The Crickhowell School for the Muses (17 page)

Awen remained standing, wondering if she should follow. “You do know that Sir Robert left for a few days, yes?” she said, running a few steps to catch up.

“Yes, I do. I also know he doesn’t want you to eat in the dining room anymore. But he’s not here, so you will. Abigail tells me all of this, if you were wondering.”

Awen drew even with him, and they proceeded side by side. “Are we to eat now?”

“Yes; the food is already on the table, which is why I came to find you. You received my note, I presume?”

“Abigail gave it to me when she brought in the lunch. What were you doing in town?”

“I had to leave the house so my father would think I was paying Bryn a visit, and I figured I may as well get some things done in town while I was out. I picked up a couple of items for you in one of my favorite shops.” They had reached the entrance to the dining hall. “They’re on your chair.” He motioned toward Awen’s spot, at which a plate of food had already been placed.

Awen concealed her excitement, afraid to appear too eager. She could not, however, calm the electricity that danced under her skin as she picked up the two brown-wrapped packages on her chair.

“It’s nothing too exciting,” Francis added as Awen tore the paper off the top of a thin, rectangular packet.

“Oh, hush; I’ve never received a present before.” She flipped the packet upside down, sliding out a slim booklet. “What’s this?” she asked, examining the cover. The words looked to be in a language that she did not recognize.

“Look inside. They’re duets for piano and voice.”

Awen flipped through the pages of music.

“I haven’t played these before, but they looked nice—and simple enough to read by sight.”

Awen glanced up from the pages, smiling, and spoke softly. “Thank you—honestly, thank you.”

“Don’t forget the other one!”

“Me? Forget the other one? Don’t be silly,” she chided, picking up the cube-shaped package. Awen tore off the paper, revealing a white box underneath. “Oh, I
do
love boxes!” she teased, pretending to admire it.

“Good,” Francis laughed, “because that’s all it is.”

Awen removed the lid. Underneath she found a pillow of red velvet holding a small silver object strung on a silver chain. “What is it?” Awen asked, taking out the chain; the charm slid to the bottom as she dangled it in the air.

Francis shrugged. “A watch.”

Awen held the object in her left palm, rolling the chain between her right thumb and index finger. The charm was round and flat, with tiny geometric figures carved about its circumference. There was a tiny bump on the top—a button—and when she pressed it, the lid sprang open to reveal a miniature watch face. She closed it and pressed it against her ear, listening to the mechanism’s tick. Awen smiled.

“You can wear it around your neck,” Francis said. “My father gave me my watch when I came of age,” he explained, tugging at a chain that ran from his pocket. “I’ve always thought that those who hold the time also hold the power.”

Awen slipped the chain around her neck, then pressed the button to spring the watch open again. She peered at its tiny face—then looked up at Francis. “It’s dinnertime.”

Awen lay on her back diagonally
across her bed, holding her new watch above her face. She watched the angle of the hands slowly widen—from midnight to five after—and listened to the faint ticking as it filled up the silent room. She rolled an unlit candle back and forth over the puffy bedcovers.

The flame in the lantern atop her trunk was dwindling.

She released the watch so that it glided down the chain around her neck, and she slid off the bed, candle in hand, to light it with the dying flame. The sound of her pounding heartbeat drowned out the ticking as Awen tiptoed barefoot to the door of her room. She opened the door, slipped out, and closed it silently behind her.

The light in the hall was dim. Of the little candles that still glowed, only a bit of wax remained. As Awen tiptoed by it, one flame fizzled out, sending up a spindly string of silver smoke.

Awen paused at the top of the main staircase and attempted to slow her breathing. She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaled deeply, and began her descent.

A detached sensation of half-consciousness, or of partial existence, pervaded her body as it wafted down the steps and waded through the main hall. She turned automatically into the corridor that led to Sir Robert’s studio. Not a part of her hesitated, save something just behind her eyes. But the feeling was not enough to make her turn back.

The hallway was black as a starless night; her candle formed a sphere of light, illuminating little more than her body. Still, she pushed ahead, searching for…what? She had no idea.

Awen followed the sharp curve to the right, and then to the left, finally stepping out into the open space of Sir Robert’s studio. She held her candle low, down near her thigh. Light from the waning moon filtered through the windows, bathing the room in a dim silver glow.

She walked slowly, deliberately toward the center of the room. She stopped just in front of the white piano and the easel, which still held Sir Robert’s painting—now draped, probably by Abigail. She turned a full circle in place, surveying the entire room. Again, she could hear the ticking of her watch.

Awen settled her eyes on the covered painting, and then on the piano. She did not know what she was doing there in the studio. But she knew that there was something she was supposed to see.

She stood still for a long time. Sometimes, she listened to the silence; sometimes, she listened to her watch. She held it in her right hand so that she could feel the vibrations of the mechanism in her palm. Awen opened it: an hour had passed.

The candle in her hand had burned down to half its original length. Awen pressed it into a too-wide candlestick holder on the top of the piano, making it stick in place with the warm wax that dripped down the sides. She sat down on the piano bench.

As the ominous glow of the room began to fade, so too did the electricity under her skin, leaving her calm, if a bit weary. Awen turned to the piano. The panic she had felt earlier in the evening—when the key did not sound—now seemed silly. She laughed aloud, then hushed herself, remembering that Francis was asleep somewhere. “Just a sticky key,” she mumbled. “Why all the fuss?” She placed both hands on the keyboard, lightly, so that only her fingertips touched. She began to move them across the keyboard as if she were playing, but without pressing down. She hummed silently to herself, the sound only in her head.

