by Amanda Marin
“What happened?” I ask.
A dozen eyes turn toward me—even Harmony glances up after she wipes away a forced tear from the corner of her eye.
“Someone’s stolen the Laffitte painting from the Museum of Fine Arts,” Georgiana tells me. Her eyes are wide and heavy with the threat of an impending monsoon of tears, and her tone is grave. Someone may as well have died.
And I understand why. As the Americas once were to explorers—as the Egyptian pyramids once were to archaeologists—and as the findings of Pythagoras once were to mathematicians, so is the Laffitte to artists. To Muses. To us. We’ve been hearing about the Laffitte for months now. The rarely displayed masterpiece is on tour—its first time in the country, let alone New York. Not since the Mona Lisa has a woman’s portrait caused such a fuss. Tickets to the museum have been sold out for weeks because of the exhibit. Even a socialite like Harrison Johnson-Jones would have had a hard time securing them. Harmony Dillard may be acting like a two-year-old in need of a nap, but at the same time, she’s not completely out of line.
“The Laffitte …” I find myself repeating dazedly. The syllables hang heavy on my tongue, hard to get out, like taffy stuck to my teeth.
Georgiana nods, and her slim fingers tremble as she swipes up on the screen of her phone, scrolling down to more text. “‘Police suspect the robbery took place sometime in the early morning hours, between two and three o’clock,’” she reads to the group. “‘Detectives are still investigating how security at the museum may have been breached. No witnesses have stepped forward to offer any clues.’”
“Read Bianca that part about it being the ‘crime of the millennium,’” Aurelia Ketterling mutters darkly. Her eyes are a pair of brown moons. Their glistening expanse compared to her tiny cheekbones only emphasizes her gaunt, perpetually terrified look.
Georgiana opens her mouth to follow Aurelia’s instruction, but before she gets the chance, Harmony snatches the phone out of her hand.
“You already spoiled that part of the news, Aurelia,” she snaps as she resumes paging through the article. “Let’s move on to something we don’t already know—like when the exhibit will open again.”
Aurelia cowers, her petite frame made smaller and meeker by her sagging shoulders. I smile at her sympathetically, hoping it’ll lessen Harmony’s harshness. She blinks wordlessly back at me but stands a little straighter, and a grateful grin tugs at the corners of her mouth.
“Ugh!” Harmony rolls her eyes, and her whole face tremors with anger. “This says the whole museum’s closed until further notice. They can’t risk more thefts until they figure out what went wrong with security around the Laffitte.”
She shoves the phone back at Georgiana with a mix of hostility and accusation, as if the robbery and closure of the museum is entirely her fault. “My six-week anniversary with Harrison is ruined now—ruined!”
Hands on her hips and Melody trailing at her heels, she turns sharply and starts stomping up the stairs toward the dormitories. She almost trips over the hem of her gown after the second step. Under other circumstances, it may have been almost funny: Harmony Dillard—Miss Perfect—failing to pull off a flawlessly executed tantrum. But not today. Today, none of us are laughing.
Every Muse has a specialty. When we graduate Brightling Academy—only a few weeks from now—and go out into the world to fulfill our assignments from the Board, we pledge allegiance to one of the original Muses. Our ancestors. The nine legendary sisters, each gifted with the power to inspire, their energy drawn from the epic force we call the Well of Imagination. Dance and music, comedy and tragedy—subjects that just scratch the surface of what we’re capable of inspiring. At the graduation ceremony, we will stand before our closest friends and family on stage in the school’s auditorium and select the symbol of the Muse whose realm we vow to embody in art, word, and deed for the rest of our lives. Afterward, Headmistress Fothergill will register our selections with the Board, and then we begin fulfilling our ancient mission: to bring beauty to the world.
Nine Muses. Nine paths. Nine Board members. Infinite possibilities.
