The Crickhowell School for the Muses (5 page)

The two girls stepped back, taking it in.

“Perfect,” Vivienne said in a loud whisper. “You know, this isn’t my first time in here.”

The library was much the same as Awen’s fading memory of it—the table, the candle, the rows and rows of leather-bound volumes lining the walls. Awen almost wondered if there were, in fact, any walls at all, or if the shelves acted as the only barrier between this room and the next.

“Now I’m going to go find my book.” Vivienne skipped to the far left wall, where the waterfall of books began. “I have no clue where it is,” she mused. “It’s been too long since I’ve looked. Oh, of course!” Awen thought she must have deciphered some pattern in the titles, as Vivienne skipped through the entire section on the left and disappeared to browse through the back wall.

Awen stayed where she was, elbows on the table. She remembered there had been a chair there, once; she wondered where it had gone. Awen tried to recreate the memory of her first night in the library. The volume with her patron…she remembered gold letters, but
every
book here had gold letters.
Singers
. Yes, it had the word
Singers
on the spine.

Awen also began her search from the left side of the room, but she could not see any rhyme or reason for the organization:
Pianists
next to
Fan Dancers
next to
Lutenists
and
Artists—Painters
. She sighed, but continued her search.

“Aha!” Vivienne exclaimed from the back wall.

Awen dropped her eyes from the shelf she was scouring and turned her head toward Vivienne. She could just see the outline of her friend, who was sagging beneath a massive volume. She appeared to be leaning it up against the bookshelf just to keep it from tumbling to the ground and crushing something—her foot, perhaps.

Awen smiled at her friend’s success and began to turn back to the shelf before her. But something—a fuzzy outline—caught her eye on the way. Lurking in the corner of the room was—she began toward it—the chair. The simple wooden chair she had remembered from her first time in the library. As she crept closer, Awen could see that something had been stacked on the seat: a pile of leather volumes. She glanced up at the bookshelf but saw no gaps, no evidence as to from where they had come.

Awen knelt carefully on the chilly floor and spread her dress about. She scrutinized the stack of books before her, letting her eyes drift over the curves of the spines. She wondered what it was about these particular volumes that had made someone lay them aside. Two were deep red, still dusty in some places, with
Ca
and
Ga
written on the spine. Another was green, and the one at the very bottom…Awen stopped. Yes, the one at the very bottom proved strikingly familiar.

Singers
, it read on the spine.
S-Z
. And the funny little orb? Now she knew what it was: a musical note, like the ones on the sheet of paper still up in her room.

She pulled this volume out from the bottom of the stack, simultaneously pushing the rest back with her other hand; with a heavy
thunk
, the other three books fell to the chair, filling in the space. Still kneeling, Awen placed the book on the floor and cracked it open to the first page. Blank. She ran her right palm in a circle about the page, taking in the pulpy texture, leaning in close to let the scent fill her nose. Old paper and lavender.

Awen took a chunk of pages in her left hand, letting them flip across her thumb until, one-third of the way in, she reached a section that had more space between the pages. It had been opened here before, and the spine seemed to want to be creased back yet again. She opened the book all the way.
Sir Robert Thomas
, her patron’s name, was written in large, bold lettering on the top of the left page. The rest of the text was too small and dense for her eyes to make out in the feeble light.

“Awen, did you find anything?” Vivienne must have been back at the desk, reading by the candlelight. “I found my patron in here, but there isn’t much on him…
hmm…”

Awen’s left leg started tingling under the combined weight of her body and the book. She closed the leather volume, keeping place with her right index finger, and struggled to her feet, accidentally stepping on the hem of her dress; she stumbled, righted herself, and then hurried back to the candlelit desk, eager to get the heavy book off her hands.

Awen stood opposite Vivienne and, plunking the book down, reopened her page. In this new light, she realized the top corner of the left side had been folded back. Marked for future reference.

“Sir Robert Thomas.” Vivienne leaned across the desk, reading upside down. “I like his name. Have you found out anything about him?”

Awen shook her head, still eyeing the dog-eared corner. She took her left hand and creased it back in the other direction. She folded it over, back and forth, until the paper thinned and the little triangle tore off. She slipped it into her dress pocket. Awen turned her eyes back to the small text on the left-hand page, now clear in the bright candlelight. But yet another detail caught her gaze—one that had escaped her in the low light near the shelves. There on the right-hand margin, scripted in silver pencil, was her own name.

“Awen?” Vivienne was whispering again. “Awen, I think…”

Then Awen heard it, too. The steady clanking of shoes on wood, slowly growing louder, closer.

“Hide!”

Awen slammed her book shut, not bothering to keep her place. She heaved it into her arms and sprinted toward the far back corner of the library, Vivienne hurtling behind her.

With a gasp, she realized the candle was still lit.

Awen flung the heavy leather volume forward, low, in the hope that it would hit the floor and slide into the corner. She pivoted before the book landed, hair flying in her face, and launched herself toward the table with a force she did not know she had.

She took a gulp of dusty air and, just before the door opened, blew out the candle.