Awen paused, rearranging her fingers to form a chord. She thought of Francis again—asleep in some room—and pressed down so lightly on the keys that the piano did not speak. Awen glanced around the studio. It was probably situated too far away from any of the bedrooms to wake him, wherever he slept, so she pressed the keys again—harder.

Still no sound.

Awen gazed into the dark hallway, listening for any movement. The castle was silent. She turned back to the keyboard, preparing herself for the gritty crash of dissonance, and slammed both hands over a random assortment of keys.

Nothing—not even the gasp of a hammer beating a broken string.

Awen bolted to her feet, the piano bench screeching out behind her. She leaned forward and lifted the piano lid, peeking into the instrument at the mechanisms: the strings looked intact, just as they had yesterday. She pressed a key, watching the hammer move inside the piano. It clearly struck the string—she could see it vibrate—but not a sound rang out.

She stepped away from the instrument, her anxiety now greatly multiplied.

But there was one more thing to look at.

Awen approached Sir Robert’s unfinished painting with low expectations. It had not been touched all night—it would look exactly the same as it had before. She carefully took hold of the drapery with both hands and pulled it off to the side.

“Huh…” she whispered. “Peculiar.” The side of the canvas facing Awen was blank. Maybe Sir Robert had flipped it before he left, for whatever reason—though that would be a strange thing to do, and would certainly smudge the paint. Awen took hold of both sides of the canvas, cautiously turned it, and placed it back on the easel.

This side, too, was blank.

Awen leapt back in shock, putting as much space as possible between herself, the mute piano, and the empty painting. It was as if someone had removed all the art from the room: the piano had been stripped of its sound, and the canvas of its paint. When Sir Robert left, he must have taken it all with him.

Then, a thought occurred to Awen that made her chest tighten. What about
her
music? What about
her
voice? She cleared her throat, then opened her mouth to sing a note. Her vocal chords vibrated—she was sure of that. She even put a hand to her throat to feel it. But she was mute—just like the piano.

Her heart sank, and she began to feel faint. She had become just another one of Sir Robert’s objects—nothing more. She was shackled to his presence; she did not “work” when she was not needed.

Awen pulled her candle from the holder on the piano—just a stump was left, and the hot wax burned her hand as she held it. She took a few steps backward, eyes glued to the canvas that she had not bothered to re-drape. A gob of wax flowed down onto her index finger, and she cried out, dropping the candle. It fell to the stone floor, and the flame went out.

* * *

A thin strip of warmth bathed Awen’s eyelids.

She kept her eyes closed. She knew that she was lying on her back, atop something thick and soft. She knew that the skin on her hand was tender from drips of hot candle wax. She knew that everything she had seen and heard, and everything she had
not
seen and had
not
heard, was real.

Her body was awake, but she could not bear to open her eyes. She reached blindly for the watch that still hung around her neck and held the flat disc to her ear. It was comforting to hear it tick—to know that something still worked.

A soft sound, from far outside her room, forced Awen’s eyes open. She stared into the bright space above and attempted to discern the sound.

It was a piano.

“No,” she reminded herself aloud, “it can’t be.” She rolled onto her stomach, intent on falling back asleep…but the sound still bothered her. She sat up on the edge of the bed, listening.

The music paused.

She held her breath, and it resumed.

Awen hopped to the floor and tiptoed to the door, cracking it open to stick her head out. A moment later, she stepped into the hallway.

The music seemed to originate from the corridor, but at the same time it sounded more distant, as if it were outside. Awen crept down the hall, zigzagging from one door to the next, putting her ear to the wood. The music grew louder as she advanced, but it never seemed to emanate from any one place.

Finally, she reached the end of the main hallway, at the top of the staircase. There were two more doors on the left: one blank, like the rest; the other bearing a design she remembered examining once, upon her arrival at the house—a golden clover. She hesitated, then pressed her ear to that door. She remembered having tried the knob back then, too: it had been frozen.

The music did not seem any louder—but there was something about the
direction
of it that sounded right. Ear still pressed against the wood, Awen curled her hand around the knob. She took a deep breath, and twisted.

This time, it moved.

Awen held her breath as she began to open the door. She half-hoped it was just an old storage room, and that the music was somewhere else—but she knew that something more lay behind the door.

She opened it all the way, and looked in:

The space was a bedroom, clearly in current use. The covers on a bed in the corner had been pushed back and crumpled; papers, leather folders, and writing utensils lay stacked on a mahogany desk. A small door in the back of the room stood ajar. The music was certainly louder here—but the room had no piano, much less a person playing it. Was the sound all in her head?

She gazed about the room once more, and this time noticed a small painting leaning up against the wall; it had to be Francis’s room.

Awen jerked her body around, afraid he might be standing behind her—but no one was there, and there was not a trace of a footstep in the hall. So, with the strange sensation of balancing on a cloud, she stepped into the room.

Awen kept to the center, away from as many of Francis’s belongings as possible, lest she feel too much of an intruder. She kept her eyes glued to the door on the other side of the room. Awen held her breath again, stepped forward, and pushed the door all the way open.…

This room was smaller, filled only with a few enormous, squishy-looking couches in deep red tones. The room was certainly whimsical, if a bit strange. There was yet another door at the back—also partially open. “Hmm,” Awen muttered as she glided toward it.

Awen followed the same series of actions as she pushed open this next door. Though she made no attempt to guess the following room’s contents, what she found was still somewhat shocking. The sheer volume of books, lined up in never-ending rows on shelves that reached the ceiling, so that every inch of wall was suffocated in leather and paper…it was staggering. Beautiful. The only empty space: a closed wooden door.

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.”