The Crickhowell School for the Muses (3 page)

The other women in the room gave no response. Awen wondered if they had not heard, or if maybe the event meant nothing to them.

Hannah, still singing to herself, returned to Awen with brush in hand and dug the jar from her pocket. She lightly applied the white powder over every inch of Awen’s face, seemingly oblivious to her wide-eyed stare. “Tilt your head,” Hannah said, pushing back on Awen’s forehead. Awen heard the clink of glass, and suddenly a drop of liquid was falling into each of her eyes.

Her face contorted—the liquid burned, and she squeezed her eyes shut, rubbing at them, blinking them furiously.…

Hannah laughed. “Don’t worry, the searing sensation will subside.”

A shot of fear burst through Awen’s chest, as she wondered if she was being blinded. She opened an eye, slowly: her vision was blurred, but the burning had begun to dissipate. She opened her other eye.

“Extract of belladonna.” Hannah waved the glass bottle in front of Awen’s face. “Always makes for beautiful eyes.” She paused for a moment, gazing into the mirror.

Awen craned her neck forward to get a better look at her reflection. Her face was a shocking pale white, and her eyes…they looked bigger. The black of her pupil overtook them, so that the green was just a bright corona around the edges.

“Yes!” Hannah chirped.

Awen flinched.

“Let’s find you a dress!” She was back at her desk, haphazardly pulling out drawers. She danced back to Awen with a bundle of fabric in hand, unrolled it, and shook it out. It was the same ruffled, cream-colored dress that Awen had seen all the other girls wearing in the dining hall. She looked down at her own raggedy clothing with a sour face and was almost grateful.

Hannah pulled Awen down from the stool and swapped out her rags for the new dress. She turned to Rosaline, who looked bored. “Here’s your girl, Rose. She’s got a pretty little face; don’t let her mess it up.”

Hannah turned back to Awen, pulling the brush and white jar of powder from her pocket. “Take these. White powder is for every-day application!” She smiled, teeth glinting in the light, and took Awen’s right hand, placing the objects inside her palm.

Awen stared at the powder and brush momentarily, then closed her hand on them.

A long moment passed in silence. Awen could feel the eyes on her: the scrutinizing gaze of Rosaline, and the excited eyes of Hannah, adoring her own handiwork.

Awen felt Rosaline’s hand wrap around her wrist, and then she was being led out of the room, through the halls, and back up the staircases. When they reached Awen’s tiny room, Rosaline opened the door and motioned Awen in. Awen planted her feet on the floor and stared at them, attempting to resist Rosaline’s command. Rosaline laughed at this, gave an odd half-smile, and shoved Awen inside. She shut the door and disappeared back down the hallway.

Awen stared out of her tiny, rain-soaked
window. She watched the drops race down the glass pane—racing toward…she did not know what. Racing to the bottom of something. To the end. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass. A heavy grey cloud obscured the sun.

It had been twelve days. Twelve days since her hair had been cut and her face transformed into white porcelain. Twelve days since she had seen the dead girl carried out of the castle. Twelve days since anyone had come for her. Awen had left the room only to eat in the dining area, one floor below. She had no desire to walk idly about in that blank white hallway outside her room, nor to stare into the grand hall of dancing girls that had first fascinated her. She could hardly even bring herself to leave the window and sleep at night.

She shuddered, remembering the dream she had been having, over and over. It really was just a sequence of blurry images: white faces with empty expressions, dark eyes peering in from every direction, lanterns in the darkness, and then, always coming last, the dead girl from the window. But in her dream, the dead girl was not expressionless. She stared at Awen with pursed lips—and blue eyes that gleamed in warning.…

And then, Awen would wake up.

She rubbed her eyes, picturing the dark circles that must have been hanging beneath them. Her nightmare always left her sleepless for the rest of the night.

As she focused again on the window, searching for another racing raindrop to observe, a light but urgent knocking sounded at her door. She drew in a breath and turned toward it.

“Ah! There you are, child!” Rosaline walked in with open arms. “Come come, it’s Monday!” she summoned, taking Awen’s arm.

Awen drew her face into an awkward expression, which went unnoticed. Rosaline’s new exuberance unsettled her. The last time she had seen this woman, the coldness had been palpable.

“Today, you begin your most important training as a muse!” Rosaline grinned as they went out of the room.

This time, they went left, down a part of the hallway Awen had never seen. It looked the same as the rest of the castle: always white and wood. This side of the hallway, however, did not contain any open rooms—only light wooden doors, all shut. Some were blank; others had names carved in capital lettering above them.
Haddock
…
Crisp
, Awen silently read as she passed by.
Norwich…Freer
. If she listened closely, she could hear the arching melody of a singer behind one door, and the light tinkling of a keyboard behind another.

Awen felt the same fizzing-up of curiosity she had felt those days before, when she had first peered into the rooms of girls dancing and playing instruments. But this time, it was tamed by something acidic: the memory of her fall down the stairs. She poked at the one bruise on her left arm that had still not quite faded, watching it turn white, then back to a faint yellow.