If I had to guess, I’d say Harmony Dillard will pledge herself to Erato, the Muse of romantic arts. Her trail of relationships, tendency toward melodrama, and the way she’s passionate about everything are all signs of her predisposition to the fire and thirst that comes with being Erato’s disciple. Meanwhile, her twin, Melody, has the voice of an angel—as I’m sure their parents hoped when picking out her name. She’ll choose Euterpe for sure. Kash is also obvious. She’ll pledge to Terpsichore, the Muse of dance. She moves like a dove across the studio floor in Brightling’s lower levels—all her nervous bouncing simply melts away.
As for me, I’m too practical for romance; I sing like a dying crow, and I’m about as graceful as a newborn horse learning to stand. That’s all okay, though. I’m going to pledge myself to Clio. The great historian. The proclaimer of all who’ve done good deeds. Harper-related women have been disciples of Clio for generations. Carrying on their legacy is what’s expected of me. I’m the last of our line. I have to … Plus, I won’t need sonnets or ballet shoes to fulfill my assignments from the Board of Nine. Which is a good thing—and probably the only thing in the world that Ms. Dashwood and I can agree on. I’ll only need ideas. And action. And noble intentions.
I try to remind myself of this as I show Sebastian to his Performing Arts class the next morning. We wind our way through the halls on the floor beneath the academic classrooms. The gray stone archways are dotted with girls in azure and gold plaid uniforms, each with gaping stares. Some haven’t heard about Sebastian’s arrival yet, and those who have are wondering why they weren’t picked to show him around.
“Ladies,” Sebastian nods, grinning, as we pass. His chest swells beneath the laurel-crested badge on his blazer. The one that marks him as one of us. “Hi, hello …”
I roll my eyes. “You must be used to getting all this attention at your last academy, too.”
He shrugs and straightens the strap of his messenger bag across his chest. “Not really, no. Why would I?”
I pause and stare at him, an eyebrow raised. “Wasn’t your old school mostly girls, too?”
Color rises in his cheeks, and he looks down quickly as if to hide it. “Oh … yeah … I guess.”
Sebastian clears his throat as we begin walking forward again. His chest seems rather deflated, I notice, and he doesn’t greet anyone else as we pass. Whatever I said bothered him. Maybe I meant it to. But I’m not quite sure why.
“Were you the only male Muse there, too?” I ask, trying to draw him out again. Trying to normalize our conversation.
He doesn’t look up. “I was,” he says. “The thing is, I think I was there so long that I wasn’t different to them. I was just regular, old Sebastian. Like a brother or best friend. No one special.”
So that’s what this is about. He has Bridesmaid Syndrome: always a bridesmaid, never a bride—but in his case, always the brother-figure, never the boyfriend. What I’ve taken for arrogance is simply surprise. Feeling flattered. Being overwhelmed. I get it. Maybe he’s not as much of a self-absorbed heartbreaker as I thought.
Still, as we round the corner by the dance studio, I take odd delight in pulling a pair of tap shoes out of my own bag and thrusting them into his grasp.
“Headmistress Fothergill asked me to give you these,” I tell him.
For a moment, Sebastian stares down at the shiny leather and cold, metal soles of his new footwear. His sea-green eyes froth with panic as he turns them over in his hands, searching for words. “You mean … I have to … wear these?” he chokes.
A smug grin threatens to curl my lips, but I try to restrain myself. “They should be your size—the headmistress said she has all your measurements in your file.”
“And I have to …?” He’s drowning in his own ocean of disbelief, humbled by the horrors and humiliation he seems to already sense the next hour has in store for him.
“Tap dance was the only Performing Arts class with space in it still,” I tell him. It’s what the headmistress told me this morning when handing me a copy of his schedule and the shoes, after all.
Frowning, he glances over his shoulder into the room where the other students are already assembling. Some sit on the ground, tying the laces on their own tap shoes. Others are stretching. And an eager handful are getting a jump start on the day’s lesson by practicing moves: a loud, fast spin of their limbs that reminds me of a human windmill. A wing step. That’s what Kash called it, I think, when she took this course.
“You’re in this class, too, right?” Sebastian asks as he looks back at me.
I can’t hide my amusement anymore. I shake my head, barely able to suppress my giggle. “Nope. I quit Performing Arts sophomore year. I have Exotic Languages now.”
