The Crickhowell School for the Muses (7 page)

Taptaptaptaptap. Taptaptaptaptap.

A quiet but rapid knock sounded on Awen’s door. She leapt up from the mattress in the hope that it was Vivienne, back again. Not leaving after all. But the rays of sunlight on the floor had slithered off into the black night, and she realized that several hours had passed.

Vivienne would not be returning.

Taptaptaptaptap. Taptaptaptaptap.

Awen took the few necessary steps backward and sank again onto the mattress. Whoever knocked on her door was likely not someone she wanted to see. They could open it themselves.

Sure enough, the door pushed open, hastily yet in silence. Rosaline entered, her shoes clunking on the wood floor. She turned the knob into its open position and shut the door behind her without so much as a
click
. She turned toward Awen, who remained on the mattress, and crossed her arms. Rosaline sighed. She smiled.

“Sooo…” Rosaline’s mouth formed the shape of an O, and she held it like that for a moment. “Very nice in there today.” She pointed her thumb back over her left shoulder in a vague motion toward the mirrored room. “Miss Nina, the judges…they liked you very much. ‘So much talent,’ one of them said.” Her mouth formed a broad smile, and she took a step forward.

Awen tensed, not sure if she wanted to barrel backward, scoot sideways, or jump to her feet. Instead, she stayed still.

“I have a…a proposition for you.” Rosaline’s eyes glimmered. She took another step forward. “You had been scheduled to leave for your patron’s very soon. How about
not
going just yet?”

Awen’s eyes widened at this unexpected news. No one had said anything to her about leaving so soon.

Rosaline chuckled. “Yes, you are supposed to leave within the month. But what would you think about
not
going there, and instead, going somewhere else…with
me
,” she pointed at herself in emphasis. “Tonight.” She glanced up at the dark window. “
Now
.”

A moment passed, a furrowed brow the only response from Awen.

“It would be temporary, of course, although you still would not go to Sir Robert Thomas. I have a different patron set up for you. It would be a much better deal, I assure you.” Rosaline placed a hand in her pocket, and Awen heard the clinking of metal against metal. Coins. “Well…?” Awen noticed Rosaline chewing the inner edge of her lip. “The rest of them are waiting for us outside.”

Awen shivered. Rosaline had spoken with finality, and it was all too clear that she had no choice. She would be leaving tonight.

“All right, then,” Rosaline exhaled, “I will just assume that means
yes
.” She made a grab for Awen’s arm.

Awen leapt up from the mattress. She focused her eyes furiously on Rosaline and began to step backward, as if moving toward the back wall would keep her from Rosaline’s grip.

With a skittish glance toward the door, Rosaline sprinted forward, catching Awen’s arm as if she were merely plucking a daisy from the earth.

Awen gritted her teeth, pulling back desperately. She tried to twist her body to the side, hoping to break Rosaline’s grip, but it was no use. Her pale arms were twigs beneath Rosaline’s grasp, and her bare feet had no traction on the wooden floor. All she did was slide forward, moving in whichever direction Rosaline pulled her.

* * *

Rosaline’s yellow lantern bobbed in the black night. Awen kept her eyes downcast, watching her own bare feet squish the wet grass; the ground gurgled with every step. She imagined Rosaline’s heeled shoes making deep holes in the damp earth, and she wondered if it would be possible to fall through them.

Awen had not set foot outside for weeks—two months, maybe three, maybe more. Not since the night she arrived. But now, despite the gentle breeze and a woody scent in the air, she wished she were back in the castle. Her wrist began to burn under Rosaline’s grip.

Awen had no idea in which direction they walked, only that it was away from the castle. She could feel that they moved downward, descending from the hilltop upon which the Crickhowell School stood. She remembered the night she had arrived here: the dusty wagon creaking upward; her first sight of Miss Nina with her black eyes. Then, she had believed Miss Nina to be the one whom she was supposed to fear, to shrink away from at the sound of her footsteps. But she had seen very little of the woman during her stay.

“Ahhh,” Rosaline called out in a hushed tone, “Mr. Berwick! Miss Tori?”

“Yes! Here, here,” a male and a female voice responded simultaneously. Then the female added, “Neither of us ran into any trouble—we got both of the girls.”

“Wonderful,” Rosaline said under her breath. Awen could hear her smiling. Suddenly, Rosaline came to a full stop, and Awen nearly tripped over the woman’s feet. “Clumsy girl,” Rosaline muttered.

