The Crickhowell School for the Muses (9 page)

The first rays of sunlight flecked
through the slotted window in Awen’s stone room. She rolled onto her stomach, bending her knees to squeeze herself into a ball, and tucked in her head to stretch her neck. She figured if she did not get up on her own, someone would be there soon, pounding at the door to do the job for her. She counted slowly, silently, promising to roll out of bed when she reached ten.

Ten.
Awen did not move. She sighed, and this time began counting to twenty-five. At thirteen she heard faint footsteps in the hallway; in a flurry of adrenaline, she rolled herself over to stand on both feet. She quieted her breathing, listening for more movement in the hall:

Nothing.

Awen walked the few steps required to reach the door, then pulled it open. She stuck her head out, peered to the left—empty—and then to the right. The hallway clear, Awen stepped out and turned to close the door behind her. When she swiveled back to face down the hall, Carmella had appeared outside her own room, a few paces away.

“Good morning,” Carmella quietly greeted her, the shadow of a smile on her face.

Awen returned the smile.

“Are you going down for breakfast?”

Awen nodded.

“I think it’s just like Crickhowell: muffins in a basket; we eat as soon as we rise. I wonder if the cook stays in here, or somewhere in town? Hmm.” Carmella glanced around her as if looking for the cook’s quarters. “Well, all right then, let’s go.”

The pair tiptoed silently through the hall and down the stone steps, all the while unsure of why they were moving so quietly. In this castle, even the most normal of actions felt taboo.

Upon reaching the small dining area, they found the room empty. However, as expected, a wicker basket full of muffins had been placed at the center of the table.

Carmella reached in first. “Mmm,” she mumbled through a mouthful of muffin. “Raspberry. Good.”

Awen reached into the basket, and for a moment, it was like that morning at Crickhowell when she had first met Vivienne—except now, everything was different. She shivered at the nostalgia she felt for such an awful place.

The girls sat, Carmella already halfway done with her breakfast, and Awen yet to take a bite.

“I hope you slept well last night,” Carmella said as she chewed the final bits of her muffin.

Awen shrugged. She had, in fact, slept surprisingly fine. She had only awakened once, the image of Mr. Berwick at the periphery of her dreams.

Carmella sighed abruptly. “All right, I don’t mean to offend you, but…do you
ever
speak? I get nothing but nods and shrugs, and smiles on occasion. It’s…” She struggled for the right word. “It’s frustrating,” she finally admitted. “You and me and Genevieve…we’ve only got each other.” Carmella shifted her eyes downward, seemingly to hide an embarrassed expression. She reached for another muffin, barely looking up, then picked and chewed it in silence.

Awen shrugged, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. Then she rose, her chair pushing out behind her. She made a move toward the hallway, reconsidering only because of her untouched breakfast still on the table. She turned with a soft sigh, retrieved it, and walked out.

Awen bit into the raspberry muffin. She felt a tingling in the back of her mouth as the tart juice ran over her tongue. She began up the stairway, staring down at the bleeding raspberries in her hand.

“Don’t take your food out of the dining room.”

Awen’s head shot up. Rosaline stood at the top of the staircase, one foot dangling above the next stair, ready to step. Genevieve waited behind her. “You girls woke earlier than I thought.” She looked pleased somehow. “I’m headed to the dining room myself, and I suggest you do so as well.”

Awen turned back, but she kept her eyes fixed on Rosaline. She stood awkwardly like that for a moment, head twisted to peer over her shoulder, until Rosaline squinted at her. At that, Awen whipped her head back around and drifted back to the dining hall, where she reclaimed her chair. Carmella still sat quietly, done with her breakfast. Awen slowly finished her muffin as Genvieve and Rosaline entered the room.

Rosaline cleared her throat.

Awen turned in her chair, which let out an ear-splitting squeak that nobody seemed to hear. Rosaline was leaning against the wall, staring upward, the throat-clearing apparently not an attempt to gain the girls’ attention. Awen turned back toward the table in puzzlement.

