The Crickhowell School for the Muses

by Waxman, Rachel

  “I’d love to hear another song, if you have something.”

  “Certainly,” she repeated, trying to cut the edge off her voice—but this only made her reply sound even more forced. Awen tried to come up with another song she had learned; she was no longer in the mood for improvisation. “May I use the piano?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Awen swiveled around to face the keyboard. She had never formally learned to play, but she thought she might be able to do a simple accompaniment with her song. She selected a starting key and, pressing it, sang her first line over the note. She hit the same note again for the next line, but the melodic phrase after that required a different key. Awen’s mouth curled into a smile as she sang—the addition of the piano made her work a bit more interesting. For a moment, she thought she might learn to like this daily process after all.

  Again, Sir Robert was silent after she finished her song. Awen twisted around to see his reaction: he looked serene, lost in concentration. She turned back, unsure of what to do next.

  “That’s all I’ll need you for today.”

  Awen immediately stood. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Go on, get yourself some lunch from Abigail. She should have it ready about now.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Awen made a small curtsy and left the room, trying to keep her pace slow until she was out of his sight. Then, she started at a half-run through the hall.

  “Oh!” Awen knocked into Abigail, who was approaching from the other direction, and sent her lunch basket tumbling to the floor. “I’m so sorry!” Awen, embarrassed, knelt down to pick it up.

  “Don’t you worry, dear, nothing’s fallen out. In a rush?” She smiled.

  Awen considered for a moment. “Um, no, I suppose I’m not.”

  “Good then. I’ll just pass this lunch basket along to Sir Robert—but if you can wait a minute, I made something even better. Bread and cheese gets a bit old after a while, if you ask me!”

  “All right,” Awen nodded, then added quickly, “Abigail?”

  “Yes?”

  “Has Francis gone out yet?”

  Abigail squinted and ran her tongue across her upper lip. “I don’t believe so; I didn’t see him leave. Though I could be wrong, since he never appeared for any lunch.” She glanced over her shoulder, down the hallway. “Just a moment. Let me run this basket to Sir Robert.” She turned on her heel and headed toward the studio.

  Awen twisted her hands together as she awaited Abigail’s return. The possibility that Francis might not have left yet—that she still had a chance to accept his invitation—made her fidgety. But now that she had agreed to Abigail’s lunch offer, she could not very well turn her down, either.

  Abigail soon reappeared, now empty-handed. “All right, let’s go grab that lunch,” she said as she approached. “It’s mostly done. I can show you the kitchen, too, if you’re interested.” She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

  Awen nodded. She would rather not take the time just now, but there was something about Abigail that she liked, and she did not want to disappoint her.

  Awen followed Abigail across the main hallway and into the dining room. “There’s a door back here, but it sort of blends in,” Abigail said over her shoulder. The pair moved toward the back right corner of the room. Abigail pointed: “See?”

  Awen stepped closer to the wall. Sure enough, a stone door had been cut into the side of the room. It was smaller than normal—hardly taller than Awen herself. She gazed at the tiny doorknob, wondering how she had missed it before.

  “You can make the room secret by hanging a tapestry over the doorway,” Abigail explained, “but there’s really no need. It’s just the kitchen!”

  Awen smiled.

  “Well, shall we?” Abigail pulled the door open.

  The kitchen was small but had been arranged so that it felt spacious. An interior room, it was windowless and dark. The counters were lined with large candles, mostly unlit.

  “It’s not much,” Abigail said, motioning to the room, “but it’s big enough to get my work done. I suppose I actually spend most of my day in here.” She twisted her mouth to the side, as if pondering this fact for the first time. “Anyhow, I have a fruit tart for you; just came out of the oven not too long ago.” She disappeared behind a countertop to retrieve it.

  Awen’s eyes lit up—she had never eaten fruit tart. She could already smell the sweetness of it in the air. Her mouth watered.

