by Amanda Marin
“It’s all right,” Sebastian stammers, standing up. “I was just about to go anyway.”
I watch him grab his bag in silence. A part of me wishes that he’d been able to hold me just a moment or two longer. An even bigger part wishes he’d stay.
And for the first time since we became roommates, I wish Kash wasn’t here.
8
“Maybe you’re wrong about the whole thing,” Kash tries to comfort. “The drop in birthrate might not mean we’re going extinct. It could be a coincidence—the Mundanes’ birthrates are declining, too, I’ve read. People just aren’t having as many kids as they once did.”
“To decline that fast, though?” I challenge her. “It’s pretty dramatic. It’s like something’s gone wrong suddenly—like the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs. Maybe it’s a disease—or some kind of an attack …”
Sebastian lowers himself into the seat beside me then. Just the three of us crammed in a corner of the cafeteria at a table so small there’s no risk of Aurelia Ketterling or anyone else joining us. I stare at the carton of orange juice on Sebastian’s tray, avoiding eye contact. Just a glance at his hand, at his arm, and my mind goes blank except for one thought: the memory of him holding me last night. It’s a struggle to make even the smallest of small talk.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says.
Brilliant oration. Obviously. Shakespeare’s soliloquies have nothing on us.
Kash clears her throat and sits up straighter. I’m not sure if she’s annoyed by his appearance, or if she’s simply trying to rescue me from myself by taking over the conversation.
“All I mean is, don’t give up on Muse-kind quite yet,” she says. “At least wait and see if that next warning sign comes true. What was it again?”
“Songbirds,” Sebastian says, swallowing down a gulp of his juice. “They stop singing.”
Finally, I look up at him. Into those hurricane eyes. So wild that I feel winded by their pull.
“I think you might be right about some kind of attack, by the way,” he tells me quietly. “Maybe we should check the history books and see if something like this has ever happened before to Muses.”
As I nod enthusiastically, my heartbeat quickens. He’s been thinking about this, too. Apparently, I’m not the only one who stayed up half the night, staring at the ceiling, worried. The stumps of my fingernails are physical proof of my concern.
But although I feel relief, Kash just seems more distressed. Her gaze alternates between Sebastian and me, and her head seems to bobble a little. If she was standing, she’d be outright bouncing—I’m sure of it. She’s nervous.
“Remember what you promised, Bee,” she lectures softly, frowning. “You said you’d be careful. We have graduation soon. Don’t get so wrapped up in this project of yours that you wreck it.”
There Kash goes again with the lecture. With the constant reminders that my whole future as a Muse is dependent on my ability to avoid stepping a toe out of line over the next few weeks.
“I won’t,” I insist. I try to sound calm, but the annoyance comes out anyway. My clenched teeth might have something to do with it.
Kash blinks once, twice. Staring at me in disbelief. Like she’s unsure if she’s really heard the edge to my tone that she thinks she has. Before she has the chance to say anything further, I turn toward Sebastian.
“Want to come with me to the library after Inspiration Practicum to do some research?” I ask him, cutting Kash out of the conversation—on purpose.
Even though he’s just taken a bite of an apple, he nods in agreement. Across from us, Kash grips her yogurt spoon like she’s wringing out a wet towel … or trying very hard to resist the urge to remind me not to show up late to Poise and Charm class. Her glare is smoldering.
“I’m getting the feeling Kash may not be my biggest fan,” Sebastian says as I walk with him to the library later.
“Hmm, I’m not sure what would give you that impression,” I tease. “Could it be the icy stares over breakfast or the silent treatment she gave you in Inspiration Practicum?”
His mouth curls up at one corner. The return of his cunning grin. “You noticed that, huh? Here I was, half-hoping that was my imagination.”
“Hi, Sebastian.”
“Hey, Sebastian.”