The four of them sat in silence for another five minutes, the only real activity coming from Genevieve, who finished her first muffin and consumed a second. Awen periodically glanced around the room, finally deciding that she was the only one who sensed the air of discomfort. Everybody else seemed oblivious to the uncanny hush, to the restless shifting of the atmosphere.

Finally, Tori and Mr. Berwick appeared. Awen followed the man’s movements from the corner of her eye.

He winked at her.

“Good mornin’, Rosaline; mornin’, girls.” Mr. Berwick’s face glowed. “What’s on the schedule fer today?” His words were clearly directed at Rosaline—but he fixed his gaze on Awen.

She turned away.

“Lessons, practicing; just the normal things,” Rosaline replied.

“Yup, all right.” Awen could feel his stare on her back.

“I was also hoping to meet with the two of you to discuss some details of business—reimbursements, salaries, and the like.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Awen could hear the smile in Mr. Berwick’s voice.

“Well.” Miss Tori clapped her hands together. “Shall we get started with the lessons? Come on, girls—Genevieve, Carmella—the harps are already in my office.” She turned to walk out. “We’re just at the end of this hallway here.”

Genevieve and Carmella rose quietly and followed her out.

“Well, Mr. Berwick, I am off to town—if you can call it a town—to work out a few details. I shall be gone most of the morning, but I will see you in the afternoon. Have a good morning.” Rosaline walked out, and a moment later, Awen heard the entrance door clang shut.

It was just the two of them.

Awen stared across the table, her back still turned to Mr. Berwick. She could hear his breathing—it made her want to squirm. But she could not let him know the influence his presence had on her, so she stayed statue-still. Awen heard the sound of his boots: he was walking toward her, curving around on the left side. She continued to stare ahead, so he did not come into view until he had reached the opposite side of the table. He pushed away a chair, letting the legs scrape unpleasantly against the floor, and leaned toward Awen, his elbows resting on the table.

A moment passed.

He stared at her with a self-satisfied smile.

“Good morning,
dear
.” He was in her face. Awen could smell the tobacco on his breath, but no drink this time. Most unsettling, however, was the sudden change in his speech. From those three words, Awen could hear that the roughness was gone, the dropping of the letters, the swing in the voice—all those qualities had been replaced with smoothness and control. He spoke much as Rosaline or, if Awen could remember right, Miss Nina spoke. With those three words, Mr. Berwick had jumped out of the ordered category into which Awen had placed him. He was no longer just a yellow-toothed, rough-speaking brute—there was another layer, another facet she would have to decipher.

Awen bolted from her chair. She kept her eyes straight ahead on Mr. Berwick, without really focusing.

“Whatever are you frightened of? I simply said ‘Good morning.’”

She narrowed her eyes, finally seeing. Mr. Berwick looked the same as ever: leathery face, purple scar, dark unkempt hair…yet, that sameness surprised her.

She took a tentative step backward, then another, increasing in speed until she was flat against the back wall. The stone chilled her skin. Awen suddenly wondered why she had trapped herself here—Mr. Berwick need only walk toward her, and she would be trapped in every direction. Though she knew his proximity was of no real import; even with the distance now between them, she was no less trapped than she would be with his hands around her wrists.

Mr. Berwick stood, a squint and a smile on his face, as though he were staring at the sun. He moved toward Awen, each step slow but with purpose.

Awen concentrated on her breathing, trying to slow it.

He stopped in front of her, so close that the tip of his leather boots touched Awen’s toes. Staring down at her, he drew his tongue over his top lip. “Well…?” He raised his eyebrows and offered his hand, palm up.

Awen pushed back against the wall. She felt her palms begin to moisten with sweat.

Mr. Berwick inhaled loudly. “All right.” He took Awen’s arm in his left hand.

Awen resisted the first step, but her weight was nothing against his. She gave up and walked with him, not bothering even to make him drag her across the floor. She’d had enough of that.

They reached the hall, and Mr. Berwick began toward the first-floor offices to the right. Then, he stopped.

