The Crickhowell School for the Muses (18 page)

“Hmm.” Awen looked up at him from where she lay on her back under the piano. She could not see his face. “I think I could just stay here forever. Just like this.” She smiled, trying to forget everything but the music.

“Yes; I understand. But you know you can’t. As long as you’re here…Well, what I’m saying is that my father is almost always at home. He’s gone maybe three weeks total out of the year. I, on the other hand, am rarely here. In fact, I have to leave in less than a fortnight.”

Awen rose onto her elbows. “You’re leaving? For how long?”

“Awen…I don’t live here permanently. It’s still my home, I suppose, but most of my time is spent traveling. I rent lodgings in two other towns, where I stay most often.”

“Maybe I could come with you, then? I could ask Sir Robert.”

“No; you know that he would never consent.”

A tear slid down Awen’s face. She did not brush it off, because Francis could not see. “Right. Right. I know, of course. What was I thinking? That’s silly.” She tried to laugh.

Francis said nothing, and his silence made her even sadder. Finally, he spoke. “Breakfast, then?”

* * *

Awen was swallowing her last bite of honey-drizzled biscuit when a hopeful idea struck her: perhaps the music was back. Maybe Francis’s songs had restored the castle’s equilibrium.

“Would you like to go out riding?” Francis asked, setting down a glass of juice. “I had a post from my father this morning, and he won’t be back until early tomorrow.”

Awen nodded. “Could we wait a bit? I need to go”—she looked around the dining room—“grab something.”

“Yes, take all the time you need.” He peered down at his feet. “I need to change into some boots anyhow.”

“I’ll be quick.” Awen rose and sashayed out of the room. She crept through the hallway, looking behind her until she reached the corridor to the studio. She thought it better for Francis not to know. It was too much to explain.

Awen skipped down the hall, sliding her hand across the smooth wall as she went. She had a good feeling about what she would find in the studio.

The room, unsurprisingly, was just as she left it…except the painting had been recovered. Her heart skipped. She wondered if Francis had been in the room since last night. She glanced toward the hallway, then decided it must have been Abigail.

Awen moved to the piano in three giant, confident steps. She stretched her hand to the keyboard…then pulled it away; she would look at the painting first. Yet she hesitated again, wondering if it might be better to try singing instead. Awen wavered, unable to make a decision. She bit her lip. She knew Francis would come looking for her if she took too long.

Awen took a deep breath, then threw off the cover to the painting.

Blank. Blank on both sides.

She reached for the piano, slamming the keys with her entire forearm: nothing.

And then, her own voice was nothing, too.

Awen stomped her bare foot on the stone floor, producing a stinging pain but very little sound. She hopped on her other foot, grinding her teeth together to keep from screaming in frustration. Finally, she gave in to the situation, sitting down on the piano bench to catch her breath. She knew she had to make a decision.

“Here, or Crickhowell,” she said under her breath.

She could not deceive herself about the school; Crickhowell would never be anything but loneliness and boredom, and hours of nothing.

Her new life was comfortable, and she would have everything she needed. The things she wanted—they were there, too…but out of reach. They dangled in front of her like berries on a branch, too high to ever taste.

Awen rose from the bench.

Francis was waiting.

I’m not quite sure what the finished
product will be, but I’m getting closer and closer. I can feel it—I’m almost done! Either way, when that candle over there burns down, we’ll call it a night.”

A tear of fatigue rolled down Awen’s cheek. She yawned again. She forced her eyes to stay open so she might at least see the candle to which Sir Robert had pointed. There was still a fair amount left. Awen let her eyes close halfway and tilted her chin down.

“I took on some commissions while in Clydach,” Sir Robert raved from behind the easel.

Awen wondered how he could show so much enthusiasm at such an hour, especially since he’d returned just that morning.

“So, I’ll be quite busy these next few weeks.”

Awen stared at the slowly burning candle. She considered trying to blow it out from a distance but knew that would be too obvious. She would have to keep her eyes open and wait it out.

* * *

Awen lay across her bed, still wearing her dress and shoes. She rested her head on her arms, holding her watch open in front of her. She would just rest for a bit—long enough to regain some energy, and to ensure that Sir Robert had gone to bed. There was plenty of wax left on the candle in her lantern; a ten-minute delay would be perfectly fine. She gently closed her eyes, the ticking of the watch making her drowsy.…

* * *

Awen jerked her head up. The sky outside was still black, but her candle had burned all the way down, the only light now coming from the moon. She still held the open watch in her hands. She brought it close to her eye: three o’clock.