Awen peeled her eyes from the ground to look up at Rosaline for the first time since they had left the castle. The lantern gave her skin a yellow tint. Gazing past Rosaline’s illuminated face, Awen could see that they stood next to a shoddy-looking wooden carriage—it was closed, but the glass appeared to have been removed from the windows, offering no protection from the outside. From the light of a small lantern hanging from the ceiling, Awen could tell that the carriage was big, as it already held four passengers. However, from the looks of the outside, she could not imagine that the seats were anything but wooden benches. Awen could not see any horses hooked up to the carriage, but the sporadic neighs, sniffs, and stomped feet told her there were at least two. They must have been coal-black, blending in with the night.

Rosaline pushed Awen forward toward the carriage. She let go of Awen’s arm, swinging open a small door in the middle of the coach. For a brief moment, Awen wanted to run—back to the castle, down the hill, into the forest, anywhere. But she dismissed it, knowing all too well the slim chance of her making it even three steps.

Rosaline handed her lantern to the woman inside and then halfway picked up Awen, forcing her into the carriage. Awen misstepped and found herself on the wooden floor. Looking up to her right, she saw the woman who had answered Rosaline’s calls—Miss Tori. She sat on a low-backed wooden bench, arms crossed, staring down with disapproval. On the bench just in front of Awen sat two girls: students, like herself, though a few years older. They were huddled together under a thin blanket, but Awen could still make out the familiar cream-colored ruffled hem of the Crickhowell dress. The three passengers all faced inward, toward each other.

“Move it, girl!” Rosaline began to climb into the carriage.

Awen scrambled to her feet, careful not to stand too tall in the low-ceilinged coach. She scuttered to the left before Rosaline had time to push her away. There was a third bench on this side, backless and empty. Awen placed her hand on the bench, checking it for…sturdiness? Dryness? She did not know. She sat tentatively, facing in like the rest of the passengers. She was glad that the two other girls separated her from Rosaline and Miss Tori.

Suddenly, Awen realized that the owner of the other voice she had heard—the male one—was not present. She looked behind her; was there some dark corner of the carriage in which he hid? But there was just a wooden wall. She slid her hands along the bench, fearing they might bump into a leg, or a hand…but, no: she sat alone. Maybe she had imagined the other voice, as there clearly was no one else in the carriage. But then a shifting from above, which made the whole coach shudder, reminded her that there had to be a driver.

Sure enough, a voice called from above, “Is everyone in? Ready to go?”

“Yes, Mr. Berwick,” Rosaline said, “you can drive us onward now. Are you clear on the direction?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The carriage jolted forward, and Awen, who sat only partially on the bench, had to grab onto the wooden plank to keep herself from smashing against a wall. As the coach’s movement steadied, she realized that she was moving backward, and was therefore seated in the front of the carriage. This discovery unsettled her—something about being in the middle, between the driver and the woman who had forced her out of Crickhowell. Had she been in the back, at least there would have been the
possibility
of escape—a window to leap from, perhaps. A wave of claustrophobia swept over her like nausea.

Awen looked down at her hands, which she noticed were clamped tightly together, and her bare feet, crossed at the ankles. She uncrossed them, then slid them around in circles on the floor. She could feel a soft coating of warm dirt beneath her feet, and she brushed her toes through it, imagining the little designs she might be creating. Awen remembered that she had not eaten dinner that night, and strangely, the smooth dirt made her hungry. Her stomach bubbled in reply.

It was not until they had been moving for at least ten minutes that Awen realized no one in the carriage had spoken. She straightened up and scooted a bit to her right to see what the two other girls were doing. They were still curled up under the blanket—the one on the left leaning against the wall, and the other leaning against her. Awen could only guess that they were sleeping, or pretending to.

Awen craned her neck to watch Rosaline and Tori. They were both looking down at something in their laps with intense concentration. Awen lifted herself up a bit more, no longer making contact with the bench, and saw that Tori was studying an oversized, yellowed page. It looked heavily creased, to the point where little square sections might break off, and scribbled with all sorts of marks and circles. With a thin, silvery pencil, Tori added yet more.

Rosaline appeared to be reading from a small book, though unlike the paper Tori held, its pages looked crisp and new. She, too, held a small silver pencil, but hardly seemed to use it. Rosaline sighed, then flipped a page. Abruptly, she looked up, gazing straight ahead. Awen dropped back to the bench, jerking her head downward. She held her breath, waiting for Rosaline to yell at her. But the silence remained, and she guessed her gaze had gone unnoticed.

Awen turned to look out of one of the glassless windows. She could just see the rounded bottom section of the moon. Full. Yellow. She wondered if that meant anything. A gust of wind filtered into the carriage, making Awen shiver. She crossed her legs and arms to keep warm. Awen’s ruffled dress, with its short sleeves and mothy fabric, was no barrier against a breeze. No one else seemed to notice the drop in temperature.