Awen could hear faint harp flourishes—the sounds of the other girls in their lesson with Miss Tori.

Mr. Berwick seemed to listen for a moment, and then he turned toward the staircase, pulling Awen behind him. “Upstairs,” he said over his shoulder, an expectant smile on his face.

A nervous flurry began in Awen’s stomach as she climbed. The feeling sank down into her legs, and then out to her arms until even her fingertips trembled. Mr. Berwick did not seem to notice the shaking—or perhaps it was all on the inside, never reaching far enough out for anyone else to see. Awen began counting the steps, though she had missed the first few. She thought maybe there had been three…or four. Moments later, the number she counted was too big to be accurate. The staircase was not that tall, yet she was already at step twenty-seven…and there were still more to go. They continued to climb, the count rising into impossible numbers.

By the time Awen’s foot touched the top of the landing, she had counted 103 stairs. She hazarded a quick glance backward down the staircase: it was as it had always been.

“Soooo,” Mr. Berwick drew out, dropping Awen’s arm. “Which one of these rooms is yours?” He turned to face her.

Awen looked down the hallway. She could see her room, three doors down on the left. She lifted her right arm slowly, bending it toward herself first, then straightening it to point to a room on the right side of the hall, two doors down.

“Well, then.” Mr. Berwick turned forward with such speed, he nearly jumped. “Let us go.” Without looking behind him, he grabbed Awen’s arm again and pulled her toward the unknown room.

As Mr. Berwick reached for the knob, a hopeful thought flashed across Awen’s mind: maybe the door would be locked.

The hope was short-lived. The knob twisted under Mr. Berwick’s fingers—and anyway, Awen realized that one locked room would never deter him.

Mr. Berwick pushed the door open slowly, making the hinges creak until it was wide open. Suddenly, he pulled Awen toward him—then shoved her away so that she fell into the room while he stood at the threshold. He eyed her, smiled a half-smile, then stepped forward, shutting the door delicately behind him.

Awen was on the floor, half-tangled in her dirty Crickhowell dress.

Mr. Berwick strolled toward her.

She started to rise.

He quickened his pace, throwing her back down to the floor. “Stay,” he said sleekly, then added in a whisper, “Don’t move.” He knelt down on the floor in front of her.

Awen’s breath shook in her lungs as she felt Mr. Berwick’s hand moving up her left arm. His fingers felt like scurrying spiders, and the tiny hairs on her forearm rose in response. He stopped at the ruffles on her sleeve, then ran his other hand up her right arm. He leaned his face in close to hers, the smell of tobacco as repugnant as ever, his yellow teeth just visible under his lip.

She wanted to close her eyes, to look away—but she could not. All she could do was stare into that awful face.

She felt the bristle of mustache—
dirty
mustache—against her cheek. And then he inhaled, deeply, taking in the scent of her skin.

Awen felt a tightening in her throat, and suddenly she was gagging—gasping for air while trying to hold back the torrent of nausea that raced up her throat. She flung herself to the side, trying to escape Mr. Berwick’s hold. Awen wheezed in a breath of air, followed by a hacking cough. She thought she might vomit.

She felt Mr. Berwick struggling to grab her, and she threw out a blind slap with her left hand. He continued to fight her, and she kicked out her feet, throwing her arms sporadically until he let out a small groan of pain. She kicked at him one more time, then struggled to her feet—crawling at first, but rising with each step like an infant trying to stand.

Awen was back on two feet by the time she reached the door. She shot a look behind her as she opened it, hoping to see Mr. Berwick still on the floor, but he was up, sprinting forward. Awen jumped the threshold and grabbed the outside doorknob with both hands—just as Mr. Berwick grabbed the knob on the other side. She tried to force the door shut. She did not know what this would accomplish; there was no way to lock him in. Suddenly, his hand appeared, gripping around the side of the door.

Awen pushed her feet up against the wall and, using all of her body weight, smashed his hand inside the doorframe. She heard Mr. Berwick scream, gave one last push, and let go.

