The Crickhowell School for the Muses

by Waxman, Rachel

  “Ah! There you are, child!” Rosaline walked in with open arms. “Come come, it’s Monday!” she summoned, taking Awen’s arm.

  Awen drew her face into an awkward expression, which went unnoticed. Rosaline’s new exuberance unsettled her. The last time she had seen this woman, the coldness had been palpable.

  “Today, you begin your most important training as a muse!” Rosaline grinned as they went out of the room.

  This time, they went left, down a part of the hallway Awen had never seen. It looked the same as the rest of the castle: always white and wood. This side of the hallway, however, did not contain any open rooms—only light wooden doors, all shut. Some were blank; others had names carved in capital lettering above them. Haddock…Crisp, Awen silently read as she passed by. Norwich…Freer. If she listened closely, she could hear the arching melody of a singer behind one door, and the light tinkling of a keyboard behind another.

  Awen felt the same fizzing-up of curiosity she had felt those days before, when she had first peered into the rooms of girls dancing and playing instruments. But this time, it was tamed by something acidic: the memory of her fall down the stairs. She poked at the one bruise on her left arm that had still not quite faded, watching it turn white, then back to a faint yellow.

  “Ah.” Rosaline stopped at the second-to-last door.

  Awen searched for the name above the doorframe. Whitewood. Her face twisted into a half smile; the name was too apt a description for the castle itself.

  Rosaline pressed her ear to the door, then tapped lightly with her left hand. “Mr. Whitewood?” she called. “Your new student is here.” She pulled away as footsteps emanated from the room beyond.

  Awen watched with wide eyes as the door opened, and out stepped a tall, silver-haired man wearing a dark-brown jacket. Silver square spectacles balanced atop his crooked nose, and his face was crinkled into a pleasant smile. She was not afraid to look into his eyes.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed, stretching out his arms. His voice was smooth, with a hint of graininess. The sound made Awen think of a creamy pudding with nuts sprinkled on top. “You, my dear, must be Awen.”

  Awen nodded slowly but did not speak.

  Mr. Whitewood turned his head to the side, peering inquisitively at her.

  “This one does not…hmm…say much,” Rosaline answered his unspoken question. She chuckled lightly. “I will be surprised if you can get anything more than air out of her.”

  Mr. Whitewood turned to Rosaline, frowning at her words. “Well, why don’t you just let me see what I can do?” Something bitter flashed across his eyes. He turned again to Awen; the obliging smile was back. “Come, dear.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, guiding her into the room. As Awen walked over the threshold, she cast a glance back at Rosaline.Rosaline’s eyebrows were knitted together, the rest of her face unreadable. And then, the door closed.

  Awen gazed around the new room. It was darker, cozier—nothing like the cold white walls of the rest of the castle. The floor was of a dark cherry wood, and a heavy rectangular carpet lay atop it. Awen studied the design: gold and red threads with intricate, curvy shapes swirling about. She thought she saw a dragon in there somewhere, and a lyre, and some sort of…she twisted her head from side to side…she could not make it out.

  Her eyes wandered upward to inspect the wall. Most of it was covered with heavy tapestry in a design much like the carpet; only small bits of dark stone peeped out from behind the decoration. There were no windows in this room—or if there were, they were obscured behind the heavy wall hangings. The only light came from scattered candles: tall cream pillars, crimson ones rolled from beeswax, and gold tapered ones that reached toward the ceiling. These lights had been placed haphazardly—some atop a small table, and others just set down on the floor.

  Awen’s gaze caught at a large crimson candle in the corner of the room, burning brightly inside a frosted glass. It sat atop a large black structure with glimmering white keys. Awen had seen something like this before, many years ago, though the one that glided vaguely through her memory was not nearly as sleek, not nearly as clean as the instrument that stood before her.

  A high-pitched tinkling cut through the silence.

  Awen jumped. Mr Whitewood stood at the far right end of the instrument, his right index finger pressed down on one of the white keys. She had almost forgotten him in her silent contemplation of the room.