“Oh!” Awen struggled to get up, and jumped to the floor. She kicked off her shoes, knowing she would make less noise barefoot. She paced a few steps and smoothed down the skirt of her dress. Awen paused, staring at the amethysts at her waist, and then slipped out of the garment, exchanging it for her Crickhowell nightgown. She did not want to ruin anything of Gwen’s.

Taking a deep breath, Awen padded to the door. She touched the knob, then sighed and turned back: she knew this would be the only time for her to organize her belongings. Awen snatched up the book of music Francis had given her and set it inside her trunk, on top of her Crickhowell things. She carefully folded the dresses from Gwen’s room and stacked them on top of her bed. She set the shoes next to them. Then Awen hurried into the hallway, giving herself no time to look back and regret the decision.

The candles in the corridor barely glowed. Awen feared she would have to go without light, feeling her way through the castle until she reached the painting studio. There, the moon would shine down through the windows. She slunk toward the staircase, eyeing each candle as she went, in the hope that one would last at least half an hour. Awen bypassed one that had already gone out. But—

“Wait,” she whispered to herself. She retraced her steps. The candle had
not
gone out—it had never been lit. She pressed her palms together in triumph, plucked the candle from the wall, and lit it with the fizzling fire of another. Then she tiptoed to the staircase, eyes lingering on the golden clover affixed to Francis’s door before descending.

Awen held the candle in front of her, trying to see as far ahead as possible. She concentrated on the sounds of the castle, straining to discern the noises: a creak, or a footstep? She did not know if Sir Robert might wander at night. Awen held her breath as she rounded the staircase to enter the main hall on the first floor.

The windows above the entrance door let in just enough moonlight to dimly illuminate the main hall. Awen glided through the silver light toward the dining hall.

The dining table was clear of dishes, and the chairs had been pushed in. Awen swept through the room, heading toward the back corner. She slid her hand across the stone wall, feeling for the door that would be too faint to see in the dim light. She felt the thin gap in the stone, then traced a finger down the separation until she found the knob. Awen twisted it and pulled the door open.

The room was pitch black—the only light was that which radiated from her candle. For a moment, Awen thought she might lose her nerve.

She felt for the chain snaking around her neck and drew the watch to her ear. She concentrated on the ticking, reminding herself of the inevitable task that lay before her. Awen dropped the charm, letting it slide back to the bottom of the necklace, and forged ahead into the darkness.

Awen held out her candle, illuminating the empty countertops. She tried to remember from where she had seen Abigail pull out the utensils. They had come from a drawer—but there were countless drawers here. Awen started at one end and worked her way through.

After locating spatulas, whisks, serving forks, and some wooden spoons, Awen pulled open a drawer full of knives. She examined them individually, the light of her flame glinting off each metal surface. She tossed aside a butter knife, a bread knife, and a small tool for cutting meat, finally stopping at a large, sleek blade tucked in the back. She pulled it out carefully, holding it up to the light. “Perfect,” Awen whispered, and popped the drawer shut with her hip. Holding the knife down by her left side, and the candle in her right hand, Awen slid back through the door and into the dining room.

She stood in the dark corner just outside the camouflaged door and listened: silence—only the ticking of clock hands. She moved stealthily to the hall, peering in all directions before slipping into the corridor that led to Sir Robert’s studio. As she advanced down the hallway her heartbeat quickened, and her pace increased until she was moving at a half-run. She tried to regain her composure as she entered the studio, but the eerie glow of the moon made her feel peculiar, and the only way to stop the feeling was to keep moving—to go faster and faster until she could not think about it anymore. Her mind went fuzzy, and now it was her muscles that led.

Awen hurried to the easel where Sir Robert’s self-proclaimed masterpiece sat, covered in drapery. She was not sure which she hoped for—a blank canvas, which would refute her fears, or a filled one, which would prove them. She threw off the fabric.…

There they were: orbs of color bobbing across the canvas, thick with the new paint he had added that evening. The disappearance of art, then, was not simply something that happened in the dead of night, but truly did leave the castle with Sir Robert.