The trip went on like that—cold and silent. The rocky movement of the carriage eventually produced a nauseous feeling in Awen’s stomach; she was forced to lean back against the side of the carriage and press her forehead into her hand. Now she was glad she had not eaten anything after all. At some point on the journey, she looked out the window at the full moon again and watched grey-blue clouds travel across it, momentarily blocking the light. Then it all started to get fuzzy, and her eyelids grew heavier with each rock of the carriage.

And she was asleep.…

* * *

It was the change of movement that woke her.

The carriage wheels slowed with every turn, the clops of the horse hooves becoming ever so leisurely. “Whoaaa,” the driver called. The horses whinnied in response, and their steps became even heavier and more deliberate as they halted. The carriage gave a minute shudder as it came to a stop. Awen heard a horse stomp its hoof against the ground.

The carriage gave another jolt; a corresponding
thud
sounded on the ground outside. Awen guessed the driver, Mr. Berwick, had jumped down from the seat above. She looked up groggily at the other passengers—the girls were still sleeping, but they had changed positions, now leaning haphazardly away from each other. Though the paper and book were still in their laps, Rosaline and Tori were both rubbing their eyes; they must have dozed off, too.

A light tap came from the door of the carriage, and then it swung open, letting in a cool gust of air. Awen shivered, her body colder after sleep.

“Rosaline?” said a man’s voice.

“Mr. Berwick…have we arrived?” Rosaline leaned toward the open door.

Awen could not see the man from her position inside the carriage.

“Yes. I think if you all get out here, I can bring them horses ’round to the back and hook everything up to a post out there for the night. If you can see from where you are, the entryway is just over there. See that light?”

Rosaline nodded. “Yes, mm-hmm. Perfect.”

“A’right. Lemme help you down, then.” Mr. Berwick’s hand appeared. He leaned farther into the carriage, reaching for Rosaline—his wrist, his hairy arm, his face.…

Awen jumped in her seat. He was looking at her—watching, from the corner of his dark green eye. His face was worn, tanned, and leathery from the sun, or the wind, or whatever other force Awen could not guess. A deep, purplish scar ran from his left temple, curving all the way down to his jaw. It made Awen want to gag. The man wore his hair wild: dark, curly, unkempt and probably unwashed, with a thin line of mustache across his upper lip. He gave Awen a half-smirk, and she could see his teeth were yellowing.

Then, helping Rosaline out, he disappeared back into the dark outside.

The ground was dry here, and bare.
Nothing more than a velvety dirt floor with sporadic clumps of brittle grass. The night was opaque, and Awen could see only lights ahead: glowing windows on a building that was all shadow, and lanterns that hung outside. Faint chattering and clinking noises came from within.

“A’right then.” Awen started. It was Mr. Berwick’s voice, just inches to her left. “Rosaline, y’all go in.” Awen held her breath as he spoke. “I’ll drive this carriage ’round to the back.”

“See you inside, then,” Rosaline replied.

Awen heard the sound of boots crunching in dirt behind her as Mr. Berwick made his way back to the carriage. She exhaled.

“Come now,” Rosaline commanded, “all of you, inside.”

Awen felt a pair of hands on her back, giving her a push toward the lighted building ahead. As the group drew closer, everything became clearer with the light, and she saw a rectangular woodcut sign hanging above the entrance:
Pickwick Inn & Tavern
.

The building was small, formed of rough-cut grey stone. It was square, two-storied, with a sloping wooden roof and a spattering of oddly shaped windows: a rectangular one, a square, an oval, and even a strange diamond-shaped one. None of them seemed to belong to any particular room, nor even to a particular floor, for that matter. Their placement appeared random, as if an artist rather than an architect had cut them out.

“Come on, now!”

Awen turned her eyes from the windows and saw Rosaline standing next to the main door. It was halfway open, letting the light from inside illuminate half of Rosaline’s face. Tori and the two other girls had already disappeared inside.

Awen stood there for a moment longer.

“What, are you thinking about running, girl?” Rosaline advanced on Awen, letting the tavern door shut behind her. “I won’t stop you.” She gestured out into the empty black night. “But I’m sure something out there will. Eventually.” She chuckled softly.

Awen waited.

“Well, damn you,” she half-yelled, “go inside!” She narrowed her eyes.

Awen let the side of her mouth curl up into a miniscule smile, then walked forward to the entrance and over the threshold, Rosaline shoving her roughly inside.