  “Piano,” he said quietly, smiling down at Awen. The note resounded off the walls for an impossibly long time. Mr. Whitewood removed his finger from the key, and the noise came to an abrupt stop. He sat on a wooden bench pulled up to the piano and folded his hands with a sigh. “So, I hear you don’t speak much.” His blue eyes twinkled. “Is that true?”

  Awen stood in silence, watching his face. She twisted her hands together. She bit her lip.

  “Well,” he said, with the chuckle of golden bells, “I suppose it was worth an inquiry.”

  Awen glanced down at the bench on which he sat.

  “Ah, my apologies.” He stood halfway and leaned forward to grab the red leather chair from his desk. The desk was a massive chunk of dark wood pushed up against the wall. It was in disarray, with yellowing, oversized sheets of paper piled on top. Mr. Whitewood slid the chair to a space across from where he sat, then motioned to Awen.

  She shrugged, then sat.

  “So,” he continued, “you may know why you’re here. Or,” his eyes shifted quickly to the door and back, “I suppose you may not.” He sighed. “I am Mr. Whitewood, and it is my duty to train you to become the best singer you can be. You must be able to sing away the wind and sing away the clouds.” He held out his arms, emphasizing the words.

  Awen shifted in her chair.

  “Your voice must fizzle away the darkness in the heads of the world’s best artists.” He pointed to his temple. “You must sing away the writer’s block, the painter’s rut, the composer’s confusion. Though, I suppose in your case…” He reached out for a small leather notebook on his desk, flipping to the first page. “Yes, I suppose in your case, you only need to sing away the painter’s rut.” He chuckled. “A mighty task, indeed.” He squinted, searching Awen’s eyes for any response.

  Awen gave a half-nod, but her eyebrows were furrowed in puzzlement. She did not understand how any of this talk of painters and writers could involve her—she had only ever sung by herself. For herself.

  “Ah, don’t worry, dear child!” He placed a hand on hers. “You are in good hands, so to speak. I will train you until even the dullest of them can spout out masterpieces when they hear your song!”

  Awen let her lips form a smile. The sparkling curiosity was back in her stomach, free of acidic taint. She flung aside her questions, ignoring what he had said about painters, masterpieces, and blocks. That did not matter—she was going to sing again.

  “Well then, what are we waiting for? Why not begin!” Mr. Whitewood stood and crossed the short distance to his desk. Despite its disarray, he seemed to know what he was looking for. He picked up a stack of papers, pulling out a thick sheet from the bottom, and returned the rest to his desktop. He placed the sheet atop a small wooden ledge that jutted out from the front of the piano.

  Awen leaned forward in the leather chair, craning her neck to get a better look at the paper.

  Mr. Whitewood smiled. “Eager, are you?” He patted the piano bench, motioning her over. Once Awen was seated, he took the paper down from its stand and placed it on the piano keys. “This is the first song we will work on.”

  Awen leaned over the paper. She could read only the title: “A Rainbow.” The rest of it was senseless black lines and little filled-in circles with stems, just like the image she had seen on the spine of the book in the library. But it was beautiful, in its own mysterious sort of way. Awen put her right index finger to the page, tracing the black lines like the blind reading Braille.

  Mr. Whitewood’s golden chuckle pulled her eyes back to his face.

&n
bsp; “It may look slightly, hmm, incomprehensible to you now,” he said, gesturing toward the page. “But in due time, you will be able to read this like you would any other language. We will not begin reading music in today’s lesson, however. That will come next week.” He sat down on the bench next to Awen and placed the sheet of music back on the stand. “Today, I just want to see how your voice sounds, what your range is. Nothing to be worried about, just simple little things!” His eyes sparkled.

  Awen shrugged her shoulders and twisted her hands together. She looked down at her fingers. The man was nice…but now, suddenly, she did not really want to sing. And she did not know why she did not want to. Once—it seemed like so long ago, but it was just weeks, really—her song was everything. She would sing herself to sleep, and the tune carried over her dreams like a veil in the night. Now, as she twisted her hands around in the windowless room, she had not even the desire to part her lips and speak.

  Mr. Whitewood was quiet for a moment, watching the tension tighten Awen’s face. He raised his eyebrows.

