The Crickhowell School for the Muses (2 page)

The sun was but a distant glow, far off
on the horizon, when Awen was awakened by a knock on the door. She rolled over on her lumpy mattress on the floor, trying to remember where she was and how she had gotten there. She squeezed her eyes shut and watched a muddle of images swim through her brain: a blindfold; a clattering wagon; a woman with a foreign accent; a book slamming closed, sealing her dark future.

The knock outside her room grew louder and quicker. Awen opened her eyes, taking in her new surroundings—the room the size of a closet, the tiny window at the end opposite the door, the white walls and the white ceiling, and the dusty floor in a light-colored wood. The room was empty except for the mattress on which she lay, and a small sign on the door. Awen knelt and squinted to see it. There were words in black script centered on the parchment sign, but she could not make them out. She rose from the mattress to inspect it more closely, the door now jangling in its frame, and read the command:
Learn, but seek not too far. For you shall aid in the seeking of others
.

Awen’s eyes widened as she tossed the statement around in her head. She reached out to touch the framed command, as if that would help her understand what was happening to her—what part of her she was losing, and what remained that she could hold onto.

The door burst open, nearly knocking Awen back down to the floor. A blonde woman thundered into the room.

“Get up, you lazy girl!” she cried. “What do you think you’re doing, sleeping till the sun comes up?” She reached out her right hand, grasping for Awen’s arm, while waving an open silver pocket watch in her left. “I don’t know what
you’re
used to, but at this school we start our days on time!”

Awen backed away from the woman, into the corner of the room, and turned her head to set her eyes on the tiny window. All she could see outside was fog and the distant orange glow of the sun.

“You think you can get out of that window? Ha-ha! Good try, girl! We’re on the third floor!” With that, the woman walked forward and, in a sharp movement, seized both of Awen’s wrists in one hand. This time, Awen put up no resistance as the woman hurried her out of the room and through the hallway.

As in Awen’s tiny room, the walls and ceiling of the hallway were a blank white, and the floors the same light-colored wood—only these floors were glossy and swept clean.

“I am Rosaline.” The woman tilted her head slightly toward Awen, keeping her chin up. “I wake you up, I show you around, tell you what to do, you understand,” she trailed off. Rosaline had the same ivory skin and piercing black eyes as Miss Nina, but her hair was a blinding white-blonde. Awen thought of a ghost.

As Rosaline spoke, they passed a large, open room full of mirrors, where small girls spun in tight circles and leapt across the floor. A voice from inside yelled out instructions and clapped out a beat. Another room revealed a handful of older girls plucking at strangely shaped stringed instruments. The music reverberated off the walls—it sounded like a waterfall of notes. Despite the fear of the past night, and the unfamiliarity before her, Awen could not help but feel a bubbling of awe in the bottom of her stomach—a nervous curiosity about what might come for her.

Rosaline led Awen to a curving stairway at the end of the long white corridor. But Awen, green eyes still full of images from the rooms she had passed, was staring somewhere off to the side, and did not see the first step. Her left foot reached for some surface that was not there, her heel catching on the edge of the stair. She tumbled forward, twisting sideways, and Rosaline let go of her wrists to let her plunge down the steps like a torrent of white water over rocks.

Awen screamed as the hard wood thumped against her face, her arms, her back. Her black hair swirled around her head, and she could not see—did not know how many stairs lay below, waiting for her. But all that remained was the hard white wall at the foot of the staircase. Her back was the first part to smash into the wall; then her neck snapped back, and she screamed again as her head banged into the wood.

Awen clenched her teeth as she pulled in her legs and arms to form a tight, protective ball. With the few drops of strength left, she tried to push away the pain and focus instead on the cool wooden floor beneath her. She closed her eyes, but a soft chuckle from above forced them open again.

A smooth voice called to her: “What, are you going to just stay there on the floor, girl?” Rosaline still stood at the top of the staircase, leaning against the wall. “Stupid girl, you should watch where you are going. We wouldn’t want one of our students to go to waste. And now your pretty skin will be all bruised up.” She made a disapproving clucking noise, then padded softly down the stairs.

