The Crickhowell School for the Muses (16 page)

Go ahead and sit on that stool while
I mix up these paints. Some day, I will teach
you
how to prepare the paint, but now is not the time. We have so much to do!”

Awen tapped her new shoes together, then yawned so hard she had to close her eyes.

Sir Robert glanced at her over his spectacles. “Didn’t go to sleep late, did you?”

Awen shook her head. She had no idea what time she had gone to sleep. Likely late.

“This is the painting about which I told you at dinner last night.” He rotated the easel, inch by inch, until it faced Awen.

She tried to discern an image on the canvas, but at this point it contained merely blobs of silver, purple, and blue.

“Turns out it’s even less done than I thought it was!” He chuckled, contemplating his work. “But I have decided I must finish it as soon as possible. I’m just going to have you sit for this one, for now.” He turned his gaze on her; his forehead wrinkled. “Say, something looks different about you.…”

Awen’s heart sped up, and she held her breath. She was wearing the dress with the peridot gems on the waist—all white, sleeveless, with a square neckline. She tried to hide the shoes by folding her legs back under the stool.

“Hmm…” Sir Robert tapped his fingertips against his bearded chin. “Whatever it is, I like it. Interesting…” His eyes lingered on her for a moment—and then he returned his attention to the easel.

She exhaled.

“Well, let’s begin, then! No time to waste.” He turned the easel back around and resumed the mixing of his paints.

The circular movement of his wrist put Awen under a sort of hypnosis: it was not until he had been painting for some time that she even realized he had finished preparing the paint. She was still staring at his supply table, her eyes drooping, nearly dozing.…

“I do hope Francis has started on his way down to Bryn’s home.”

Awen’s head shot up to look at him.

“She may be our closest neighbor, but it still takes a good hour to get there. Hmm…this needs another color,” he muttered to himself, turning to his worktable. “Anyhow, I’ve been talking to Bryn’s father, working out a deal for the marriage. Most of the details have been arranged. We just need Francis to—”

“Francis told me he didn’t plan to—” She could not believe she was saying it.

“Nonsense!” Sir Robert nearly shouted. “Francis will do what I tell him to do. He will marry that young lady whether he wants to or not. And
you
, my dear…” He set his palette aside, and pointed at her with a brush. “You will
not
get in the way!” He lowered his voice. “Don’t you forget what you are, and why you are here. You are a muse—
my
muse—and you are here because I paid for your education. That beautiful voice you have may as well be mine!”

Awen shifted back on her stool, startled by the sudden onslaught. “I…I didn’t do…”

“I know what you’re up to. I see the looks between you two, and I know you’re in confidence with each other. You will not sabotage this engagement! From now on, I think you should permanently take your breakfasts and dinners in your room, and your lunches in here. I would prefer that you no longer see or speak to my son.”

Awen opened her mouth to protest; she did not understand where these sudden, ridiculous demands were coming from.

“No, don’t say a word. You will stop seeing and speaking to my son, and that’s that.”

Awen closed her mouth, but a deep scowl remained on her face, which she failingly attempted to suppress.

“Now, where were we? Ah! The green.” His voice had reverted into its normal calm, and he was the kindly, weathered wizard once again. He took up his brush and palette and bent down to paint on the bottom half of the canvas.

Awen’s brow was knitted in confusion, for he was acting as if his outburst of decrees had never occurred. The way he slithered from one demeanor to the next made her wonder just how many layers were hidden behind his golden glasses.

She pressed her lips together, determined to speak to him no more.

* * *

Awen sighed in relief when Abigail finally entered the studio, lunch basket in one hand, large mug of coffee in the other. The early morning hours had passed quickly, as Awen had struggled to stay awake; after Sir Robert’s strange outburst, however, time had crept.

Sir Robert swiveled his body around. “What’s on the menu today, Abigail?”

“I’ve made up some spinach-tomato tarts,” she said, handing the basket to him. “There’s also a bit of cheese in there, for later. And some coffee for you.” She placed the cup on his work table.