The voices rise around us in the hallway as we pass. Melanie Bettencourt, a sophomore. Natasha Livingstone, a junior. A couple of others quietly stare, lingering a moment longer than they need to by their lockers or tossing their hair over their shoulders to catch his attention. Sebastian just nods vaguely at them, scarcely registering their presence. There’s no puffed-up chest. No saying hello. No flirting back. Not like there was a few days ago when he arrived. He’s too focused on me, on our conversation—a fact that makes my own chest swell up and my step lighter instead.
“I wouldn’t worry about Kash,” I tell him. “It’s not you. She’s just looking out for me. Or trying to, anyway.” I almost blurt out the full truth about Poise and Charm class but manage to catch myself in time. Barely.
“… Announced today the sale of the Empire Opera House to an undisclosed private investor …”
This time the voice doesn’t come from one of the girls in the hallway. It’s coming from the screen suspended on the wall by the administrative offices. The television normally shows welcome messages to visitors or pictures of Brightling students painting or singing—the kind of images meant to show prospective attendees how dynamic and well-adjusted we are, so they choose to enroll here, instead of at one of the other Muse finishing schools overseas. Today, though, someone has changed the channel. The news is on. And the second we hear the word “opera,” Sebastian and I both stop, startled, to stare at the prim, young journalist on air.
“Empire Opera House was immediately closed, its stage dark for the first time since it opened its doors more than one-hundred-fifty years ago,” the woman says.
“The omen,” I murmur. I tear my gaze from the screen only so I can look up at Sebastian.
“‘Songbirds will cease to sing.’” He repeats the words like they’re dangerous—like they’re capable of invoking evil spirits or raising the dead. “It’s coming true.”
“… Issued a press release stating there are no plans when—or even if—the historic opera house will open again,” the journalist continues.
I turn back to the screen just as the news starts catching the attention of others passing by: a handful of students, a couple of members of the housekeeping staff, one of the librarians. Even Ms. Applegate pauses to gape, her long, flowing skirts swirling around her ankles as she glides to a halt behind us.
“Ow—stop pushing against me!” Juliette Atwell complains as someone bumps into her from behind.
The commotion causes a chain effect. She stumbles, slamming her backpack against my shoulder in the process. Thrown off balance, I fall forward.
“Bee!”
Sebastian tries to grab onto my sweater, to catch me. But I manage to save myself in time without his help. Putting out my arm, I miss knocking my head against the corner of the screen by inches.
“You okay?” he asks, pulling me back.
“Yeah … I think so.” My breath is heavy, and I stare at the screen, marveling at how much worse this day would turn out to be if I gave myself a concussion on top of everything. And as I gape at the screen, I notice something familiar—but also strange.
The man with the green handkerchief.
He’s there only for a moment—a flicker of his dark suit and confident stride in the corner of some footage from outside the Empire Opera House playing behind the journalist on screen.
“It’s him!” I gasp.
As fast as he appears, he’s gone again, slipping out of the frame and behind a group of protestors decrying the closure of the historic building. If I’d blinked, I would have missed him.
“Who?” Sebastian asks, still focusing on me. His hands are on my shoulders. He pulls up the
strap of my messenger bag slipping down my arm.
“This man—I’ve seen him before,” I say. “He was at Brambleton the afternoon before the fire—and I watched him steal a violin from a street musician, too.”
A wrinkle forms across Sebastian’s forehead faster than an earthquake tearing up the ground. His jerks toward the screen, my bag forgotten.
“Where did he go? What did he look like?”
He examines the screen, his eyes wide with panic. Something in them reminds me of a lighthouse beacon, bright but cautious as it searches the sea for sailors to warn. My stomach churns uneasily as I remember the way Sebastian stared at the man on our way back to the academy with Kash. I don’t want to think about that. I’m starting to care about Sebastian, and he’s helping me figure out what this attack on Muses means. I don’t want to imagine him connected to the man in the dark suit—especially if that man is linked to the omens.