Rosaline pulled Awen up by her aching arms. She dragged her out from the stairwell into a hallway that looked onto a large, open dining room. This room contained the same white walls and wooden floor as the rest of the castle, and a number of round wooden tables stood inside. Each table had a bowl of muffins at its center and a group of young girls seated about. They all looked very much alike. Each girl wore the same cream-colored dress, with ruffles on the short sleeves, collar, and hem. Their hair was pulled back into tight buns, and their faces looked unnaturally pale. Awen saw that, like her, the girls wore no shoes.

The dining room was unsettlingly quiet. The girls sat picking at their breakfast in near-silence, every now and then someone sneezing, or speaking in low tones. Awen stared. A cold shiver ran through her.

“Dining room.” Rosaline’s voice sounded exceedingly loud against the noiseless background. She motioned toward the tables. “We have muffins every morning. You have ten minutes to find yourself a seat and eat something. I will return for you then.” And with that, she walked off.

Awen stood still, expressionless. She let her eyes focus on the leg of a chair in the middle of the room, and she clasped her hands together. She did not notice the dark-haired girl walking toward her.

“Hello?”

Without moving her head, Awen shifted her gaze to the girl standing before her.

“I’m Vivienne.” The girl’s voice was soft, angelic. “Are you new?” She tilted her head and peered into Awen’s green eyes.

Awen stared at the other girl for a long moment and then, very slowly, gave her a half-nod.

“What is
your
name?”

Awen blinked. She wanted to respond, but something stopped her. She pressed her lips together in silence.

“Well, would you like something to eat then? The muffins are strawberry this morning.” She raised her eyebrows, and Awen could not tell if that was a good thing, or not.

Awen gave no reply, but Vivienne took her hand anyway and led her back to the table from which she had come.

“Take one,” Vivenne said quietly, pushing the bowl of muffins to Awen.

Awen reached out a hand, gingerly picking up the smallest muffin she could see. She placed it directly in front of her, then folded her hands together and rested her chin on top. She stared at the muffin. Awen could not even begin to think about eating. Her stomach was already too full of bubbles, fizz, and skittish butterflies, and her head hurt from the fall down the stairs. She started to count the strawberries baked into the muffin.

Vivienne said no more—just watched her new acquaintance with a curious eye.

Awen stopped counting after the sixth strawberry and let her eyes glaze over so the outlines of everything blurred. She tried to think about nothing, but that was impossible. Instead, she concentrated on the throbbing in her head, but that only made it worse.

“All right, we’re going!” Rosaline’s voice cut through her daze. Awen turned in her chair to watch Rosaline approach. This time, she did not grab Awen’s wrist, but gave her a severe look and began to walk away from the table.

Awen squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then rose to follow.

“Goodbye!” Vivienne called after her. Her cheerful voice sounded oddly out of place—a church bell rung from a dungeon.

Awen followed Rosaline back toward the stairwell. A fluttering sensation danced in her chest when she saw that there was a second flight to descend. Awen paused at the top of the stairs and grasped the wooden railing, but Rosaline continued down without waiting for her.

Awen lifted her right foot off the floor and onto the first step, followed by her left, then slid her hands a little down the railing to steady herself. Her feet tingled each time she lifted them off the ground.

“Hurry up, girl!” Rosaline’s voice echoed from the bottom floor.

Awen stood on a step near the bottom of the spiral staircase. She counted the steps: eight more. Her gaze moved over them, one by one—they looked smooth but uneven, and curved at the edges—until her eyes found the grand doorway of the first floor.

She wondered if it was kept locked.

Awen abandoned the railing and took the last eight steps in small leaps, ignoring the pain in her head and back that accompanied each one. She whipped her head around to look for Rosaline, just as her right foot landed on the dark wood of the first floor. Awen could see no one in the entryway; Rosaline must already have gone off down some hallway.

Awen sprinted for the door, holding her hand out for the brass knob and praying it would turn. She imagined herself bursting forth from the castle, running away down the path and into the woods.…

“
This
way.”

Awen snapped her hand back to her side and swiveled around, her feet slipping slightly at the change of direction. Rosaline had suddenly reappeared, standing with her hands on her hips at the mouth of a dark corridor. She motioned down the hall with her head. Awen did not dare look back at the brass knob, but followed after Rosaline down the corridor.

