Pushed against a shelf was a wheeled ladder that reached all the way to the top; a lone, chairless wooden desk stood in the center of the room. The music, Awen noticed, was louder yet, as if it came from within that very room.
Or—the next one?
She proceeded straight to the closed door at the opposite end of the room, unhesitating in each barefoot step.
Awen wrapped her hand around the bronze doorknob and twisted. She breathed in, poised to push it forward.
The music stopped.
“Sleep well last night?”
It was Francis’s voice, from the other side of the door.
Awen froze. She heard his footsteps, and suddenly the door pulled open from the other side. Hand still clenched to the doorknob, Awen was forced to stumble into the room with it.
“Well, did you?” Francis asked again.
She looked at him wide-eyed. “What?”
“I said…” He paused, and scrunched up his face in puzzlement for the briefest of moments. Then his expression softened, and he shrugged. “I wanted to play something for you. I’ve been waiting for you for an hour.”
“You told me to come here?” Awen asked. She had not recalled him saying any such thing, but last night had been strange. Perhaps he had said something at dinner when she was tired, or not concentrating, or contemplating her midnight escapade… “Your piano!” she blurted.
“Yes, I have a piano…?”
Awen noted the confusion in his voice, but she could not explain her words. “And it works?”
“It works,” he nodded, glancing sideways at her.
She wanted to ask how he did it. How his notes sounded no matter what, while everything else in the castle depended upon Sir Robert’s presence. Why did he own his music, and she did not own hers? “Play something,” was all she said.
Francis nodded and walked to the piano, then slid onto the bench. He turned to Awen, motioning her over to sit beside him.
She moved timidly under his gaze.
Francis closed his eyes for a moment and tilted his head back. “This is one of my favorites.”
Awen gazed at his eyelashes as he spoke, and when he opened his eyes again, she was staring right into them. She automatically jerked her head forward, but she knew Francis had seen her.
He placed his hands on the keyboard, and once they started to move, Awen could not look away.
The sound was an unfolding of color, a converging of simple patterns into an explosion of complication. It was a butterfly opening its wings for the first time—but even more beautiful. The music thickened, circled around her until she could reach out and touch the fog, smear it onto her finger, perhaps even taste it. Awen had the acute sensation of being somewhere else. She could not decide if she were in a garden or a meadow, standing above a pool or an ocean. Every time she thought she had pinpointed the feeling, the music took a turn, sweeping her into a tumult that led to another place entirely.
The music faded, slowed—but the ending was abrupt: a thick curtain of sound collapsing all around her. She was back again where she had started.
“That was beautiful,” she said, still staring at Francis’s hands. Awen thought there was something sad in the way music ended. It tossed you into the sky, and you could see everything…but then it left you, and emptier than before because of how it had filled you up.
“Play another,” Awen said. She wanted to hear those sounds all day. She wished the notes could follow her, like the train of a dress.
“All right. One more.”
* * *
Francis played three more pieces at Awen’s bidding, each of a different character, but all marked with an inexorable forward motion. Awen moved about the room after each song, listening to the sound from behind the piano, from across the room, and finally, while lying on the floor underneath.
“I think,” Francis said, folding his arms across his chest, “that’s about all the music my muscles can handle this morning.”
“Hmm.” Awen looked up at him from where she lay on her back under the piano. She could not see his face. “I think I could just stay here forever. Just like this.” She smiled, trying to forget everything but the music.
“Yes; I understand. But you know you can’t. As long as you’re here…Well, what I’m saying is that my father is almost always at home. He’s gone maybe three weeks total out of the year. I, on the other hand, am rarely here. In fact, I have to leave in less than a fortnight.”
Awen rose onto her elbows. “You’re leaving? For how long?”
“Awen…I don’t live here permanently. It’s still my home, I suppose, but most of my time is spent traveling. I rent lodgings in two other towns, where I stay most often.”
“Maybe I could come with you, then? I could ask Sir Robert.”
“No; you know that he would never consent.”
A tear slid down Awen’s face. She did not brush it off, because Francis could not see. “Right. Right. I know, of course. What was I thinking? That’s silly.” She tried to laugh.
Francis said nothing, and his silence made her even sadder. Finally, he spoke. “Breakfast, then?”
* * *
Awen was swallowing her last bite of honey-drizzled biscuit when a hopeful idea struck her: perhaps the music was back. Maybe Francis’s songs had restored the castle’s equilibrium.
“Would you like to go out riding?” Francis asked, setting down a glass of juice. “I had a post from my father this morning, and he won’t be back until early tomorrow.”
Awen nodded. “Could we wait a bit? I need to go”—she looked around the dining room—“grab something.”
“Yes, take all the time you need.” He peered down at his feet. “I need to change into some boots anyhow.”
“I’ll be quick.” Awen rose and sashayed out of the room. She crept through the hallway, looking behind her until she reached the corridor to the studio. She thought it better for Francis not to know. It was too much to explain.
Awen skipped down the hall, sliding her hand across the smooth wall as she went. She had a good feeling about what she would find in the studio.
