The Crickhowell School for the Muses (19 page)

Awen’s eyelids fluttered open: there had been a noise. It was soft and muffled, a ways off in the distance—yet she knew her ears were not deceiving her. Awen rose from the boulder and peered into the distance, but the sinking sun produced too much glare for her to see. She turned around, quickly gathering her things into the trunk, and trudged through the grass toward the sound; it was steady, and growing louder. Awen pushed forward, now running, forgetting the pain and fatigue.

As she ran, the sound appeared in full color: a streak of chestnut, a rider with golden hair galloping toward her. The horse was slowing, now to a canter, to a trot, a walk…and finally, it stopped. Its rider dismounted and walked toward her.

Awen dropped her trunk and continued to run. “Francis!” she called out—but the word stuck in her throat. And then, she began to giggle. She leaned over to catch her breath, but she was laughing so hard, she could not breathe; she sank to her knees and rolled to her back on the ground, still laughing, though she did not know why.

Awen looked up at the darkening sky. “Isn’t it beautiful?” She smiled.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Francis’s face appeared above her—he looked serious.

“I have many things to tell you. I hope you’re ready for an adventure.” Awen sensed that in this moment they had switched roles, for now she wore the jesting smile, and he the cloud of grey.

“I…came to rescue you.…” He paused, then knelt down beside her.

Before Awen could sit up, she felt shoes being slid onto her feet—first the right, and then the left—the jeweled shoes she had left behind. She said nothing at first—then saw that her smile was spreading to Francis’s face as well.

He put a hand to her cheek, and slowly curved it around to touch her lips. He looked at her, hardly blinking, and kissed her.

When Francis finally pulled away, Awen giggled. “My dear sir, somebody else needs our help even more. And you’re far too late—for I’ve already rescued myself.”

Rachel Waxman is a writer, oboist, and entrepreneur who makes and sells handmade chocolate truffles. While at Northwestern University she studied music and spent her Sundays writing. She has a contradictory affinity for old books, castles, and new technology and is nostalgic for the eighteenth century. She now lives and writes in New York City.