Academy of Magic Collection

by Angelique S Anderson et al.

  Forcing the thoughts from my mind, I raise my eyebrows. “You’re willing to help me?”

  Sebastian shrugs with fake modesty, brushing his fingertips against his shirt like being a hero is all in a day’s work for him. “Why not? Someone has to.”

  And even though he’s being sarcastic, I can’t help but feel glad.

  We make a list of everything we know: the events Headmistress Fothergill mentioned had occurred so far, the songbirds ceasing ahead, and her consultation with the Board of Nine. We rack our brains, trying to remember every detail, no matter how insignificant it initially seemed. We even print up a map of the city and mark the locations of the Brambleton fire and Museum of Fine Arts, where the Laffitte was stolen. Just in case it matters.

  “It’s so much information—but also so little,” I mutter with a sigh later, as I stand back and stare at the lists and printouts pinned to the wall of my dorm room. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “How about we start with the first thing the headmistress said—the declining enrollment at Brightling,” Sebastian suggests. He sits at my desk, the chair turned toward me, while we talk. “Is that even true?”

  I shrug. “It should be easy enough to find out.”

  My fingertips fly over the screen of my cell phone, typing in search terms. In seconds, I have the answer: a list of articles announcing the graduates from Brightling Academy over the past ten years. I click the first.

  “Looks like last year was a-hundred-and-eight graduates,” I announce before moving on to the next link. “And a-hundred-twenty before that … one-fifty before … one-eighty …”

  My heart sinks. Declining graduation rates because of declining enrollment. I glance up at Sebastian and see the paleness in his cheeks. He’s grown more ashen with each year I check. He must see the same pattern I do.

  Just to make sure, I tap the last link on the page. The graduating class size from a decade ago. But even as I skim the article, I have a feeling I know what I’ll find.

  “Ten years ago, Brightling graduated three-hundred students,” I murmur. I sink down to sit on the edge of my bed and try to resist the urge to pick at my fingernails. “What could that mean?”

  Frowning, Sebastian reaches for his own phone and begins to search for something also. “The Board’s Muse Registry is showing lower birth rates every year, too,” he tells me after a moment. His eyes cloud over, like a storm blowing across the sea.

  His discovery is a wave of cold salt water crashing against me. Harsh and jarring, it triggers pinpricks on my skin, and I can barely breathe.

  “There are fewer and fewer of us,” I whisper. “We’re dying out. Fast, too.”

  As much as I don’t want to believe what I’ve said to be true, I know that it is. It’s something I feel in my body, a certainty that lives in every cell, from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. Something that’s in my DNA itself.

  It explains so much—all the Muses stretched thin across the globe. So much to inspire, so few of our kind to go around. I realized it the other day when I kicked the can of Ace Cola. Something inside me could tell, even before I knew for sure. The same goes for us students—we’re nearly all only children. Me, Kash, Aurelia … I cycle through the list in my head, mentally checking off names as I go through the roster. Even Melody and Harmony Dillard count in some way—sure, they’re twins, but it’s just the two of them. No other siblings. Their mother had one pregnancy, just like the rest of ours.

  And then I realize something else.

  “The Board of Nine has to know about this, don’t you think?” I ask Sebastian.

  He nods. “If we figured it out, I’m sure they have.”

  “Why wouldn’t they say anything? Why haven’t there been announcements?” My voice catches in my throat. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to hold back tears.

  “Maybe they’re still trying to sort out what to do,” he suggests. “Maybe they want to be sure before they cause everyone to panic.”

  “Maybe … There’s definitely enough to panic about, finding out your kind is about to go extinct.”

  Slowly, I lose my grip on my phone. It seems too heavy now—so much unspeakable, horrible reality contained within it. It slips from my hand, and when it falls onto my quilt beside me with a soft thud, I push it away. Who could’ve guessed that when Sebastian joked about saving the world earlier, he’d be right? It may just be our world—an ancient, magical world populated by few—but it’s a noble one, a beautiful one, an important one.

  “Bee?”

  I look up. I’ve been so lost in my thoughts, in my dread, that I haven’t even heard Sebastian move across the room from the desk to my bed, where he sits beside me.

  “There has to be a solution,” he says softly. His overconfident shell has vanished again—nothing wicked flashing in his eyes, no smirk lurking at the corners of his mouth. There’s only a concerned, caring young man staring back at me. “Someone will figure this out, okay? Maybe it’ll even be us.”

  He puts his arms around me, drawing me close, and I don’t resist. I melt into the warmth of him, just like my palm did last night in the hallway downstairs. I like this side of Sebastian—honest, sincere, with his guard down. I’ve seen it a couple of times now. I hope I’ll get to see it more.

  “Just try to forget about all this for tonight,” he soothes. He tucks a strand of my wavy, acorn-colored hair behind my ear. “We can work on it again tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur, breathing in a lingering hint of his morning cologne.

  But then the door to my dorm room opens, and Kash appears. Our eyes meet over Sebastian’s shoulder, and she stops short.

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize you had company—” she begins to say, blushing.

  Walking in on the other with a boy is a first for us both. We have no secret code—no hair elastic on the doorknob or predetermined word to text—for when we want to be alone in the room. I squirm, just as uncomfortable under her stare as she is under mine. Hurriedly, Sebastian and I break away from each other. I pull the sleeve of my sweatshirt over my fist and blot away a traitor tear before Kash can notice it. I’m in no mood for answering her questions. Especially now.

  “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.

  Chapter Eight

  “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?”<
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  “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.<
br />
  “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.