The room, unsurprisingly, was just as she left it…except the painting had been recovered. Her heart skipped. She wondered if Francis had been in the room since last night. She glanced toward the hallway, then decided it must have been Abigail.
Awen moved to the piano in three giant, confident steps. She stretched her hand to the keyboard…then pulled it away; she would look at the painting first. Yet she hesitated again, wondering if it might be better to try singing instead. Awen wavered, unable to make a decision. She bit her lip. She knew Francis would come looking for her if she took too long.
Awen took a deep breath, then threw off the cover to the painting.
Blank. Blank on both sides.
She reached for the piano, slamming the keys with her entire forearm: nothing.
And then, her own voice was nothing, too.
Awen stomped her bare foot on the stone floor, producing a stinging pain but very little sound. She hopped on her other foot, grinding her teeth together to keep from screaming in frustration. Finally, she gave in to the situation, sitting down on the piano bench to catch her breath. She knew she had to make a decision.
“Here, or Crickhowell,” she said under her breath.
She could not deceive herself about the school; Crickhowell would never be anything but loneliness and boredom, and hours of nothing.
Her new life was comfortable, and she would have everything she needed. The things she wanted—they were there, too…but out of reach. They dangled in front of her like berries on a branch, too high to ever taste.
Awen rose from the bench.
Francis was waiting.
Twenty-three
I’m not quite sure what the finished product will be, but I’m getting closer and closer. I can feel it—I’m almost done! Either way, when that candle over there burns down, we’ll call it a night.”
A
tear of fatigue rolled down Awen’s cheek. She yawned again. She forced her eyes to stay open so she might at least see the candle to which Sir Robert had pointed. There was still a fair amount left. Awen let her eyes close halfway and tilted her chin down.
“I took on some commissions while in Clydach,” Sir Robert raved from behind the easel.
Awen wondered how he could show so much enthusiasm at such an hour, especially since he’d returned just that morning.
“So, I’ll be quite busy these next few weeks.”
Awen stared at the slowly burning candle. She considered trying to blow it out from a distance but knew that would be too obvious. She would have to keep her eyes open and wait it out.
* * *
Awen lay across her bed, still wearing her dress and shoes. She rested her head on her arms, holding her watch open in front of her. She would just rest for a bit—long enough to regain some energy, and to ensure that Sir Robert had gone to bed. There was plenty of wax left on the candle in her lantern; a ten-minute delay would be perfectly fine. She gently closed her eyes, the ticking of the watch making her drowsy.…
* * *
Awen jerked her head up. The sky outside was still black, but her candle had burned all the way down, the only light now coming from the moon. She still held the open watch in her hands. She brought it close to her eye: three o’clock.
“Oh!” Awen struggled to get up, and jumped to the floor. She kicked off her shoes, knowing she would make less noise barefoot. She paced a few steps and smoothed down the skirt of her dress. Awen paused, staring at the amethysts at her waist, and then slipped out of the garment, exchanging it for her Crickhowell nightgown. She did not want to ruin anything of Gwen’s.
Taking a deep breath, Awen padded to the door. She touched the knob, then sighed and turned back: she knew this would be the only time for her to organize her belongings. Awen snatched up the book of music Francis had given her and set it inside her trunk, on top of her Crickhowell things. She carefully folded the dresses from Gwen’s room and stacked them on top of her bed. She set the shoes next to them. Then Awen hurried into the hallway, giving herself no time to look back and regret the decision.
The candles in the corridor barely glowed. Awen feared she would have to go without light, feeling her way through the castle until she reached the painting studio. There, the moon would shine down through the windows. She slunk toward the staircase, eyeing each candle as she went, in the hope that one would last at least half an hour. Awen bypassed one that had already gone out. But—
“Wait,” she whispered to herself. She retraced her steps. The candle had not gone out—it had never been lit. She pressed her palms together in triumph, plucked the candle from the wall, and lit it with the fizzling fire of another. Then she tiptoed to the staircase, eyes lingering on the golden clover affixed to Francis’s door before descending.
Awen held the candle in front of her, trying to see as far ahead as possible. She concentrated on the sounds of the castle, straining to discern the noises: a creak, or a footstep? She did not know if Sir Robert might wander at night. Awen held her breath as she rounded the staircase to enter the main hall on the first floor.
The windows above the entrance door let in just enough moonlight to dimly illuminate the main hall. Awen glided through the silver light toward the dining hall.
The dining table was clear of dishes, and the chairs had been pushed in. Awen swept through the room, heading toward the back corner. She slid her hand across the stone wall, feeling for the door that would be too faint to see in the dim light. She felt the thin gap in the stone, then traced a finger down the separation until she found the knob. Awen twisted it and pulled the door open.
The room was pitch black—the only light was that which radiated from her candle. For a moment, Awen thought she might lose her nerve.
She felt for the chain snaking around her neck and drew the watch to her ear. She concentrated on the ticking, reminding herself of the inevitable task that lay before her. Awen dropped the charm, letting it slide back to the bottom of the necklace, and forged ahead into the darkness.
Awen held out her candle, illuminating the empty countertops. She tried to remember from where she had seen Abigail pull out the utensils. They had come from a drawer—but there were countless drawers here. Awen started at one end and worked her way through.