Awen pressed herself against a stand
ing bookshelf in the middle of the room with so much force, she feared it might topple. She had positioned herself as far from the entrance to the library as she could manage, in those precious seconds before the door had fully opened. Awen tried to quiet her wheezing breaths, but she feared the violent pounding of her heart might give her away. She hoped whoever had just entered the room could not smell the smoky scent of the recently snuffed candle.

“Hum hum hum…” A woman’s murmur emanated from the entrance of the library. As long as the woman remained there and had no reason to pace about the shelves, Awen thought she and Vivienne might go unnoticed.

Awen heard the familiar
chhk
of a scraping match, and soon the candle was alight again. Now, she could just see the shadowy side of the woman’s face and half of her body.

It was Rosaline.

Awen squeezed herself more tightly to the shelf, praying she might be shrouded in shadow. She did not dare to move and join Vivienne, still crouching in the corner in which Awen had also meant to hide.

“Now, where did I put those books?” Rosaline muttered to herself.

Awen’s jaw tightened. The chair of books—now missing one—was still in the far left aisle of the library, a safe distance from where she hid. But Rosaline might not search there first.

Rosaline disappeared from Awen’s view for a moment, only to mumble “Huh,” return to the table, and snatch up the jarred candle. She disappeared the same way again, with surprisingly delicate clinking footsteps, taking with her the yellow light, and leaving Awen in dim shadow. Awen heard the chair in the corner squeak, and she let out a silent breath of relief. Then, the footsteps again, but this time they were heavy, as if weighed down by a massive load: the stack of books. Minus one, of course; when might she notice?

Rosaline set the candle down, then let the books thud onto the desk with a loud exhale. Awen heard some shifting around of volumes—Rosaline was almost completely hidden from view now, though Awen could see two of the tomes stacked, one atop the other, plus an additional, smaller paper book, on one end of the table. Some shuffling of papers and turning of pages told her that Rosaline was probably flipping through the third of the three volumes that had been stacked on the chair.

“Carmella, Carmella…hmm. Insignificant little girl,” she huffed. “But her patron
is
offering a tempting sum.…Doubt he would mind where she came from.” She paused for a moment, as if waiting for outside validation. “Ah, why not?”

Awen heard the scratching of a pencil, then the soft thud of a closing book. Paper on paper—she could almost smell the dust. She saw Rosaline slide the book over near the other stack and remove the top two books, replacing the small paper one.

“Genevieve,” she said, fingering a page. “Certainly beautiful; mediocre talent. Ah, but easy to get to. Yes.” She scratched something down with a pencil. “Now…”

Awen saw her pull the last large volume toward her.

“Sarah. Incredible talent, almost as gifted as…” She stopped abruptly.

The silence was unsettling.

“Awen…” she murmured.

Awen’s heart jumped at her name. She wondered if Rosaline had heard her, or suddenly sensed her presence. She pushed herself back into the crammed bookshelf again so that the spines of the books pressed into her own, but it did no good: she was as far back as one could go without being on the shelf itself.

Rosaline scribbled something again, so fast that Awen wondered how it could be anything more than a jagged line. She slammed the book shut and hastily shoved it aside. Rosaline leaned across the table to the volumes she had just studied and began picking them up, sliding them around, as if another one—a fourth leather-bound volume—were hiding in the pile.

“Hmm, back on the shelf, maybe? Ah, where could it be?” And now Rosaline was headed down the very aisle in which Awen stood, flat as a shadow against the wall. The woman moved forward one, two, three steps—then stopped. Rosaline tilted her head to the side, pondering something, then turned away to the far left wall.

Awen listened carefully for Rosaline, but she was silent for thirty seconds, five minutes, a month, a year, an eternity.

“Damn!” Rosaline ripped through the veil of quiet. “Where is that girl’s book?”

A wave of nerves flowed through Awen as she turned her eyes toward the corner where Vivienne, and the large volume for which Rosaline hunted, lay hidden.

Awen heard a stream of frustrated mumbles from the far wall where Rosaline had been searching. “Thought I left it here” and “Nina must be on to me” were all she could make out.

Half of Rosaline came back into view at the candlelit desk. She seemed to have composed herself, and she reached now for the little paper book at the end of the table. Awen could see the pages just well enough to know that there were no words printed on them; instead, there were outlines, shaded areas, and squiggly lines. Rosaline traced her finger around a page; then, shaking her head, she flipped it and did the same to the next one. This time, her face lightened and relaxed. A new gleam slid its way into her inky black eyes.

“Beaufort,” she said confidently. “It must be Beaufort. A perfect town, really. Goodwick could be an option if there were no other choice…hmm. Yes…” She scratched something in pencil, slowly, delicately this time. Rosaline closed the book and tucked it away in a pocket. Now, she took the three volumes, stacking them one on top of another—first the two deep-red ones, then the green. She paused for a moment, staring upward, then blew across the top of the green book. She disappeared down the far left aisle with the heavy stack in her arms, and Awen heard her replace the books on the wooden chair with a paper-muffled thud.