Awen sprinted to the staircase. She knew Tori must have heard Mr. Berwick’s yell and would soon be bolting upstairs to find out what had happened. Awen hurtled down the stairs so fast, her feet did not have time to trip. When she reached the bottom, she did not waste a second looking back down the hall, but continued to tear straight ahead, throwing the main entrance door open with all her force and hurling herself out of the castle.

The air outside was stifling, and the
gravel burned like hot, jagged coals beneath her feet. Awen hurtled down the castle hill as quickly as she had through the first-floor hallway. At the bottom, the painful gravel road turned into a soft dirt path that caressed her feet with every beating step.

Awen followed the road for only a short way, past a few stone structures whose function she had no time to discern. Spotting a thick wooded forest off to the left, she leapt from the path. Awen did not know what the woods might contain, but they were the only place that could possibly offer protection.

Panting, she slowed to a jog only after breaking past six rows of trees. She moved like that for another minute, finally slowing to a walk. Awen looked over her shoulder at the edge of the forest, scanning for any sign of Mr. Berwick or Miss Tori.

Nothing.

The forest was dark—only a spattering of sunlight broke through the tops of some red-trunked trees—and quiet, but for Awen’s footfalls on the soft ground, the occasional cracking stick, and a scattering of birds chirping overhead. A piney scent permeated the air, ornamented by the slightest perfume of honey.

She looked back again for any followers. Still nothing.

The dense trees seemed to go on forever. Awen moved through them without direction, her only goal to go forward, to distance herself from whence she had come.

* * *

Awen wiped her sweaty palms on the skirt of her dress. She had been trekking through the forest for what felt like hours, now no longer bothering to check if she was being followed. They would never find her.

No one
would.

Though the thickness of the trees had not given way, a bit more light pierced the mess of branches above. Awen guessed it was noon, the sun high in the sky. But this was no time to stop and rest.

* * *

Awen’s stomach growled, reminding her of the pittance she had consumed that day. Nothing since the muffin for breakfast; no water. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath, bent over, hugged her stomach. She thought she could push it inward, make it forget the emptiness.

The sun was now on its descent, and the forest was starting to darken again. Awen thought it was probably early evening—she had been walking for hours. She stepped back, leaning against a tree, and was suddenly struck by a fearful idea: she wondered if she might have gotten lost at some point, maybe turned around, and was headed not out through the forest on the other side, but back to that awful castle.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, taking in a reinvigorating breath, and then started her trek once again.

* * *

The sky was black now, and Awen could go no farther. The sounds of the day had given way to a more ominous night music: faraway howls somewhere off to the left; a low, distant rumble—thunder?; and, every so often, a scream that sounded half-human, half-beast.

The air, at least, was still warm.

Awen felt her way to a tree and stopped with her back to it. She attempted to survey the ground around it in the dark, looking for anything strange—animals, footprints, droppings. She found nothing, could see nothing. She leaned back against the trunk, daring to close her eyes for a moment. She listened for sounds close by, and for sounds far away.

Nothing. A soft chirp, maybe.

The distant howling returned. It stopped. Was that the screaming again? Her eyelids were heavy. She thought about lifting them. She thought about climbing up the tree. She thought about…

Her head tipped forward, and she fell asleep.

* * *

Awen awoke on the ground. Her limbs were folded haphazardly under her, sore from the pressure of sticks and seeds beneath her. Her stomach rumbled and her mouth felt dry, like she had been chewing on paper. She lifted her head slowly, blinking out the light…the light. She remembered where she was, but she did not remember any light. The forest had been mostly shaded, even at high noon.

Awen looked up. She did not recognize this part of the forest—the trees here were sparse, with plenty of sunlight streaming in, even though it could not be later than mid-morning. She looked at her hands on the ground, covered in velvety dirt. She drew a curved line in the soil with her index finger, then erased it with her palm. With a grunt, Awen slid her legs around so that she was sitting with them straight out in front of her. She struggled to her feet, shaking out the stiffness. Awen walked two paces forward. Then she stopped.