After locating spatulas, whisks, serving forks, and some wooden spoons, Awen pulled open a drawer full of knives. She examined them individually, the light of her flame glinting off each metal surface. She tossed aside a butter knife, a bread knife, and a small tool for cutting meat, finally stopping at a large, sleek blade tucked in the back. She pulled it out carefully, holding it up to the light. “Perfect,” Awen whispered, and popped the drawer shut with her hip. Holding the knife down by her left side, and the candle in her right hand, Awen slid back through the door and into the dining room.
She stood in the dark corner just outside the camouflaged door and listened: silence—only the ticking of clock hands. She moved stealthily to the hall, peering in all directions before slipping into the corridor that led to Sir Robert’s studio. As she advanced down the hallway her heartbeat quickened, and her pace increased until she was moving at a half-run. She tried to regain her composure as she entered the studio, but the eerie glow of the moon made her feel peculiar, and the only way to stop the feeling was to keep moving—to go faster and faster until she could not think about it anymore. Her mind went fuzzy, and now it was her muscles that led.
Awen hurried to the easel where Sir Robert’s self-proclaimed masterpiece sat, covered in drapery. She was not sure which she hoped for—a blank canvas, which would refute her fears, or a filled one, which would prove them. She threw off the fabric.…
There they were: orbs of color bobbing across the canvas, thick with the new paint he had added that evening. The disappearance of art, then, was not simply something that happened in the dead of night, but truly did leave the castle with Sir Robert.
Awen took a step back from the painting; she still had no idea what it was, what it meant, or if it represented anything at all. The more she looked at it, the more the painting seemed to change, until the blobs of yellow and blue and purple were no longer just circles of color, but—faces:
A pale white Rosaline formed in the top left corner, staring back with black eyes that looked like holes. Mr. Berwick appeared in the center, purple scar glowing, threatening to rip the canvas apart. The two men that had taken her away and started it all—their faces were blurry and vague, like Awen’s memory of them. They moved as a pair across the bottom of the tableau. Then there was Miss Nina, in the top right, her lips moving but no sound coming out; and Hannah, grinning at Awen, her shocking red hair swirling around, then dripping down the canvas like blood. Vivienne’s face emerged next, bigger than the rest, nearly consuming the entire surface. Then Awen was looking at Francis and a girl—Bryn? His lost sister Gwen? The faces began to join together, sucked into the center as if it were a whirlpool. They fizzled into one, and finally, she was looking at herself.
It was like a reflection in the mirror: the painting’s eyes blinked when she did, and its mouth twitched with hers. She stared at it—she could not stop—and for a moment, she feared she was stuck. And then she was falling; her body tilted forward, or maybe the room tipped toward her? Her heels left the ground. It seemed as if the painting had moved beyond the two-dimensional and was attempting to suck her in.
But then the portrait began to change: her eyes dissolved first. Then her nose. Her forehead. Her hair. Piece by piece, until only the mouth was left: pink lips slightly parted. Finally, that went, too.
With a scream, Awen raised the knife and thrust it down on the center of the canvas. She slashed at the painting again and again, as if under attack, and finally threw the knife into the center, letting it stick. The pieces frayed and curled at the edges, then they reached toward each other, threatening to come back together and re
-stitch themselves.
In a flash of panic, Awen raised her candle to the painting, catching the canvas in the flame, and watched the whole thing burn.
Twenty-four
All she could concentrate on doing was moving forward. Peeling one battered foot off the floor to place in front of the other, half-staggering down the third-floor hallway of Crickhowell. The bruises should have subsided after two weeks, but it was still difficult to walk. At least the swelling in her face had begun to go down, and her eyes opened most of the way now. She still could not lift her whip-slashed arms high enough to change out of her dress and into a cleaner one.
Even so, she did not regret what she had done to Sir Robert’s painting.
Awen approached the stairwell leading down to the second floor. She parted her lips, barely whispering: “Almost halfway.” She paused at the top of the stairs, pressing her hands against the wall. She wondered what Miss Nina wanted with her so early in the morning, and why she had to call her all the way down to the library. They had not spoken since her arrival at dawn from Sir Robert’s, two weeks ago—in fact, nobody had spoken to Awen. A woman who had taken Rosaline’s place brought meals to her room, but she never said anything.
Awen descended the staircase one step at a time, placing both feet on the same stair before stepping down. Upon reaching the bottom, she stopped, hanging her head to regain her composure. When she looked up, someone huddled in a corner gave her a start. She could not see the girl’s entire face, but she saw enough to recognize her. Awen moved forward cautiously. “Vivienne?” she whispered.
The girl looked up. Her eyes were shiny with moisture.
“Oh, you’re back!” Awen could not help but yell. “I’m back, too! I was gone for a while, but…”
The girl lowered her head.
Awen was sure it was Vivienne. She remembered the hair and the face, even though everything else seemed different about her. “Vivienne? It’s me, Awen!”
This time Vivienne did not even raise her head.
Awen squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then opened them and moved on.
The Crickhowell School for the Muses Page 19