* * *

The first thing that Awen noticed was the warmth. Even in her lightweight dress and bare feet, she could feel heat sweep through her limbs. Then, there was the light, as bright inside as it was dark outside—candles on the tables, lanterns nailed up to the stone walls. The tavern was loud, despite the paucity of people actually inside. Two burly men sat drinking at a square table in the corner, and a lone man stood at the bar, chatting across it to a bartender who was busy filling up glasses. A trio of men—and this is where most of the noise came from—played cards at a round table in the center. The rest of the tables were empty.

Awen remembered the strange windows she had seen from the outside. Sure enough, as her eyes swept across the stone walls, she spotted the oval window so high up, it would be impossible to look out from it without a ladder. Then, there was another—the square one—impossibly low to the ground. One could crawl out of it.…

“Tori,” Rosaline said, “you watch them.” She pointed to Awen and the other two girls, who stood close together, also observing the men in the tavern. “I’m going to talk to the owner. Don’t let them go anywhere.” Rosaline walked toward the bar, placing herself next to the other customer. She motioned to the man behind the bar, but Awen could not hear what she said over the racket of the group of card players. And then she returned, grasping three brass keys.

“We will be the only ones staying here tonight,” she said. She smiled, holding up the keys. “One room for the two of us, Tori; one for Berwick; and the girls will be staying in the third room.” She leaned in toward Tori, and Awen just heard her whisper, “Their room is meant for storage. So, we’ll be able to lock them in.”

Tori nodded in response.

Rosaline sighed. “I suppose we should just wait down here while Berwick gets everything settled with the carriage and horses.”

Tori gazed at the bar. “I wouldn’t mind a little something to eat.”

“Yes, I suppose I could use something as well.” Rosaline turned toward the huddle of girls. “Awen, Genevieve, Carmella…go sit at that table, and don’t bother anyone.” Her eyes widened with warning. “And don’t you dare go anywhere until we come for you.” She turned toward Tori. “There’s two seats at the bar.”

The women walked off, leaving the girls still standing near the entryway. The girls remained silent for a long moment, watching the women laugh and lean over the bar to order plates of meats, or stews, or chunks of bread from the man behind it. Awen felt a low rumble in her stomach, followed by a swish of queasiness—the nausea of desperate hunger. A tap on her shoulder, and she turned to see one of the other girls, the dark-blonde one, looking at her.

“Hi,” the girl said timidly. “Do you want to sit down at a table with us?”

Awen nodded, a tear forming in the corner of her eye as she was reminded of Vivienne. Wherever she was now…

Awen blinked the tear away.

The girls sat at a square table as far from Rosaline and Tori as possible. A white candle in a small frosted jar glowed at the table’s center. Awen pulled it toward her with both hands and sat staring down at the light with her fingers wrapped around. She breathed in the smell of burning wick.

“So, ‘Awen,’ is it?”

Awen looked up. The girl directly across from her had spoken. She was pale, with strawberry-blonde hair that fell to her shoulders. Awen nodded.

“I’m Carmella. And this,” she said, pointing to the dark-blonde girl who had first spoken to Awen, “is Genevieve.”

“Hi,” Genevieve said quietly. “Good to meet you.”

Awen smiled, and then it was quiet again as the girls looked down at their hands, picked their nails and bit at their lips.

Carmella broke the silence. “Do you know,” she began, under her breath, “do you know what’s happening? Where we’re going? Why we had to leave?” Her eyes were big and earnest as she leaned across the table toward Awen.

Awen glanced over at Rosaline, still occupied at the bar, then back to Carmella. She knitted her eyebrows together in sad bewilderment, and shrugged. A loud outburst of laughter came from the bar, and Awen turned again to look at Rosaline, now deep in conversation with Tori. This time, a memory hit her. The library, the night she had sneaked in with Vivienne. Rosaline had mentioned names—names of other girls at Crickhowell. She wondered if it could have been the very girls across from whom she now sat. And the name of a town…but she could not remember it. And last night, when Rosaline came into her room to take her away. She said she would not be sent to Sir Robert, but to another patron. Something told her that
this
—whatever it was, and wherever she was going—had been planned, mapped out for weeks.

“Hello, girls.” A man’s voice interrupted Awen’s contemplations, and she started, momentarily mistaking the voice as Mr. Berwick’s. She turned around, looking up at the man. He held out a tray with three glasses, each containing a fizzy brownish substance. Awen recognized him as the owner and bartender. “Would you care for something to drink?” the man continued. His face was slightly weathered, but Awen could see a softness in his blue eyes.

All three girls nodded silently.

“Just a little something from the bar.” He winked, placing the glasses before them. “Can I get you anything else?”