The panic in his face intensifies. He gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his tie like an avalanche tumbling toward his rib cage. It leaves behind a surprisingly vulnerable shell of the confident boy who walked down the hall with me just a few minutes ago.
That’s when I realize the truth. He wasn’t counting on this. He doesn’t want me to leave him. He’s been at Brightling Academy for less than twenty-four hours, and whether I like it or not, I’m the one he knows best here. I’m the closest thing he has to a friend.
So I take pity on him. Unfolding the copy of his schedule in my hand, I quickly map out the rest of his day. He’ll have Studio Arts after this—a sculpting course. And after that, we’ll be together again.
“Look, we’re in the same Inspiration Practicum session,” I assure him, pointing to the block of time before lunch. “I’ll meet you after your sculpting class, and we can walk over together, okay?”
Sebastian’s eyes brighten, and his grin returns. A half-smile. Confidence, charm, and a smirk in one. Like he’s cheated and won. Like he’s getting away with something.
As I turn away, I can’t stop myself from wondering if maybe he is.
4
“How long do you have to be his personal tour guide?” Kash asks, barely moving her mouth so Ms. Applegate doesn’t notice us talking.
We stand in rows, watching Ms. Applegate’s cautionary demonstration about over-inspiring our subjects at the front of the room. I glance quickly to my left, where Sebastian stands on my other side, hoping he can’t hear her whisper either. If he can, he doesn’t show it; he just watches, transfixed. Mesmerized by the scene before us. So I answer.
“I’m not sure. Until graduation, I suppose—or until I flunk out, whichever happens first,” I mutter back darkly.
“Are you going to all his classes with him?”
I give my head a quick shake. After yesterday’s Poise and Charm class, l’d like to avoid getting in trouble and landing in Headmistress Fothergill’s office again, so I keep my voice low when I reply. “I practically threw his tap shoes at him this morning.”
“He’s taking tap dance?!” A smile cracks across Kash’s face, and she claps her hand to her mouth to stifle her giggle.
I’m not sure if it’s the motion of Kash’s arm rising or the sound of her suppressed, mouse-like squeal that catches Ms. Applegate’s attention more. Either way, our Inspiration Practicum teacher pauses. She lowers her hand, and although I can’t physically see the sparks of influence flowing between her and Ellabelle Cranshaw, I can witness the way Ellabelle’s whole demeanor changes with the motion: the saccharine grin on her mouth fades, her blue eyes seem less misty, and her posture relaxes.
Ms. Applegate isn’t like some of our other teachers. She doesn’t get excited like Ms. Westbrook or scold and embarrass like Ms. Dashwood. So when her eyes fall on Kash and me, she doesn’t make a scene. She just continues on educating us in her grand, eloquent way. Never missing a beat. As unrattled as a redwood tree in a storm.
“Kassia, my dear, one day you will have moved on from these precious walls,” she says, her tone calm and metered—serene, even. “And when that glorious day arrives, I hope you will remember today’s lesson above all others. In fact, I hope each of you do—”
Nodding in agreement with her own statement, Ms. Applegate sweeps her arm in front of her like a scythe through grasses, indicating all of us standing before her. If I didn’t already know she was a disciple of Polyhymnia, I would now. Her expressive gestures and speechmaking give her allegiance away.
“—It is essential for you to remember that being a Muse is to inspire, not control, the actions of another being. It is to awaken something inside them that moves them to greatness—to plant a seed in the fertile ground of their mind,” she continues. As she speaks, she uses her hands to emphasize her points. Her fingertips become an explosion, and then a seed burrowing into the palm of her hand. As usual, her monologue is part song, part theater—which is one of the reasons why her classes are my favorite.
“Sometimes the seed blooms into richness and life,” Ms. Applegate tells us. “Other times, it does not. It simply shrivels up or blows away in the wind. The same can be said of any spark you hope to inspire. A Muse may only push so hard—you cannot force your subject to act. You must always leave him or her a choice.”