  Abigail set the small pan on the counter, then pulled a plate and some silverware from a cabinet. “This is an old family recipe of mine,” she explained, cutting into the tart with a spatula. “I think it’s best with blackberry and kiwi, and a few strawberries for extra taste. Mmm…” She smelled the air. “I love it.”

  Awen noticed that there was only one plate out. “Aren’t you going to have some as well?”

  “No, not now. I think I’ll save my piece for later.” She lifted the slice of tart onto Awen’s plate. “I’ll get through my chores faster if I know this will be waiting for me.” She handed the plate and a fork to Awen. “Go on; give it a try.” She lifted her eyebrows in encouragement.

  Awen cut a small piece from the tip of the slice and slipped it into her mouth. A blackberry burst on her tongue, coating her palate in tart juice. “Oh, my; it’s incredible!” She squeezed the words in as she took another bite—this time, a large forkful.

  Abigail laughed softly as Awen devoured the entire slice.

  “Do you ever make this for other meals—for Sir Robert?” Awen asked, scraping her fork against the plate for the remaining crumbs.

  Abigail sighed. “No; no, I don’t. In fact, I’d rather you not mention to him that you had this for lunch. I know that’s silly, but it’s my little secret, that recipe. It’s a family tradition, and it’s the one thing no one has been able to take away from me—the one thing that’s still my own.”

  “I won’t tell,” Awen said, shaking her head. “Abigail?”

  “Yes?”

  “How long have you been here? If you don’t mind my asking…?”

  “A long time,” Abigail smiled. “I came here twenty years ago, when I was around half your age—seven or so. At that time, it was just my mother and me, my father having disappeared some time before.”

  Awen set down her fork and placed her chin in her hands to listen.

  “We didn’t actually live in this castle, but in Newbrooke, a tiny hamlet close by. My mother did the main work around here, and I helped with simple chores…though mostly,” she added in a lower, playful voice, “I played outside in the grass. Then one day, when I was ten, she died. And after that, my life changed forever. Suddenly, I was the one in charge of everything: doing all the chores, and the cleaning, and the cooking, and the going out to fetch things. I’ve been doing it ever since. I’ve never left.”

  “Why? Why haven’t you ever left?”

  Abigail was silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said. “Lots of reasons, I suppose. Sir Robert needs me. This is the only work I know how to do, and if I leave, I’ll have nowhere to go, and no money. I am paid very little; most of my pay comes in the form of food and a place to sleep. But Sir Robert is not a young man. One day, he’ll be gone, and I’ll have to fend for myself.”

  “That could be a good thing, then?” Awen picked up her fork again, running it across the plate.

  “No. I dread that day more than you can imagine.” Abigail looked down at her hands. “In theory, Francis would take over.”

  Awen dropped her fork onto her plate.

  Abigail glanced at her, but continued. “The more I watch that young man though, the less sure I am that he could ever really stay in one place. If nobody lives here permanently, I won’t be needed.” Abigail again eyed Awen, who was fidgeting with her plate. “Is something the matter?”

  “N-nothing,” Awen stammered, but she could not contain herself any longer. “I actually need to b
e off now; I’m sorry! Thank you so much for the tart—it was wonderful!”

  “Any time.” Abigail smiled. “I will let you go. Sorry to keep you.”

  “Thank you!” Awen said again over her shoulder as she dashed to the door.

  She stopped; the door had no knob.

  “Push!” Abigail yelled after her. “No knob on this side.”

  “Right.…” Awen placed a tentative hand to the door, but then threw it open, sprinting out to the dining room. Francis was not there—though she had not expected him to be. Awen scurried into the main hallway, looking right and left, hoping that he had not yet left for his ride, and that she might catch him on the way out. She was on her way to check the upper floor when a movement outside the front window caught her eye.

  She ran to the glass: there was Francis on horseback, already halfway down the front path, moving at a trot. Awen glanced behind her to make sure Sir Robert had not just come out of his studio, and then she lunged for the door handle.