“Thank you, dear. Mmm, these look delectable! Oh, one thing before you leave. Did Francis happen to go out this morning?”

“Um, yes,” she replied—looking, Awen noticed, suddenly uncomfortable. “To the home of a lady. Bryn, I think it was.”

Awen shot her a glance.

Abigail responded with a look that implied she had more to say.

“Wonderful. Did he say whether he’d be gone long?” He looked down at a spot on his painting and picked at something with the end of his brush.

Abigail, keeping one eye on him, sashayed noiselessly to Awen and tossed something small and light into her lap. “He said he would be out all day,” she replied, and slipped back to her original position.

“Good to hear.”

Without moving her head, Awen shifted her eyes down to the object on her lap: a rolled-up piece of ivory parchment, tied with a thin red string. She itched to obscure it, but dared not move while Sir Robert was facing her.

“Did he say if he would be back for dinner?” Sir Robert took a gulp of coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I don’t believe he will.”

“In that case, both Awen and I will be dining downstairs. However, for future evenings, Awen will be eating upstairs.”

“Certainly, sir,” she said, offering a small curtsy. “Enjoy your lunch.” She glanced at Awen one last time, then left the room.

Sir Robert turned to the basket of food on his work table and reached for a tart.

Awen quickly threw both hands over the parchment in her lap, hiding it from view.

“Go on; help yourself.” Sir Robert motioned to the basket, then bit into his tart. “Mmm, scrumptious.”

Awen removed her left hand, pressing the parchment against her dress with her right as she stood. She took a small step forward, half hopping, and reached awkwardly toward the basket. She turned her body away from Sir Robert. As she returned to her place, she slipped the paper into her right hand, clenching it in her fist.

Awen had little hope of unfurling the note any time soon, as Sir Robert had no desire to abandon the canvas: he simply painted with his right hand and held his coffee with his left. Awen’s palm began to sweat. She imagined the moisture from her skin mushing up the paper, smudging the ink and obliterating whatever message was inside.

* * *

“Wait a moment here, Awen.” He eyed his empty mug. “I must step out of the room for a bit.”

Awen lifted her gaze from her hand. Some hours had passed since lunch, and she had spent the entire time imagining what the note said, and whom it was from. Francis? Her skin tingled at the thought. But more likely, it was from Abigail herself.

Awen nodded, then watched warily as he rose and moved toward the hallway. Her grip tightened on the paper—she did not think he could move fast enough. As soon as Sir Robert disappeared from view, she flung off the red string, wrapping it hastily about her left wrist. The parchment had been rolled tightly into a scroll. Awen unfurled it, all the while fixing her gaze at the hallway, in case Sir Robert should reappear.

The note was short—three lines of curly black ink letters, printed in the center:

Not at Bryn’s.

In town all day—don’t let my father know.

Bringing something back for you.

Awen smiled, but she wasted no time re-rolling the slim parchment and sliding it down the front of her dress. She glanced at the red string around her wrist, wondering if Sir Robert would notice it. She placed her right hand over it, just in case.

A thumping sound of horse hooves on dirt sounded from the path outside; heart skipping, Awen whipped around to face the front window. It was not Francis on horseback, but rather an open carriage, pulled by two large, cream-colored horses. There was something about the wagon that could only be described as eccentric. Awen rose from her stool and glided toward the window for a better look.

The frame of the carriage had been painted gold, though even from this distance, Awen could see that the color was chipping. As it curved around the path, she noticed that each wheel had its own hue: one was white, one purple, one blue, and one green. The man driving the carriage was its only occupant; the other seats overflowed with wooden boxes and rolls of tan material. As the coach neared, Awen heard the distinct sound of bells through the window. She pressed her face to the glass for a better look, and before the carriage disappeared out of her line of sight at the very front of the house, she saw that the reins were lined with tiny silver balls.

Awen heard footsteps from the hall, and she slipped back to the stool just as Sir Robert walked in.

“Back to work, shall we? There’s still some time before dinner.” Sir Robert picked up his palette just as a loud series of knocks echoed in from the front entrance. “Hmm, who could that be?” He set the palette back down again and moved toward the hallway, eyes alert.