A clearly marked path lay ahead.

Awen turned around: sure enough, the trail wound back behind her, off until she could not see it anymore. How long had she been on this path? Awen walked forward a few more paces, wondering if she might be able to see where it led. The thickness of the trees, the ground—everything looked the same. She walked farther, the path eventually dipping downward around a large tree stump, then back up again. Awen glanced behind her once more, then decided she would follow the path all the way through.

She walked for ten minutes across the soft, sun-warmed dirt. She wanted to stop, to dig her toes into it, but she knew she had to keep moving.

A rumble sounded, far in the distance.

Awen halted.

Then she heard it again, this time clearly coming from behind.

She turned around, listening, backtracking on tiptoes.

The sound quickly grew closer, clearer, until she realized what it was: horse’s hooves.

Awen froze. There were horses at Beaufort Castle; that was how she had gotten there, in the coach. As far as Awen knew, the Beaufort horses were housed somewhere on the grounds, ready for Rosaline or Mr. Berwick to jump on and come searching for her. As she listened, Awen regretted ever having come through the forest in the first place. Of course they would look for her there! Where else would she go? She had no chance against her horse-backed hunter. The hooves clunked ever-louder, making the ground shake, and Awen knew their source was just moments away.

Sure enough, a chestnut horse appeared down the path. Awen leapt into a bush off to the side—the only thing she could think to do.

“Whoaaaaaa.”

A man’s voice. Mr. Berwick? It did not sound like him. Then again, sometimes
he
did not sound like him, either. Awen heard the horse slow down, finally, to a restless stop. It whinnied.

“Hold on there, Crissy.”

Definitely not Mr. Berwick. This man’s voice was dynamic, sing-songy, shaded with—something.…

Awen heard his feet hit the ground as he dismounted. She hazarded a peek through the brush behind which she hid, accidentally rustling the leaves. The rider turned in her direction.

“Hello?” he called.

Awen crouched down farther—rustling the leaves even more.

“Is someone here?”

She thought about running off the path and into the woods, but something about the man’s voice pulled her toward him. She did not want to run from it.

“Is there…?” He reached toward the branch that hid her.

Awen’s heart thudded in her chest.

“Oh!” The man jumped back. He had pushed the branch aside, revealing Awen crouched on the ground. The branch snapped back again, nearly hitting her in the face. “Oh! I am so sorry.” He chuckled and said, “What are you doing back there? Hiding from something?” Between the leaves, Awen could see him glance up and down the path. “Will you come out?”

Awen hesitated for a moment, but the decision was easy. She pushed the branches aside and stepped out onto the soft, sunny path. She kept her eyes down, a strange, nervous feeling dissuading her from looking at his face.

The man was silent.

Awen felt his stare on her and imagined a puzzled expression creeping onto his face: squinting eyes, head turning back and forth.…

He finally spoke, breaking through the images that danced in her head. “You…you’re…from somewhere. The dress, the look…Ah, what is it?” He made a chewing sound on his lip. “The dress…” He stopped.

Her chin down, Awen dared to look up with just her eyes. She only saw the bottom half of his face, up to his nose. His complexion looked pale, but smooth like a boy’s. He could not be much older than she was.

He spoke again, this time with a somber voice that slowly decrescendoed to a whisper. “Crickhowell. You’re a Crickhowell girl. How did you get all the way out here?”

This time, she looked up into his eyes. Watery blue. They carried an electric current that jolted her, and she thought she might not be able to turn away.

Awen and the young horseman looked at each other in silence.

Awen broke the gaze, drawing her eyes away as if pulling metal from a magnet.

“I’m Francis,” he finally said, then repeated his questions. “You’re miles from Crickhowell.” He lifted his arms in question. “How did you get out here?” Then he drew his hand to his face, wiping his brow and smoothing back his hair. It was golden-brown, and Awen wondered if it might be warm to the touch.