  Awen did not look up.

  Mr. Whitewood sighed loudly, then turned to the glossy keys before him. He pressed on a white one near the middle-left of the keyboard, and a luscious note rang out from the depths of the instrument. “Sing this note,” he said. “Hear it, hum it, see it, anything.…”

  Awen kept twisting her hands, but she looked up at the keys.

  Mr. Whitewood hit the same note again, this time with more force. The sound seemed to echo off the walls, unabsorbed by the tapestries.

  Awen looked at the key on which his finger bore down. She mashed her lips together, halfway anxious to let the music flow through them again, but some invisible blockade in her throat kept her silent. She ran her tongue across her teeth. Cleared her throat.

  “Yes, come on, just hum this note! Match the pitch!” he encouraged her.

  Awen parted her lips and took a deep breath.

  He hit the note again.

  Awen first blew a silent stream of air through her lips—warm air, slowly turning cold. And then, the air transformed into something more: a golden sound, a sweet blend of butter and sugar. Her note entwined with that of the piano, sound waves twisting about each other until their pulse was one. Awen felt as if a pile of dust had just been blown out of her lungs.

  She could breathe again.

  “Yes! Beautiful!” Mr. Whitewood nearly shouted. “Now this one, a step up!” He hit the next white key and turned an encouraging eye toward Awen.

  She altered her voice to match the pitch of the new note, trying to keep from smiling. The sound unfurled its golden tendrils; it extended out to the wall hangings, caressed the fabric and blew about the flames on the candles. To Awen, the room looked as if it were in the midst of a wind storm.

  The flame on a gold tapered candle went out.

  “Yes! A few more, a few more!” Mr. Whitewood exclaimed, pressing the next white key. And so he went up the scale, up, up, until Awen’s golden voice melted and crystallized into silver bells and could no longer be heard.

  He sat back, folding his hands together. “You have quite a range, dear child. Amazing, really. And the sound…” He trailed off in a smile.

  Awen tried to hide her own half-smile by looking down at her fingers, which she pressed into the palm of her other hand.

  “I think we are going to make quick progress here. Next week, as I said before, we will begin reading music. And then,” his eyes brightened, “we can begin your very first song.” He pointed to the sheet of music, “A Rainbow,” that now lay on the floor next to the piano. He chuckled and leaned over to pick it up, then stood. “Well,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket and withdrawing a golden watch, “we are out of time for today. I will see you next week, then.”

  Awen slid off the bench and began toward the door. It was then that she noticed its color for the first time—the same dark cherry wood as the rest of the room. Yet the other side, the side facing into the hallway, was light, like all the other doors in the castle. It was a double door, two-toned, an impossible melting together of different woods.

  “Ah! Actually…” Mr. Whitewood handed the sheet of music to Awen. “Take this with you. Start getting familiar with the notes for next week’s lesson.”

  Awen smiled lightly. Then she twisted the bronze doorknob, gritting her teeth as she pulled the heavy, strange door open. She gasped.

  Rosaline was suddenly falling into the room.

  “Oh!” Rosaline caught herself before tumbling to the floor.

  Mr. Whitewood turned a wary eye on her but said nothing. Awen noted that he did not look entirely surprised.

  “How did she do, Mr. Whitewood?” Rosaline inquired with an overzealously charming smile.

  “Hmm…” he mumbled, gathering his thoughts. “I suppose, Rose, you already know the answer to that.” His voice was slightly accusing.

  Awen looked curiously from Rosaline to Mr. Whitewood—her eager smile, his piercing glare. Then she knew. Rosaline must have been standing there the whole time, listening in. Awen stared at the floor, trying to suppress her frustration, which Rosaline’s smile would only increase.

  “Well, then,” Rosaline tried to brush his words off, “I suppose we should be going. Come, Awen.” She turned out of the room, and Awen had no choice but to follow.

  When the pair reached Awen’s room, she turned to go in.

  Rosaline stopped her. “Awen,” she snapped.

  Awen raised her eyebrows, then turned warily to face her.

  Rosaline lowered her voice and leaned in close.