Awen took a step back from the painting; she still had no idea what it was, what it meant, or if it represented anything at all. The more she looked at it, the more the painting seemed to change, until the blobs of yellow and blue and purple were no longer just circles of color, but—faces:

A pale white Rosaline formed in the top left corner, staring back with black eyes that looked like holes. Mr. Berwick appeared in the center, purple scar glowing, threatening to rip the canvas apart. The two men that had taken her away and started it all—their faces were blurry and vague, like Awen’s memory of them. They moved as a pair across the bottom of the tableau. Then there was Miss Nina, in the top right, her lips moving but no sound coming out; and Hannah, grinning at Awen, her shocking red hair swirling around, then dripping down the canvas like blood. Vivienne’s face emerged next, bigger than the rest, nearly consuming the entire surface. Then Awen was looking at Francis and a girl—Bryn? His lost sister Gwen? The faces began to join together, sucked into the center as if it were a whirlpool. They fizzled into one, and finally, she was looking at herself.

It was like a reflection in the mirror: the painting’s eyes blinked when she did, and its mouth twitched with hers. She stared at it—she could not stop—and for a moment, she feared she was stuck. And then she was falling; her body tilted forward, or maybe the room tipped toward her? Her heels left the ground. It seemed as if the painting had moved beyond the two-dimensional and was attempting to suck her in.

But then the portrait began to change: her eyes dissolved first. Then her nose. Her forehead. Her hair. Piece by piece, until only the mouth was left: pink lips slightly parted. Finally, that went, too.

With a scream, Awen raised the knife and thrust it down on the center of the canvas. She slashed at the painting again and again, as if under attack, and finally threw the knife into the center, letting it stick. The pieces frayed and curled at the edges, then they reached toward each other, threatening to come back together and re-stitch themselves.

In a flash of panic, Awen raised her candle to the painting, catching the canvas in the flame, and watched the whole thing burn.

All she could concentrate on doing
was moving forward. Peeling one battered foot off the floor to place in front of the other, half-staggering down the third-floor hallway of Crickhowell. The bruises should have subsided after two weeks, but it was still difficult to walk. At least the swelling in her face had begun to go down, and her eyes opened most of the way now. She still could not lift her whip-slashed arms high enough to change out of her dress and into a cleaner one.

Even so, she did not regret what she had done to Sir Robert’s painting.

Awen approached the stairwell leading down to the second floor. She parted her lips, barely whispering: “Almost halfway.” She paused at the top of the stairs, pressing her hands against the wall. She wondered what Miss Nina wanted with her so early in the morning, and why she had to call her all the way down to the library. They had not spoken since her arrival at dawn from Sir Robert’s, two weeks ago—in fact, nobody had spoken to Awen. A woman who had taken Rosaline’s place brought meals to her room, but she never said anything.

Awen descended the staircase one step at a time, placing both feet on the same stair before stepping down. Upon reaching the bottom, she stopped, hanging her head to regain her composure. When she looked up, someone huddled in a corner gave her a start. She could not see the girl’s entire face, but she saw enough to recognize her. Awen moved forward cautiously. “Vivienne?” she whispered.

The girl looked up. Her eyes were shiny with moisture.

“Oh, you’re back!” Awen could not help but yell. “I’m back, too! I was gone for a while, but…”

The girl lowered her head.

Awen was sure it was Vivienne. She remembered the hair and the face, even though everything else seemed different about her. “Vivienne? It’s me, Awen!”

This time Vivienne did not even raise her head.

Awen squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then opened them and moved on.

The chandelier in the main entrance hall captured Awen’s attention, as it always had. She paused on the third-to-last step, looking up at it—watching, as if it might do something more than just glow. Awen did not know what it was about those hanging circles of light: the chandelier was grand and opulent and foreboding and sorrowful, all at once. She wondered, too, if it really was not any of those things at all, but rather it was whatever one wanted it to be. Or if…

“Awen.”

She peered over the railing. For a moment, she had forgotten why she was even there on the stairwell.

Miss Nina was standing outside the library door, looking up at her. “Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

Awen took a deep breath, trying to calm herself—then gave up and stepped into the hall, her heart jumping in her chest. She entered the library behind Miss Nina, who had left the door halfway open. Awen made a motion to shut it.

“Leave it open,” Miss Nina told her. “We shan’t be in here for long.”

Awen glanced over her shoulder into the hall, not sure if she hoped someone was listening, or not.

“So. Burned your patron’s artwork to bits. And a good portion of his studio, too.”

Awen picked at her nails and tried to wriggle her toes on the stone floor.