“Ah.” Rosaline stopped at the second-to-last door.

Awen searched for the name above the doorframe.
Whitewood
. Her face twisted into a half smile; the name was too apt a description for the castle itself.

Rosaline pressed her ear to the door, then tapped lightly with her left hand. “Mr. Whitewood?” she called. “Your new student is here.” She pulled away as footsteps emanated from the room beyond.

Awen watched with wide eyes as the door opened, and out stepped a tall, silver-haired man wearing a dark-brown jacket. Silver square spectacles balanced atop his crooked nose, and his face was crinkled into a pleasant smile. She was not afraid to look into his eyes.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, stretching out his arms. His voice was smooth, with a hint of graininess. The sound made Awen think of a creamy pudding with nuts sprinkled on top. “You, my dear, must be Awen.”

Awen nodded slowly but did not speak.

Mr. Whitewood turned his head to the side, peering inquisitively at her.

“This one does not…hmm…say much,” Rosaline answered his unspoken question. She chuckled lightly. “I will be surprised if you can get anything more than air out of her.”

Mr. Whitewood turned to Rosaline, frowning at her words. “Well, why don’t you just let me see what I can do?” Something bitter flashed across his eyes. He turned again to Awen; the obliging smile was back. “Come, dear.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, guiding her into the room. As Awen walked over the threshold, she cast a glance back at Rosaline.Rosaline’s eyebrows were knitted together, the rest of her face unreadable. And then, the door closed.

Awen gazed around the new room. It was darker, cozier—nothing like the cold white walls of the rest of the castle. The floor was of a dark cherry wood, and a heavy rectangular carpet lay atop it. Awen studied the design: gold and red threads with intricate, curvy shapes swirling about. She thought she saw a dragon in there somewhere, and a lyre, and some sort of…she twisted her head from side to side…she could not make it out.

Her eyes wandered upward to inspect the wall. Most of it was covered with heavy tapestry in a design much like the carpet; only small bits of dark stone peeped out from behind the decoration. There were no windows in this room—or if there were, they were obscured behind the heavy wall hangings. The only light came from scattered candles: tall cream pillars, crimson ones rolled from beeswax, and gold tapered ones that reached toward the ceiling. These lights had been placed haphazardly—some atop a small table, and others just set down on the floor.

Awen’s gaze caught at a large crimson candle in the corner of the room, burning brightly inside a frosted glass. It sat atop a large black structure with glimmering white keys. Awen had seen something like this before, many years ago, though the one that glided vaguely through her memory was not nearly as sleek, not nearly as clean as the instrument that stood before her.

A high-pitched tinkling cut through the silence.

Awen jumped. Mr Whitewood stood at the far right end of the instrument, his right index finger pressed down on one of the white keys. She had almost forgotten him in her silent contemplation of the room.

“Piano,” he said quietly, smiling down at Awen. The note resounded off the walls for an impossibly long time. Mr. Whitewood removed his finger from the key, and the noise came to an abrupt stop. He sat on a wooden bench pulled up to the piano and folded his hands with a sigh. “So, I hear you don’t speak much.” His blue eyes twinkled. “Is that true?”

Awen stood in silence, watching his face. She twisted her hands together. She bit her lip.

“Well,” he said, with the chuckle of golden bells, “I suppose it was worth an inquiry.”

Awen glanced down at the bench on which he sat.

“Ah, my apologies.” He stood halfway and leaned forward to grab the red leather chair from his desk. The desk was a massive chunk of dark wood pushed up against the wall. It was in disarray, with yellowing, oversized sheets of paper piled on top. Mr. Whitewood slid the chair to a space across from where he sat, then motioned to Awen.

She shrugged, then sat.

“So,” he continued, “you may know why you’re here. Or,” his eyes shifted quickly to the door and back, “I suppose you may not.” He sighed. “I am Mr. Whitewood, and it is my duty to train you to become the best singer you can be. You must be able to sing away the wind and sing away the clouds.” He held out his arms, emphasizing the words.

Awen shifted in her chair.

“Your voice must fizzle away the darkness in the heads of the world’s best artists.” He pointed to his temple. “You must sing away the writer’s block, the painter’s rut, the composer’s confusion. Though, I suppose in
your
case…” He reached out for a small leather notebook on his desk, flipping to the first page. “Yes, I suppose in your case, you only need to sing away the painter’s rut.” He chuckled. “A mighty task, indeed.” He squinted, searching Awen’s eyes for any response.

Awen gave a half-nod, but her eyebrows were furrowed in puzzlement. She did not understand how any of this talk of painters and writers could involve her—she had only ever sung by herself. For herself.

“Ah, don’t worry, dear child!” He placed a hand on hers. “You are in good hands, so to speak. I will train you until even the dullest of them can spout out masterpieces when they hear your song!”