Carmella looked up at the man, a hint of shyness in her eyes. “Maybe,” she asked quietly, “something to eat?”

“Sure can do,” the man replied with a smile. “I’ll be right back.” He turned and left.

“What is this?” Genevieve wondered aloud, cupping the glass of fizzy liquid between her hands.

Awen shrugged, pulling the drink toward her. She leaned over it and took in a big whiff: the drink had a raw edge to it, bitter and grainy. But her stomach rumbled again, so she lifted the glass to her face and took a large gulp of the liquid. The taste was just as she had expected from the smell, and although it was not pleasant, she continued drinking anyway.

“Whoa, slow down there.” The bartender laughed, walking toward the table. He produced a plate of sausages and a basket of rolls, placing them on the table. “Enjoy.” He walked away.

Awen reached out with both hands, grabbing a sausage in one and a biscuit in the other. She tore open the biscuit, placing the sausage inside, and broke off half of it in one bite. Still chewing, she picked up her glass and slurped down more of the liquid.

Genevieve and Carmella followed suit, albeit more slowly, chewing their food in cautious silence. Awen took another long drink from her glass, putting it down only to swallow, and then she drank again, this time emptying it. A strange, warm feeling began to course through her as she clinked the glass down onto the table. The sensation began in her chest, then worked its way up to her face and out through her arms. The room began to feel uneven, and, looking across the table, she noticed that Carmella’s face was just a little out of focus. She blinked hard, wondering if there might be something in her eye, but this did not help. Now, her face felt positively hot.

“Awen?” Carmella asked.

Her voice sounded different. Like it was far away and too loud, all at once.

“Awen, are you…all right?” There was concern in her voice, but she wore a humored expression, like she might just burst out in laughter. Then she giggled, and Genevieve joined her in laughter.

Though her senses still felt askew, a smile formed on Awen’s face. Trying to keep herself from giggling as well, she let out an unintentional snort.

This made Carmella laugh even harder.

“Enjoying yourselves, girls?”

The laughter stopped. Awen looked up to see Rosaline staring down at them, Tori close behind. Suddenly, Awen’s senses cleared, the strange warm feeling retracting from her limbs and face.

“Ah, I thought so,” Rosaline said slowly. “Well, sorry to end your fun,” she snapped, “but Mr. Berwick has returned.…”

Awen whipped her head around. Mr. Berwick was standing at the bar with a glass in hand. He met her gaze, and winked.

Awen turned back, a shiver running through her chest.

“And so, we must all go upstairs now,” Rosaline continued. “Come.” She pulled each girl up by the arm, one by one, and pushed them toward the wall opposite the main door. There was a dark wooden staircase there, so narrow that they had to ascend in single file. Rosaline led the way, followed by Awen and the two girls, each of whom pressed a hand against the wall to stay steady in the blackness of the passage. Tori went last, trapping them in.

Awen climbed the stairs slowly. They felt uneven—of different heights and widths, some warped into strange curves. From her observation of the building from outside, she knew there could be only one upper floor, yet she felt like she was climbing to the top of a tower. Awen lifted her right foot, expecting to set it down on the next stair, but she staggered, as there was only a flat landing. Rosaline, who already leaned against the wall to the right, waiting, shot her a strange look, as if contemplating some new idea. But she remained still until the rest of the group had made it to the top.

Once everyone had reached the second floor, Rosaline continued down the hallway. She did not speak, and so Awen could only guess that she meant for the others to follow. The hallway was cramped and dark, only a few unassuming sconces glowing from the walls. The air was cooler up here, and damp, with a hint of mildew.

Rosaline stopped at the end of the short hallway. As Awen came closer, she saw that Rosaline stood outside a battered wooden door. The wood looked soggy, as if a constant drip of water had run down it, softening the surface into mush. Rosaline removed a key from her pocket and, placing it in the lock, rattled it until the door creaked opened.

The room behind it was impossibly small. Awen took a step toward it to get a better look, but she stopped shy of where Rosaline might be able to push her in. The room held three small cots, each with a sheet, a thin blanket and a pillow. That was it.

Awen backed away from the room slowly so that Rosaline might not notice her reaction.

But Rosaline smiled and gestured toward the room with her left hand.

It was Tori who spoke, still some feet back: “Go in your room, girls.”

Genevieve and Carmella looked cautiously at each other, then stepped forward into the room.

Awen remained still again, waiting as she had outside the inn. But this time, she dared to look straight into Rosaline’s black eyes.

Rosaline remained expressionless…until under Awen’s stare, her eyebrows knit together in just the slightest hint of anger.

Awen let a tiny smile play on her lips, and then she walked into the room.

The door closed and locked behind her.