“I … Never mind … I think I imagined it,” I murmur, unable to bring myself to ask him for the truth.
It doesn’t matter anyway. The journalist is already moving on to the next part of the story.
“… Amid rumors that the Empire Opera House will be demolished to make room for a new building—a planned ninety-story tower featuring offices and apartments …”
“That’s terrible,” someone murmurs behind us.
“I can’t believe it,” says another.
A chorus of lamentations similar to the other day when the Laffitte was stolen fills the air. I look up at Sebastian, and his face seems to register the same feelings gnawing deep down within me: I wonder how much more upset they’d all be if they understood the full truth of what’s happening—that this is about so much more than the opera house alone. This is about the death of art. Of us.
“All right, ladies, Mr. Greenbriar,” Ms. Applegate interrupts, sweeping across the hallway to the screen. She turns off the television immediately, the display darkening like an abruptly fallen night. “That is quite enough. We all have places we must be, classes we must get to, skills that need studying.” Her arms make a pair of giant arcs, swaying like a willow’s branches, as she ushers us on with our day.
Ms. Applegate may be calm, but as the group breaks apart, each of us going our own ways, I notice an uncharacteristic quickness to her step. She’s rushing, heading in the direction of Headmistress Fothergill’s office.
A fact that only confirms Sebastian’s and my fears about what the opera house’s closure might mean.
“Well, you’ll be happy to hear there’s no mention in any of the history books at the library about similar attacks on Muses,” I tell Kash as I sit at my desk with my makeup mirror, getting ready for Poise and Charm class.
“Okay,” is all she says. Two short syllables followed by an equally disinterested shrug. That’s all I get. Maybe I deserve that after shutting her out of my conversation with Sebastian this morning.
“It looks like the next omen is coming true, though,” I add. My statement is a test. A barometer of just how angry she is at me. The more words I can get her to say, the better—it’ll mean there’s hope she’ll come around sooner, rather than later. “It’s the Empire Opera House. Someone bought it and shut it down.”
“I heard.”
I watch Kash’s reflection move around behind me while I dab at my cheeks with a blush brush. She hangs her blazer up in her closet, plugs her earbuds into her phone, and sits on the edge of her bed to re-wrap her injured ankle.
Now I know exactly how much trouble I’m in. I can’t get more than two syllables out of her at a time. This is bad. Very bad. The last time I couldn’t coax her out of her shell like this was when the Dillard twins, jealous of her talent for dance, put honey in her favorite pair of ballet shoes during freshman year. She didn’t speak to Melody or Harmony the rest of the semester. My heart sinks.
“How’s your ankle feeling now that you’re off your crutches?” I ask softly, humbled, trying yet again to break down her wall—this time by forgetting about the omens, and Sebastian, and the mountain of butterscotch wrappers that sat on the library table between us as we searched for clues just an hour ago.
Kash lifts her foot into the air and flexes it. “Better.”
Here we go again. Two syllables once more.
But then she surprises me.
“The nurse said I can try dancing on it again tomorrow if I take it easy,” she adds.
A full sentence. Progress. As I switch over to my lipstick, I can’t help but feel hopeful. “That’s great!” I tell her. My tone is probably more enthusiastic than it should be. I sound like I’m wishing her a happy birthday or welcoming her home after a year abroad. “You’ll be able to dance in the recital after all.”
“Yeah.” Kash’s enthusiasm doesn’t quite meet mine. She lowers her ankle again, pops in her earbuds, and lies down on her bed. She stares at the ceiling. Now it’s her turn to block me out, I guess.
So much for progress.
Shutting off the light to my makeup mirror, I stand up. It’s time for me to get to class anyway. I smooth out the fabric of my gown, feeling the cool, crisp layers glide beneath my fingertips. I’m about to slip into my coordinating high heels of horror and slide out the door when I hear Kash say something else. Quietly. Like an afterthought.