Awen knew it could only be the man she had seen coming up the path, but she remained silent.

“Sir Robert?” Abigail’s voice came from farther down the hall. “Allan Whitting is here to see you.…”

“Oh, my dear Allan! Do let him in. I’ll be right there.” Sir Robert disappeared down the hallway.

Awen jumped off the stool to stretch her back. As she bent down, sweeping her hands over the floor, her stomach growled. She remembered that Abigail had mentioned something about extra cheese in the lunch basket, which still sat atop Sir Robert’s work table, next to his easel. Awen folded back the cloth to reveal a pre-sliced block of white cheese; she took two pieces. As she ate, she examined Sir Robert’s painting. She still could not quite discern an image behind the blotches of color; except for the addition of green, the painting looked much the same as it had in the morning.

What was more, every time she tried to focus on a particular spot, her concentration went to shambles, sending her into a half-conscious daze. It was almost as if the painting possessed some sort of a…

“Unfortunately, I need to head out.”

Awen nearly inhaled a chunk of cheese; preoccupied by the painting, she had forgotten about Sir Robert altogether.

“My dear friend and colleague has invited me to Clydach so that we might show our art in a last-minute exhibition.” Busy gathering up his tools, he had not seemed to notice Awen’s initial reaction. “We’ll resume with this,” he pointed to the easel, “on my return.”

Awen nodded slowly. The startling she had gotten, mixed with the strange effects of the painting, had caused her to feel unbalanced.

Sir Robert had his things gathered and organized before Awen had completely regained her composure. “Ask Abigail if you need anything,” he said casually on his way out of the room. Then he stopped, turning back to stare ominously down upon her. “Don’t you forget what I said about eating your meals
away
from the dining room. And I’ll be checking with Abigail to make sure you haven’t been speaking with my son.” He paused, now tweaking his expression into a smile. “All right, then; I’ll return in a few days.”

Awen waited until he had disappeared down the hallway and she had heard the entrance door open and shut. Not long after, the bells on the carriage began to jingle. “Yes!” she shouted, jumping up, then she skipped in a circle, surveying the room. It seemed very quiet now. She went to the piano in the center of the room and stared at it. In Sir Robert’s absence, she felt like she was not supposed to be in his studio. She had the sensation that she was snooping around in someone’s personal documents, and it was exciting.…

Awen’s heartbeat sped up as a crawling, nervous sensation overtook her, and she had the urge to explore the room and run away from it all at the same time. She glanced out the window to be sure Sir Robert had really gone: the carriage was nowhere to be seen. Awen’s nerves subsided, and so she sat on the piano bench; she extended her hand toward the high register of the keyboard, letting her finger hover over a key. In one swift motion she hit it and pulled her hand away.…

The note did not sound.

Awen cocked her head to the side. She had not before noticed any broken strings.

She tried the key again, tapping it three times in a row, but still she heard nothing. Awen glanced out the window, then slid to the middle of the piano bench. She placed all five fingers over a section of keys in the middle register and pressed them in quick succession.

Still nothing.

“How could they all have suddenly broken like that?” Awen raised the lid of the piano and peered in. All of the strings connected seamlessly, as they should. She closed it and sat, and stared at the keys. She started to feel cold, and the skin on the back of her neck felt like someone was blowing on it. Her heart leapt. She jumped up and stepped back. She moved toward the hallway slowly, then quickened her pace to a half-run.…

“Ah, there you are!”

Awen screamed out—then slapped a hand over her mouth. Her face flushed when she realized who it was.

“I made it back in time for supper after all, and—whatever is the matter with you?” Francis looked downright amused.

“I…nothing,” Awen struggled to explain. “You startled me, that’s all.”

“Yes, but it looked like you were nearly running down the hall. Is there a problem?”

“No.”

Francis eyed her suspiciously. “I don’t believe you.”

She shook her head. “I had this strange feeling, that’s all. It was nothing.”

Francis continued peering at her, brow knitted in skepticism. “Hmph,” he said finally. “All right, then.” He started walking down the hallway.