“In all my time here, I must say I’ve never met a girl as stupid as you. Any girl in her right mind would take that household over this school, any day!” She leaned across the desk so that her face was right above Awen’s. “But
now
…Sir Robert won’t take another
one
of my students! I offered to send him another girl, straightaway, but he said he wouldn’t have anything to do with us again!” She looked away—then back at Awen. “Can you even imagine what you’ve done to the image of this school? Much less the financial damage! The money I’ve had to pay him for repairs! I’ll be sending even more to keep him from spreading the news!”

Awen grimaced. She hardly cared about what Miss Nina said, but the woman’s voice vibrated through her whole body. She wanted to take a step backward.…

Miss Nina dropped her voice to a whisper, the intensity of her words increasing tenfold. “So now, I’ve made my decision.” She aimed her words between Awen’s eyes. “I am expelling you from Crickhowell. You are no longer welcome here, as of…” She glanced down at her shiny gold pocket watch. “Right. Now.”

Awen’s jaw dropped.

“Yes, that’s what I thought. They all
hate
it here—until they’re kicked out! Kicked out, with nowhere to go!” Her eyes glinted with a fury Awen had never seen. “I’ll have someone retrieve your trunk from upstairs, and then you’re out the door. You may have some extra food if there is any in the kitchens, but that’s it.” She shook her head. “I knew from the moment my men brought you in that you’d be a mistake.”

Miss Nina stepped back around the desk. “Wait right here,” she said over her shoulder, turning into the hallway. Awen listened to the sound of her heeled shoes on the staircase.

She leaned against the door frame, staring at her hands in disbelief. She tried to come up with a plan, a direction in which to go…but she could not think up any more questions, much less the answers. She pressed her hands together, looking desperately around the bookshelves for some idea of what to do. Then, an idea hit her—just in a name:

Gwen.

There were walls and walls of books, with thousands of pages worth of records; Gwen’s had to be in there somewhere. But finding one girl’s name within that mess of paper sounded beyond impossible.

Awen hesitated. Then, clenching her teeth against the pain in her bruised feet, she sprinted to the back wall of shelves. She perused the volumes, nearly running as she read the titles. She glanced over the entire wall of books, then moved to the shelving on the left, her eyes beginning to water as her muscles protested. These books were all for matching up students with patrons—just like her own book,
SINGERS, S-Z
, which merely contained artist biographies.

Awen sneaked past the open library door, glancing once for Miss Nina, and continued to the books on the right. These were different: two entire columns of books were engraved with the word
EXPENSES
down the spine, each with a year printed under it. They were filed chronologically. Awen’s heart raced as she moved down the shelves, her hope increasing but her time running out: Miss Nina had to be back soon. She reached the end of the right-side shelving. The books had been nothing but financial records.

The sound of two voices in the hall threw Awen back into a frenzy. She did not know whether or not one of the voices belonged to Miss Nina, but the sound propelled her forward, toward the unexamined shelves in the center of the room. The books she saw first were unlabeled, except for one letter on each spine.
Q
, one volume read. And then
R
—there were five of these. Then
S
. She did not know precisely what information they contained; she could only hope she would find a record of Gwen if she chose the right one.

“Thank you, William.” It was Miss Nina’s voice, echoing in the stairwell.

Awen knew she had to run, and she had to trust her gut. She spun around the corner of the bookshelf, toward what she hoped would be the beginning of the alphabet.
A…B…C…
her heart raced as she sprinted down the row, finally reaching the books labeled with
G
. There were five of them.

“No, that’s all I need.” The voice was closer.

Awen snapped up the last, thinnest
G
in the stack, her sore arm almost giving out under its light weight, and ran so hard she nearly slid into the doorframe. She leaned back against the wall, wedging the book between it and her spine, and forced her breathing to steady.

Miss Nina appeared; she remained in the hall just outside the library. “William put your trunk by the door. There was a bit of extra food, so he’s packed that, too.”

Awen nodded solemnly, but already she felt lighter, less terrified of walking out that door with nowhere to go.

“Well, come on, then.” Miss Nina turned away.

Awen slid the book up the back of her dress; she could hold it up with just one hand held near the back of her hip. She followed Miss Nina to the main entrance door.

Miss Nina opened the door and stood back.

Awen spun around to face her, then walked partially backward and partially sideways to the threshold, the pain in her feet and muscles returning. She bent her knees and leaned forward just enough to reach the handle of her trunk, and struggled to straighten her back while lifting.

The book was still in place under her dress.

Awen stepped backward out of the castle, wheeling her trunk after her.

Miss Nina still regarded her, silently, from within.