  It did not open. “Locked…” Awen moaned. She fumbled for the latches on the door, sliding metal bars and twisting small knobs here and there. She tried the door a second time, but still it did not budge. Awen resisted the urge to kick it; all that would do would be to break her foot.

  She peered out the window again: Francis was receding farther into the distance every moment. Awen took a deep breath and looked closely at the door: two bars, one knob. She slid both bars to the right and turned the knob to the right, but nothing moved. She turned the knob to the left, watching a metal piece slide into place—then turned the knob to the right, making the bar disappear.

  “Aha!” Awen turned the door handle, and finally, it pushed open. She leapt across the threshold, shutting the door behind her, and took off at a run.

  Francis was no longer visible from the top of the hill, but as she moved down the path, he came back into view. He was at such a great distance, Awen knew it was no use to shout—not until she could get closer. But with her run against the horse’s trot, she feared they were only growing farther apart.

  Awen was breathless by the time she reached the bottom of the hill. She did not think she could run any more. “Francis!” she yelled out, slowing to a jog. “Francis!” She stopped, resting her hands on her knees to catch her breath.

  By now, he had receded so far he was merely a fuzzy dot.

  Awen started running again, willing him to turn back around and make a loop so that he would see her—but after a few steps, she realized the wish was useless.

  Awen turned around to face the castle, and sighed. She could not deny its magnificence, especially from her perspective all the way down at the bottom of the hill. She considered returning inside, then quickly dismissed the idea. There was nothing to do in there, and with her luck, she might run into Sir Robert and be asked to work again. She looked about at the grassy meadow instead.

  To her left flowed the stream she had seen upon her arrival, and then had occasionally spotted from the upstairs windows. Some boulders lined a section of it on both sides. Awen sauntered toward a large grey rock right at the water’s edge, then climbed atop it and sat facing the stream. She hugged her knees to her chest and gazed into the water.

  The brook flowed at a leisurely pace; if not for the stones that cut through the top of the water, it might not have looked to flow at all. Awen closed her eyes and listened.…

  A nearby bird chirp made her open them again. She looked over her shoulder for the bird; it called again, and she saw that it was perched on a smaller rock on the other side of the stream. She gazed over at it, smiling. The bird sang more loudly, and with a hard edge this time; then, in a violent flapping of wings, it flew away. Awen watched it disappear into the distant sky. She gazed at the rock from which the bird had departed: two feathers had been left behind.

  Awen looked down, now, toward the stream. She could not see into it from her vantage point, so she slid down a little on the rock, trying to get a better look. Awen peered at her leather-shod feet. She wondered if the water was cold.

  “Why not?” she said to herself, then carefully slipped off her shoes, one at a time. She hopped down off the side of the rock and laid the shoes side by side in the grass. Awen cautiously stepped to the edge of the water, placing her feet down, toes first. She peered into the brook.

  Sunlight streamed in, lighting the water so that Awen could see to the bottom. It was shallow in parts, though it still could have reached her waist. A bright yellow object near an underwater rock caught her eye. She made a small sashay step to get closer, and squatted. Suddenly, the bright thing darted through the water, stopping at another rock to her left.

  “Aha, you’re a fish!” she said, creeping back to the left, but keeping her body low. The fish slowly swam out from the shade of the rock and poked at a plant in a sunny part of the stream floor. The fish was bright yellow with wispy fins that looked like wheat blowing in the wind. It seemed to contemplate Awen for a moment, then darted away again, disappearing downstream.

  Awen glanced up at the surrounding meadow, wondering what to do next. She had a sudden urge to run through the grass—to see how far from the castle she could get before the sun began setting and she’d have to turn back. But first, she wanted to get her feet wet. She held her breath, sticking out her right foot, and dangled her toes just above the surface of the water. She smiled, anticipating the shock of cold.…

  “Came outside after all, eh?”

  Awen flinched and turned just enough to throw her body off balance. For a split second, she thought she could fling enough weight toward the grass to keep from falling—but her left foot slipped, and she tumbled, back first, into the water.