Rosaline sighed. “Must find that book,” she mumbled. “I have to get that girl.…I’d give up the rest just to have
that
one.…” She let out a low grumble and returned with severe, measured footsteps to the desk at the entrance of the room. “Well, then…” she trailed off, reaching into her pocket for something. Rosaline leaned across the table, then blew out the candle.

Awen blinked in the darkness. She held her breath. The door creaked open, and Awen saw bits of light from the hallway creeping in—and then all was black again as Rosaline quietly twisted the knob and pulled it shut. Awen began to exhale, but the unmistakable sound of a metal key jiggling around in the door handle stopped her.

She heard a click, and she knew.…

She was locked in.

Awen felt her way through the darkness, throwing her hands against the bookshelf, and slid her body across it until she reached the end of the row. She moved precariously, like a climber shimmying across a narrow ledge—only what lay below was not a mile drop-off but a black lake, a murky pool waiting to catch her.

She had reached the far back wall when Vivienne called out:

“Awen!”

She heard Vivienne heave herself to her feet, reach out and pat the bookshelf to keep oriented.

Awen felt her way along the back wall—one hand on the shelf, the other reaching forward for Vivienne.

“Awen!” Vivienne whispered.

She felt Vivienne grasp her arm and begin to shake it.

“Was that…Rosaline?”

Awen grabbed Vivienne’s hand and squeezed it.

She kept her voice low: “What does she want with you?”

Awen raised her eyebrows and shrugged in the darkness, knowing her movements were invisible to her friend. These questions—they needed time to answer, space, light…the door. Now, it was all about the locked door.

Awen began to pull desperately on Vivienne’s hand, taking a timid step backward.

“Wait! Where are you…your book?”

Awen shook her head. The heavy leather volume with the text about her patron, and her own name scrawled across the top, could not tell her anything more. She kept walking backward, more rapidly, no longer sure of her direction. Still clutching Vivienne’s hand, Awen twisted around to resituate herself, but her foot landed all wrong, her big toe curled under, and she was falling—falling down an invisible staircase, bringing her friend down with her.

“Awen!” Vivienne screamed. They were both strewn across the floor, Awen’s legs twisted awkwardly. “What are you doing? What’s going on?”

Awen ignored the questions, righting herself, but this time she stayed down on her hands and knees. She gave Vivienne’s arm a yank, then began to crawl forward, hoping her friend would follow. Awen reached her hand out as she moved, feeling for the edge of a bookshelf. She edged herself to the right until her hand hit it, then kept forward in a straight line. She could hear Vivienne panting behind her.

A thin line of yellow glowed ahead—light from the entry hall, streaming in through the crack under the door. Awen moved faster, until she could just make out the dark shape of the table that stood before it. She kept her head down to keep from smacking it on the table’s underside, hoping that Vivienne might do the same.

Awen reached her palm out, not stopping until she felt the door. She heard a thunk from behind.

“
Oww!
” Vivienne had forgotten about the desk.

Awen could not help but smile, and had to bite the tip of her tongue to force back a giggle.

“We’re here,” Vivienne whispered, her voice edged with pain. “Let’s go, then.”

Awen squatted and stood, using the door for support. She reached out for the knob, already knowing what would happen. She twisted the knob to the right—it moved a bit, then stopped. She twisted it to the left—it moved a bit more, then stopped. She twisted it to the right again. Stop. Left. Stop. Faster and faster, until the knob merely jiggled in place.

Vivienne gasped, and Awen knew she finally understood. “Oh. Oh, I…wait…” Her voice took on a frenzied exuberance: “Wait, wait!”

Awen stood still for a moment, wondering what idea had fallen upon her friend. But suddenly, Vivienne had taken Awen’s left palm, dropping into it a thin, warm piece of metal. Awen clasped her hand around it, rolling it about.

“My hairpin!” Vivienne exclaimed in a whisper. “Try it—in the door!”

A flurry of excitement bubbled in Awen’s chest. She took the pin in her right hand, feeling for the hole in the knob with her left. She pressed her thumb into it and then, moving it aside, dug the pin into the doorknob. The pin veered left and stopped, hitting some inner gut of the knob. Awen pulled the pin out, half expecting to find brass entrails hanging from it.

“No, not at an angle,” Vivienne directed. “Here, let me.”

Awen waved her friend’s hand away and reinserted the pin into the knob herself, this time forcing it in straight.

Pop!

Awen took a deep breath, then slowly twisted the knob—farther…farther…all the way.

She exhaled.

* * *

Awen lay on her stomach, stretched across the mattress on the floor of her room, and stared absentmindedly at the sheet of music she could not yet read. She tried to focus on the patterns of black and white—
Get familiar with the notes
, Mr. Whitewood had said. But the events of the past hour were too powerful a distraction, and the little black lines and dots began to blur together into a fuzzy cloud of grey.

Sir Robert Thomas
. The name sounded so…inconsequential. He was somewhere far in the distance—perhaps a year away—a dot waiting for her on the horizon.

But Rosaline…
she
stood closer, close enough to touch. There was something going on behind those black eyes.