“I’ve been thinking that you should try checking your grandmother’s translation of the Lost Scroll of Clio, by the way,” she mumbles.
“What?” I ask.
She doesn’t repeat herself. She just turns on her side, away from me.
9
It’s hard to sit through Poise and Charm class after that. I fidget, my gown crinkling and wrinkling around me. Ms. Dashwood catches me staring out the window more than once. And I mix up my silverware place setting so much that the Dillard twins giggle about it when they think I’m not listening. Like not knowing proper placement of an oyster fork is a scandal worthy of the most sensational tabloids.
But I’m there—in person physically, if not mentally—and that counts for something. It’s still progress compared to my days of showing up late for class or skipping it altogether.
Sebastian gives me questioning looks the entire time. He must have noticed my worse-than-usual performance, too. Amid all the posture-checking and table-setting, though, I don’t get a chance to give him a hint about Kash’s suggestion.
“What’s going on?” he asks me afterward. He hurries to my side, but there’s really no need: as the room clears, I’m standing by my chaise waiting for him anyway.
“There’s something I have to show you,” I tell him, speaking so fast my breath can barely keep pace with my lungs.
I pull him along by the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket without giving him the chance to either agree or decline to come with me. There’s no time to waste. I don’t even change out of my gown or switch from my heels into flats.
“Where are we going?” Sebastian asks, staggering along through the halls, trying to keep up with me.
“The auditorium,” I tell him as we dodge the swarm of puffy dresses and plaid uniforms that stands between us and the truth.
The place I didn’t want him to see … and the place we can’t avoid any longer. As much as I haven’t wanted him to know about my connections to the leaders of our realm, I don’t see a way to avoid that now. This is too important. Art and beauty—not to mention our existence—are at risk.
“I’ve gotta say, you picked an odd time to call in that special tap dance,” he jokes.
I swallow down a gulp of air and shake my head. “This isn’t about your tap dancing.”
As we slip around the corner, I glance over my shoulder to be sure no one’s following or watching us. Technically, students aren’t supposed to enter the auditorium unless there’s a special event—a dress rehearsal for a play or a recital or other ceremony. Barging in here like this is another one of those things Kash would probably lecture me about. But I do it anyway. Finding the coast clear, I tug against the handle of t
he closest double doors and lead us both inside.
“So this is Harper Auditorium …” Sebastian murmurs, turning in circles as he takes it all in around us.
The rows of seats. Wooden and squeaky. Traitors to anyone arriving late or sneaking out of an assembly early—as I know firsthand.
The stage with its garnet, velvet curtains. Heavy enough to be worn as a winter coat. In Antarctica.
The white statues that flank the room. The original Muses, frozen in time like sculptures made of ice. Each toting a symbol of their specialty—a lyre or stylus or some other ancient tool of their art.
And then, in a sectioned-off part of the auditorium not far from the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the garden, I spot it: the glass case containing the achievement that made my grandmother famous in the realm of Muses. The one that changed the course of her career, that took her from an assistant to the Board of Nine to a full-fledged member and headmistress of Brightling Academy.
“A lot of people don’t realize this, but Clio was more than a historian,” I tell Sebastian as we approach, navigating the maze of aisles and seats. “Yes, she recorded events that happened and helped judge good actions from bad. But her work didn’t just focus on the past. She also predicted future events, too—or she did one time, at least.”
Sebastian seems to stand a little taller, his attention captured. His tongue darts over his lips as he tries to focus. “Like a Seer? Clio could See?” he asks in an excited whisper.
“Sort of,” I explain. “The thing is, she only ever wrote one prediction—and it hasn’t come true yet, so no one can be sure if her vision was accurate or not. For a long time, no one even thought Clio made the prediction at all. It was written in code and completely dismissed by the Board of Nine altogether. Then about thirty years ago, someone—” I resist the urge to mention that someone happened to be my grandmother “—translated the document and proved it was Clio’s work.”