  Nineteen

  Awen flailed her arms, but her feet quickly found the stream floor. She regained equilibrium in the water, albeit sopping wet. At least the brook was warm.

  The sound of stifled laughter from the shoreline made her look up, slowly, a deep scowl on her face.

  It was Francis. “I’m so sorry,” he chuckled, “but you must admit, it was enormously amusing.”

  Awen said nothing. Her scowl softened slightly—though not enough for anyone but herself to know.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” he added, laughing, “I did not do it on purpose. I only meant to surprise you—not to send you in for a swim.” He paused for a moment, trying to stifle another outburst of laughter. He failed. “Hah! I’m sorry, but you should see your face.”

  Awen relaxed her glower into a simple frown.

  “That’s better. For a moment there, I thought you might kill me. Here,” he said, shuffling to the edge of the water. “Let me help you out of—”

  “No, I can get out myself, thank you.”

  Francis raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure about that?”

  Awen marched to the edge of the stream—as well as one could march through water—and, placing her palms on the grass, tried to hoist herself out…but immediately sank back down. She glanced around, displeased. “Fine,” she acquiesced, then held out her right hand and looked away.

  “I cannot very well help you out if you don’t at least look where you’re going,” Francis teased. “If you look down into the water, right back in you’ll go.”

  Awen gave an exaggerated sigh and turned her gaze forward.

  Francis pulled her out with one swift motion. “So, what exactly are you doing out here, then?” He leaned back against the rock on which Awen had first been sitting.

  “Well,” she responded, fighting back the anger in her voice, “my original intent was to go looking for you.” She crossed her arms.

  Francis gasped jokingly and pointed to himself. “Me? Looking for me? What ever could you want with me?”

  Awen fought back a smile. “Sir Robert—er, your father—didn’t need me for the rest of the afternoon. So, I went out looking to see if maybe you hadn’t left yet. But you had. Where’s your horse?” Awen asked, looking around.

  “Ah, Crissy. I let h
er graze, back there,” he pointed with a thumb. “Honestly, for the sole purpose of sneaking up on you.” He chuckled. “Her clunky hooves would’ve given me away.”

  “Mmm,” was all that Awen replied.

  “So, I’ve now rescued you from a thick forest and saved you from drowning in a stream. What would you do without me? Or, more importantly: what trouble might you get yourself into next?”

  “I wasn’t drowning.” Awen crossed her arms and looked away.

  “Sure, sure.” Francis lightly jabbed her side with his elbow.

  “Don’t!” Awen snapped her head toward him, trying, and failing, to make her face look serious. She laughed.

  “I suppose I ought to fetch my horse and take you back inside. You’re sopping wet, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “Yes. Thank you, I am aware of that.”

  “Stay here; I’ll get her. Hopefully she didn’t wander off.” Francis turned, and a ray of sunlight caught his hair, winding through it like yarn until it glowed amber.

  Awen watched him walk for a moment, and then, fearing he might turn around and perceive her stare, she returned to the water’s edge. She looked around for the yellow fish in order to pass time, knowing it would not be there. Then, at the sound of horse hooves, she turned back around.

  “Climb up on that rock so you can get on Crissy,” Francis said, pointing. “You’re going to be sitting in front of me.”

  Awen hiked her dress up out of the way and ascended the rock with three easy steps.

  “Now, swing your leg over,” Francis directed. “Good. All right, onward then!” Francis gave the horse a small kick to walk, and then another to push her into a slow trot. “We’ll be going up around the back, where the stable is.”

  “There’s a stable?” Awen asked, trying to direct her voice behind her without turning around.

  “Of course,” he replied. “Though it’s not much.”

  “Do you have more horses besides this one?”

  “Yes. Two others.”

  Keeping to the bottom part of the hill, Francis took the horse around to the back of the castle. This side was just as magnificent as the front, with row upon row of rectangular windows, a veranda jutting out from the entire second floor, and a staircase leading up to it. The barn was a modestly sized square structure that attached to the castle by way of a narrow, covered walkway.