Awen let her lips form a smile. The sparkling curiosity was back in her stomach, free of acidic taint. She flung aside her questions, ignoring what he had said about painters, masterpieces, and blocks. That did not matter—she was going to sing again.

“Well then, what are we waiting for? Why not begin!” Mr. Whitewood stood and crossed the short distance to his desk. Despite its disarray, he seemed to know what he was looking for. He picked up a stack of papers, pulling out a thick sheet from the bottom, and returned the rest to his desktop. He placed the sheet atop a small wooden ledge that jutted out from the front of the piano.

Awen leaned forward in the leather chair, craning her neck to get a better look at the paper.

Mr. Whitewood smiled. “Eager, are you?” He patted the piano bench, motioning her over. Once Awen was seated, he took the paper down from its stand and placed it on the piano keys. “This is the first song we will work on.”

Awen leaned over the paper. She could read only the title: “A Rainbow.” The rest of it was senseless black lines and little filled-in circles with stems, just like the image she had seen on the spine of the book in the library. But it was beautiful, in its own mysterious sort of way. Awen put her right index finger to the page, tracing the black lines like the blind reading Braille.

Mr. Whitewood’s golden chuckle pulled her eyes back to his face.

“It may look slightly, hmm, incomprehensible to you now,” he said, gesturing toward the page. “But in due time, you will be able to read this like you would any other language. We will not begin reading music in today’s lesson, however. That will come next week.” He sat down on the bench next to Awen and placed the sheet of music back on the stand. “Today, I just want to see how your voice sounds, what your range is. Nothing to be worried about, just simple little things!” His eyes sparkled.

Awen shrugged her shoulders and twisted her hands together. She looked down at her fingers. The man was nice…but now, suddenly, she did not really want to sing. And she did not know why she did not want to. Once—it seemed like so long ago, but it was just weeks, really—her song was everything. She would sing herself to sleep, and the tune carried over her dreams like a veil in the night. Now, as she twisted her hands around in the windowless room, she had not even the desire to part her lips and speak.

Mr. Whitewood was quiet for a moment, watching the tension tighten Awen’s face. He raised his eyebrows.

Awen did not look up.

Mr. Whitewood sighed loudly, then turned to the glossy keys before him. He pressed on a white one near the middle-left of the keyboard, and a luscious note rang out from the depths of the instrument. “Sing this note,” he said. “Hear it, hum it, see it, anything.…”

Awen kept twisting her hands, but she looked up at the keys.

Mr. Whitewood hit the same note again, this time with more force. The sound seemed to echo off the walls, unabsorbed by the tapestries.

Awen looked at the key on which his finger bore down. She mashed her lips together, halfway anxious to let the music flow through them again, but some invisible blockade in her throat kept her silent. She ran her tongue across her teeth. Cleared her throat.

“Yes, come on, just hum this note! Match the pitch!” he encouraged her.

Awen parted her lips and took a deep breath.

He hit the note again.

Awen first blew a silent stream of air through her lips—warm air, slowly turning cold. And then, the air transformed into something more: a golden sound, a sweet blend of butter and sugar. Her note entwined with that of the piano, sound waves twisting about each other until their pulse was one. Awen felt as if a pile of dust had just been blown out of her lungs.

She could breathe again.

“Yes! Beautiful!” Mr. Whitewood nearly shouted. “Now this one, a step up!” He hit the next white key and turned an encouraging eye toward Awen.

She altered her voice to match the pitch of the new note, trying to keep from smiling. The sound unfurled its golden tendrils; it extended out to the wall hangings, caressed the fabric and blew about the flames on the candles. To Awen, the room looked as if it were in the midst of a wind storm.

The flame on a gold tapered candle went out.

“Yes! A few more, a few more!” Mr. Whitewood exclaimed, pressing the next white key. And so he went up the scale, up, up, until Awen’s golden voice melted and crystallized into silver bells and could no longer be heard.

He sat back, folding his hands together. “You have quite a range, dear child. Amazing, really. And the sound…” He trailed off in a smile.

Awen tried to hide her own half-smile by looking down at her fingers, which she pressed into the palm of her other hand.

“I think we are going to make quick progress here. Next week, as I said before, we will begin reading music. And then,” his eyes brightened, “we can begin your very first song.” He pointed to the sheet of music, “A Rainbow,” that now lay on the floor next to the piano. He chuckled and leaned over to pick it up, then stood. “Well,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket and withdrawing a golden watch, “we are out of time for today. I will see you next week, then.”

Awen slid off the bench and began toward the door. It was then that she noticed its color for the first time—the same dark cherry wood as the rest of the room. Yet the other side, the side facing into the hallway, was light, like all the other doors in the castle. It was a double door, two-toned, an impossible melting together of different woods.

“Ah! Actually…” Mr. Whitewood handed the sheet of music to Awen. “Take this with you. Start getting familiar with the notes for next week’s lesson.”

Awen smiled lightly. Then she twisted the bronze doorknob, gritting her teeth as she pulled the heavy, strange door open. She gasped.