghosts gather and thicken, as if preparing for a full, organized assault. Their hollow eyes gape at us. They know our ward is weakening, and they’re waiting for the moment to strike.
Jai is first to jump in, picking up the melody with his violin. Rosa and her saxophone join next, and then Claudia, and George and Victoria and Rabiah, and the rest of Rebel Clef. As the students begin to play, one by one joining in with my flute, our sound slowly drowns out the ghosts.
Then everyone is playing, following the melody or adding their own harmonies. And Darby Conducts it all, her baton flicking to keep tempo, her free hand reaching out to call for more from certain players. I don’t know how she does it, keeping track of each instrument and its musician, weaving us all together, making my simple spell into something grand and intricate and beautiful.
These kids really are the best in the world. Who else could hear a melody two times and then turn it into a symphony with no practice at all? Not that every note is perfect. I hear a few that make me wince. But the nice thing about playing in an orchestra is that there’s always someone to cover for you.
The ghosts seem taken aback. They aren’t sure what we’re doing, and some start to pull away worriedly. Before, the Maestros weren’t able to join together in force against them, and so they became easy targets. But all together, our student orchestra is too strong for them.
My spell becomes our spell, and our united sound is more powerful than anything I could ever play on my own.
But I am still its Composer, and I must decide how this spell will end.
Go, I think, but it is only one ghost I think of. I’m letting you go.
And even though it feels like I’m telling my own heart to crawl out of my chest, I focus everything in me on the words and on the music. And I know, at last, what it means to Compose. I take the reins of my wayward magic and pull it back under control, this spell of my own making: a spell to summon the spirit of a lost soul, and then release them to their rest.
Go.
Rainbow-colored threads coil upward from my flute to join with the magic flowing from everyone else—yellow and green and blue and purple all twist together, glittering and brighter than any shades I’ve ever seen. A great stream of it swirls to the tornado, like thread feeding a spool. The dark clouds and water begin to glow as our magic weaves through it all. Black spells aren’t black at all, just like Mom said, but every color at once, more beautiful than I could have imagined.
Finally, the tear starts to close, threads of magic knitting the seam together.
The ghosts start wailing as the tornado begins sucking them inward. All around us, silvery forms flow through the air and disappear into the shadow inside the funnel. They vanish into the tear and back into whatever afterlife awaits. But what about my mom?
I turn and see her watching me.
Since the rest of the students are going strong with my melody now, I am able to lower my flute for a few moments. I stop closer to Mom so I can hear her over the music.
“Your spell is strong, my love,” she says, her voice slightly warped by the ward between us. “It’s working. But that means I have to go.”
I raise a hand, pressing it to the barrier, aching because I can’t touch her. “Maybe there’s a way,” I whisper. “If you just hold on to me—”
“The tear can’t close until I’m on the other side,” she replies. “But don’t worry about me. A part of me will stay here with you, as it always has. You must stay strong. Maintain your focus, Amelia, or the spell will backfire. Be strong, my love. Don’t worry. Don’t be afraid.”
“But I still have so many questions. Especially about . . . I didn’t think I cared, but I think maybe I do. My dad—”
“Amelia!” Darby is calling my name. I glance back to see her waving her baton at me, needing me to rejoin the others. But I can’t. I have to ask Mom—
But when I turn back, she is gone, and only her last whisper hangs in my memory.
“Don’t be afraid.”
I look around, then spot her, growing smaller and thinner as she soars back to the rift. She presses her hands to her lips, then extends them toward me, a final kiss, as she joins the river of ghosts streaming back to the crack between life and death.
She grows fainter and fainter.
And then she is gone.
Again.
And it feels like my heart has been ripped from my chest.
“Amelia!” Darby is growing frantic.
Trembling, I turn around and raise my flute. I feel like I’m going to crumble apart. But I have to finish this.
So with all my might, I focus on my music, though it’s kind of hard to see because of the tears in my eyes.
I can feel the melody reaching its conclusion. But I don’t rush it. I think that’s why I always messed up before, when I tried to Compose consciously. I was trying too hard to control the music flowing out of me, when instead, I needed to listen.
The tornado is getting smaller and smaller. The roar of the wind is dying. Overhead, clouds are starting to thin and scatter. The rain stops at last.
One by one, the other students drop away, lowering their instruments at Darby’s command, until the only sound left is my flute’s silver tones. Magic curls from it, scarlet and violet and golden, every color there is, to drift through the air and then fade.
I play through a slow measure, then another, and finally, I hold the last note until my lungs feel empty.
Then, lowering my instrument, I watch as the tornado dissolves and the water it had drawn out of the lake begins to rain around us.
For a full minute that rain falls, until at last, the sky clears.
The lake is still and silent.
Stars dazzle overhead.
Not a wisp of wind remains to ruffle the grass.
And behind me, everyone breaks into a loud cheer.
A few rush to help the bewildered Maestros off the ground, and Rosa and Claudia help Victoria, whose wheels are stuck in the mud. The others surround Darby and me and lift us up. Phoebe and the drummer from Rebel Clef have me on their shoulders, parading me around like some kind of hero. Darby catches my eye, and we exchange a look that—call me crazy—is almost friendly.
Our celebration doesn’t last long, though.
&
nbsp; The Maestros pick up their dropped instruments—most of which are no doubt ruined. But at least they’re alive. The students fall quiet as they approach, and the seniors set me down. Everyone parts for Mrs. Le Roux, who manages to look serene as ever despite her windblown hair and soaking clothes. She walks through the crowd of students until she reaches me.
“Amelia Jones.” She gives me an odd look, like she can’t figure me out. “We need to talk.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Overture and Out
IT’S BARELY DAWN, everything washed in thin gray light.
The joints of my flute slide together with soft clicks, the smooth barrel so familiar to me it’s like an extension of my arm. I press the keys a few times, loosening my fingers, and take a deep breath. Crouched in the grass, I get dew drops all over my jeans and think it’s lucky I wore my beat-up old boots, because I’d be slipping all over the wet ground if I were still in those horrible, pinching, tight uniform shoes. Those are deep under my bed again, right where they belong.
Standing up, I look at Mrs. Le Roux.
She gives me a single nod, not looking the least bit bothered by my ugly old boots.
The other four Maestros stand in a row beside her, and for a minute, I get a terrible wave of déjà vu. It’s all so similar to two nights ago, and my first test with its disastrous result.
After the storm, Mrs. Le Roux had taken me not to her office, but to her own private rooms in Harmony Hall. There, in a cozy chair by a crackling fire, with Wynk curled on my lap, I’d told her everything: about my Composing, my initial fear that Other Amelia was haunting me, and how the ghost had turned out to be my mom. The headmaestro had listened, asked a few soft questions, then fallen silent for a long while. I had no idea what would happen next. Would I be expelled? Punished? Barred from Musicraft altogether?
Instead, she’d surprised me with another option entirely: the chance to redo my test.
Jai was mad when he found out. “They’re testing you again? After you just saved the whole school? They should be handing you the key to Harmony Hall!”
The Mystwick School of Musicraft Page 23