Just as Awen began to wonder how far she would have to continue walking backward to hide the book, the front door began to creak shut. Awen stopped, watching it close—then let the book slip stealthily down the back of her dress, to the path below.

Grimacing, she turned and squatted in front of her trunk. The lock was gone; she sighed in relief, for she no longer had a clue where she had placed the key. Awen opened the lid and slid the book inside to rest on top of the packed food. She hauled herself up with the help of the trunk and reached for the handle.…

“Awen!”

She snapped around.

Miss Nina’s head was sticking out the open entry door.

Had she seen?

Miss Nina lowered her voice. “Good luck.” She regarded Awen for a moment, then disappeared back inside the castle.

* * *

Awen sang softly to herself a song she had heard many years ago and since forgotten. The words were from a poem, and the music moved like whispered wind blowing through long blades of grass. She was hardly aware of her moving lips. The sound was just there, a part of her.

She approached a large grey boulder and sat on it, unpacking a strawberry muffin from her trunk. She had been traveling all day—the sun was just beginning to set—but she had been moving so slowly, she could still just see the silhouette of Crickhowell at the top of the hill in the distance. She had yet to come across a single house or building. The question of where she would sleep began to nag at her, until it felt like a hole was burning in her stomach.

Awen had been picturing the book in her trunk the whole way, too nervous to actually take it out and page through. She was afraid the book was not what she thought it was, or that it did contain student records, but that she had grabbed the wrong
G
. What if it contained the
Ga
through
Ge
names, and not the
Gw
? And what if it did not even matter? The records could be outdated—and even if they were not, what would she do with the information? Would she look for Gwen? She knew she would never see Sir Robert Thomas, or Francis, ever again—not after what she had done.…And yet still, she knew this was important. She had to discover for herself what had happened to Gwen. She had to know it was possible to survive in this kind of life.

Awen took up the book, carefully, in both hands. She crossed her legs slowly and set it in her lap, cracking it open in the middle. She smiled.

Awen furled through the pages, which were labeled at the top like the pages of a dictionary, until almost the very end. She stopped at a page with the name
Gunda
, then flipped forward, just one page at a time.

Gwen
. Awen stopped. She looked at the full name on the page:
Gwen Brellwen
. “No…” she mumbled. Then there was
Gwen Gawel
, and
Gwen Rose
. She turned the page again, and again. There it was:

Gwen Thomas
.
Daughter of renowned painter Sir Robert Thomas
.

Awen shivered. It was strange seeing the life of a girl she hardly knew laid out before her. She ran her fingertips over the text—words Francis had probably longed to know for years. The secrets of his sister’s existence.

As Awen curved her finger around the page, an image flashed into her head like an unbidden daydream. She saw a woman in a gold dress with blonde hair piled high on her head like a rope. Gemstones sparkled in the dim light in her hair and around her neck. She stood tall next to a cascade of red silk curtains, but her mouth was pulled into a distraught line, and her brown eyes glittered with obvious fear. The contrast between her expression and her extravagant surroundings was peculiar.

Awen snapped her head back as if she had been shocked, and the image fizzled away. What had just happened? Could it be?

Awen looked down at the open book in her lap and flipped through the pages until she reached the end of Gwen’s section. That was all that really mattered, anyway.

Gwen Thomas was delivered to Philip T. Stratton after one year and three months of training at Crickhowell in the usual subjects. Not possessing any notable talents except for her attractiveness, she inspires through her beauty and charm. Gwen was, however, a difficult, stubborn student who caused much trouble. She has hardly been missed, but we were well compensated for her.

A sour taste formed in Awen’s mouth, and she was glad Francis would never have to read those words. But another feeling was growing along with the bitterness—a feeling that caused her heart to beat faster and her muscles to tense, as if she were preparing for a physical challenge.

She knew what to do: she had to find Gwen.

Maybe Francis’s sister had been stubborn at one time, but if the image that had come into Awen’s mind had any truth—and she knew, she knew it did—then Gwen had lost her willfulness. Something was wrong. She had been broken down, made into little more than a slave. She had lost the spark that Awen herself had been able to hold on to, the deviousness that had gotten her out.

Gwen had to be helped, and Awen even dared to believe that if she could save one muse, perhaps one day she could end the entire trade.

Awen stared at the page for a moment longer, until the long day caught up with her and her eyelids began to droop. She folded back the corner of the paper and closed the book, bending over to rest her head on it. She closed her eyes. The road ahead would not be easy and the clues leading to Gwen were few. But she had something to believe in, and that was all that mattered.