  Awen was forced to look straight into her gleaming black eyes. She shivered.

  “You have a great talent, girl. I haven’t heard anything quite like that in a long time.” She smiled, but the expression looked out of place. “What would you suppose if I told you I would take you somewh—” She stopped abruptly, eyes widening, and turned an ear toward the hallway.

  Awen heard steady footsteps echo against the walls. They were unnaturally even. She looked up just as Miss Nina approached.

  “Well, hellooo,” Miss Nina drew out, showing her white teeth in a wide smile.

  Rosaline, looking flustered, straightened out and turned to Miss Nina. “Ah, hello there, Miss Nina,” she said with forced casualness. “I was just, umm, bringing Awen here back from her first lesson. Very talented girl, you know.”

  “Yessss…I imagine so.” She nodded slowly, looking Awen up and down. She turned to Rosaline then and raised her eyebrows in what seemed to be a subtle warning. She glanced down at her pocket, then turned and receded back down the hallway.

  “Hmph,” Rosaline grunted after Miss Nina had left. “Well, I’ll be going now,” she mumbled to no one in particular. And with that, she disappeared down the other end of the hallway.

  Awen slipped the sheet of music under her door, then crossed her arms and leaned back against it, pondering the exchange that had just taken place. Was Rosaline hiding something from Miss Nina? She twisted a section of hair around her finger and pulled, then turned to enter her room. Whatever it was Miss Nina was doing, it did not concern her.

  As Awen reached for the doorknob, another reverberation of footsteps stopped her. She rotated back and pressed her spine against the door.

  “Aach, must be more careful from…” It was Rosaline’s muffled voice, barely audible, originating from down the hall. Awen couldn’t make out any more words, but she could hear Rosaline’s footsteps. They did not grow softer or louder, but clacked and clacked against the floor as if Rosaline were pacing in a tight circle.

  Awen craned her neck forward, careful to keep the rest of her body flattened against the door. Rosaline was not to be seen. Awen eyed the doorways down the hall. She stepped out from the safety of her own bedroom door and padded toward the stairwell. Rosaline’s voice grew ever more coherent with each step:

  “What a pain she is, always nosing around in my business.…”

  Awen halted just outsid
e the large mirrored room. She saw Rosaline’s reflection on the far wall. It stood still now, no longer pacing, and stared into itself so intently, Awen wondered if Rosaline was actually looking at something behind her, in the hallway. Awen realized that if she took another step forward, her own reflection would appear in the mirror, right beside Rosaline’s.

  Awen scooted herself backward. She turned to half tiptoe, half run back to her room, leaving behind the muted mumblings of Rosaline.

  Four

  Awen leaned against the wall, picking at her raggedy fingernails. A wheezy gust of wind against glass made her look briefly up at the window—the rain had stopped at least an hour ago, but the sky was still hazy. A faint, low glow in the trees told her night had begun to fall.

  She sighed, wondering what to do for the remaining hours of the day. Her first music lesson that morning had filled her with a new feeling: confidence—or maybe hope. Now, the idea of spending another day in the same nothingness that had filled her first twelve days at Crickhowell was intolerable.

  Her eyes traced a circle around the room: white walls, almost completely bare…the sign on the door, hanging in all its menace…wood floor, mattress…but how could she forget! The sheet of music from her lesson still lay on the floor near the door where she had placed it. She padded over and crouched to pick it up.

  Tap tap.

  Awen froze. Still crouching, she pressed her ear to the door, listening for…Rosaline? Miss Nina? They had never come for her at night. She tried to quiet her breathing.

  Tap tap tap. “Awen?” a voice called softly from the other side. “Awen, are you in there?”

  Awen bit her lip. It was a voice she vaguely recognized. Angelic. A little…incongruous with the castle’s atmosphere. She considered standing up to open the door. She considered staying where she was.

  “Awen? It’s Vivienne!”

  She raised her eyebrows in recognition, and immediately jumped up. Vivienne, of course! She remembered the girl from breakfast some days ago—her glowing, out-of-place smile. One of the few smiles, really, that did not make her want to look away.