At the end of the passage stood a dark wooden door, slightly ajar. Rosaline stopped in front of it and tapped twice with one knuckle. “Hannah?” she called through the crack. The door opened just the tiniest bit farther, but Awen could not see the woman behind it. Rosaline turned toward Awen with an exuberant smile, and gestured. “Our newest.”

“Ahh!” Hannah exclaimed, now flinging the door wide open. “Well, aren’t you something?” Hannah eyed Awen for a long moment, as if she might perform a trick.

Awen saw something flash across Hannah’s face, and then shivered, realizing the woman had not blinked once so far. She had the same pale skin as the other women, but her eyes were dark green and her hair an unnatural shade of red.

“Well, do come in, my dear!” the red-haired woman gushed.

Awen had no choice but to follow Rosaline through the door.

Hannah’s room was small, but the floor-to-ceiling mirrors on each wall gave the illusion it was double its size. In the corner, facing a small window, stood a wooden desk with stacks of paper, combs of all sizes, and tubes of colorful pastes strewn about. A tall wooden stool was situated in the center of the room.

“So, what does this girl need today?” Hannah turned to Rosaline. “Cut? Dye? Everything?” She gave a euphoric laugh. “Here, jump up on the stool, would you, now?” This time she spoke to Awen, who was looking down at her feet—bare, just like every other girl’s at Crickhowell.

Awen hesitated, but a word of encouragement from Hannah made her climb up onto the stool. She winced slightly, feeling the bruises from her fall.

“You have very pretty hair,” Hannah said, twisting a section in her hand. “Nice and black, thick, wavy…but I think…
Hmm.
” She dropped Awen’s hair and put two fingers to her lips. “Yes, I think we need a good trim.” She ran her other hand through Awen’s tresses, pulling through the tangles. “It’s a bit of a mess.

“Now…” She took Awen’s chin in her hand, examining her face. “White powder, of course…hmm, very pretty eyes, yes. Ah, this one is easy—already pretty! They haven’t all been so, recently,” she added in a lower voice. With that she turned to Rosaline, who was leaning against the wall opposite Hannah’s desk.

“Stupid, though,” Rosaline muttered. “Stupid girl, she can’t even walk down the stairs without tripping over herself.”

Hannah dismissed this with a click of her tongue and turned back to her black-haired project sitting silently on the stool. She eyed Awen once more, walking a circle around her, then glided over to her disorganized desk. From the reflection in the mirror, Awen could see her pull out a large comb, a silver pair of scissors, a jar of white powder, and a thin glass vial. She slipped all but the comb into her pockets.

Awen watched in the mirror as Hannah combed through her straggled mess of dark hair. The tangles were so entrenched that the movement of the comb pulled her head sideways. She had to squeeze her fingernails into her palms and squint her eyes to keep from tearing up. Then, Hannah pulled out the scissors and began to clip off chunks of hair. Awen let her eyes close most of the way as Hannah worked.

The sound of clipping scissors eventually stopped, and Awen opened her eyes, assuming Hannah was done. Before she could look at herself in the mirror, Hannah’s hands were at the side of her head, pulling on her hair with the force of a rider reining a wild horse. Awen felt the skin on her forehead pull upward. Her hair was yanked tighter, twisted around on itself.

“Ah, beautiful!” Hannah exclaimed, jumping back, and praising her work from all angles.

Awen gazed at her own reflection in the mirror. Her hair had been twisted into a bun so tight, it looked like her eyebrows were raised.

“Now just a little makeup, and we will be done! Oh, brush!” she exclaimed, skipping back to her desk for the tool.

While Hannah rummaged in her desk, humming to herself, Awen peered out the small window, through its reflection in the mirror. She heard slowly approaching voices coming from outside. The words were hard to make out—something about a window, an accident and, most startlingly, the word
child
…and the word
dead
. Two women walked by the window without looking in. And then she saw it. A man carried a dark-haired girl halfway wrapped in a blanket. Awen could see her face: drained of color, expressionless, blue lips, blue eyes and a big gash across the top of her forehead. Awen’s eyes widened, and a sick feeling waved across her stomach.