I’m still staring at the imaginary cloud of dandelion tufts she’s mimed blowing into the air when I hear Aurelia Ketterling’s voice rise from the end of the row in front of me.
“But how do you know if you’re pushing someone too hard?” she asks. Her hand is still raised as she speaks, and her telescopic eyes are wide with eagerness to learn. “And can’t that vary from person to person?”
“Yeah, some people are incredibly dense.” Zelda Mackey’s heavy, sarcastic voice is followed by a scoff as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I hope I don’t get assigned to one of those.”
After nearly four years of teaching her, Ms. Applegate is used to Zelda’s running commentary. Just like she did with Kash, she simply smiles peacefully and pivots to make the outburst part of her lesson.
“And that is precisely why we are here in Inspiration Practicum, dear Zelda,” she says, clapping her hands together in a silent clap of victory. Like she’s just made a breakthrough. “To test the boundaries of our powers. To start small and see how much we must push—and to learn when to back away.”
Shifting her focus back to Aurelia next, she goes on. “Now, to answer Miss Ketterling’s question … There are signs when you have overstepped your boundaries as a Muse—when you have crossed the line from inspiration to control. Note, for example, the changes in Ellabelle now that she is no longer under my influence. Her eyes, expression, and stance have all returned to usual.”
Ms. Applegate is tall and thin—treelike. So when she waves toward Ellabelle Cranshaw, pointing to her face and shoulders as she speaks of the effects of over-inspiration, I can only think of her arms as a willow’s branches bending and swaying.
“What happens to Muses who inspire darkness and evil? Or who don’t allow their subjects a choice?”
The question comes from Sebastian this time. An unfamiliar voice asking something shocking. Something he should already know. It doesn’t just make my head turn—it makes everyone else do a double take as well. Even Ms. Applegate hesitates a moment. As we all shift nervously and murmur amongst ourselves, Sebastian shrinks back a bit. Embarrassed. Like he’s realizing a few seconds too late that maybe he’s breached etiquette somehow.
Finally, Ms. Applegate clears her throat, plasters her usual tranquil grin back on her face, and carries on gracefully. “Well, if they are discovered committing such a wicked deed, they are brought before the Board of Nine for a trial and punishment, just as they have for millennia.”
As if thinking the matter has been put to rest, she nods to Ellabelle, still standing beside her, indicating for her to resu
me her place in line with the rest of us.
But Sebastian isn’t finished. He takes a deep breath and wets his mouth, his tongue rolling briefly between his lips. He steps forward slightly, as though trying to embolden himself.
“And what sort of punishment might a wicked Muse face?” he asks.
More murmurs. Kash’s eyes meet mine as we watch the ripple of shock emanate out across the room around us, Sebastian at its core. She’s bouncing subtly. Nervously. And I can tell from just a glance that her thoughts are the same as mine: the fascination and awe Sebastian managed to drum up for himself yesterday is in jeopardy. If he keeps this up, by dinnertime, I doubt even Aurelia Ketterling will sit with him in the cafeteria.
“There are many possibilities, Mr. Greenbriar,” Ms. Applegate replies calmly. “I’m sure you learned them during your first year at your last academy, like everyone else. But you have a good point. It is always helpful to have a reminder that every action has consequences—particularly the bad.”
She forces another smile. It’s a good thing he’s asking these questions of her, not of Ms. Dashwood, or he’d end up in the headmistress’s office even faster than I did yesterday.
“Depending on the seriousness of the infraction,” she tells him, “the Board may decree any punishment ranging from a simple suspension of the Muse’s powers … to having the Board inspire self-infliction of the same wickedness on him or her.”
A wrinkle forms in Sebastian’s forehead, just between his eyebrows. He looks like he’s trying to compute a complex math equation but finding it unsolvable. “So, if a wicked Muse inspired a Mundane to kill someone, the Board might inspire that Muse to kill himself …?”
There are so many horrified gasps filling the room that I’m surprised there’s any oxygen left for us to keep breathing. Harmony Dillard gives a dramatic whimper, as though she just found out about the missing Laffitte painting all over again. And the strain increases on Ms. Applegate’s face.