Awen shrugged in reply. She hesitated, then motioned with a turn of her head to the path down which she had traveled.

Francis twisted his body to look behind him, his hair ruffling slightly in a gust of wind. Awen noticed a tint of fiery red embers that glowed in his hair when the sun caught it just right. He rubbed his palms together, then turned back around to face Awen. “I came from Wyville. That’s down this path a ways, but then cuts through another trail. Did you come from there, too?”

Awen shook her head. She wondered just how many towns were connected by the woods. She thought the village from which she had come had been the only one for miles.

“Did you come clear from the other side, then?” His tone dropped at the end of the question. “From Beaufort?”

Awen nodded. Her response seemed to interest Francis, as he moved in closer. “Really, from Beaufort? Did you have a patron there?”

Awen shook her head.

“Right. That would be doubtful.” He added, in a mumble, “People in Beaufort can’t afford it.” A sour expression appeared on his face.

Awen wondered if he knew something about Crickhowell—or Beaufort, even—that she did not.

“Oh, goodness, what have I been thinking?” Francis said. “You must be starving and thirsty. Here.” He dashed over to his horse and removed a small jug from a pack on the saddle, and something wrapped in paper. “Eat. Drink,” he said, handing the items to her.

Awen did not need to be told. She drained the water in one go and ate the paper-wrapped thing, never really figuring out what it was. She balled up the paper and handed it back to him with the empty jug.

“Okay.” Francis nodded and smiled. “Right.” He tucked away the jug in the saddle pack.

“So, did you run away, then?”

Awen shrugged, wobbling her head in a half-shake, half-nod. She did run away, but not from Crickhowell, and the place she had run from…Her situation was too complex. She bit her lip until she thought her teeth might go through, desperately wanting to explain it but unable to find the right words. To find
any
words.

“Are you all right? Did something happen?” He sounded concerned. “Could you at least tell me your name?”

Awen stared at her feet, dirty as ever. Nearly black. She pressed her hand against her chin while Francis remained silent, waiting for an answer. Awen suddenly jerked her head up, staring straight into his eyes. She breathed in, tasting the honey scent that still decorated the air.

“Awen.”

The force of her own voice startled her, as did the sensation of guilt—the feeling that she was lying.

“Awen,” he repeated softly, smiling. She thought the name sounded almost pretty coming from his lips. He fixed his eyes on her face, tilting his head. “Hmm…I like it. Though you don’t
look
like an ‘Awen’.” He turned away abruptly, rubbing his eyes. When he looked at her again, Awen noticed his smile was gone. She knew he was hiding something from her—something about her future, where she would end up next, with whom.

How could he know?

“I suppose I must take you back to Crickhowell
,
” he said quietly. “They’ll be looking for you. I do not believe that you want them looking for you. It’s much better that you return of your own accord.” The words sounded all wrong coming from his mouth. He had an uncomfortable-looking expression on his face: eyebrows knitted, lips taut, eyes shrouded in a fog.

She nodded slowly. She felt her eyes dry up—then burn as a few tears formed in response.

“All right, then,” Francis said, moving slowly toward his dark brown horse. It whinnied at his approach. “Crissy,” he said, patting the horse’s neck. “I’ll take you back on her. Have you ever ridden a horse before?”

She shook her head.

“It’s quite fun. Here.” He reached a hand out to Awen.

Awen glanced at the horse, then at his outstretched hand. Cautiously, she advanced on the pair. She knew little of horses—only that they usually took her to places where she did not want to go.

Francis placed his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the back of the horse. “Good thing you’re light!” he said, easily hopping up behind her. “You can hold on to Crissy’s mane; it won’t hurt her.”

Awen grabbed a chunk of the wiry, dark brown hair with both hands, her palms already beginning to moisten.

“Ready?” Francis called out, louder than necessary.

Awen closed her fists tightly on the mane.

“We won’t go too fast at first,” he reassured. The horse began to move, first at a walk, and then, as Francis made a clucking noise, at a moderate trot. It glided down the dirt path, easily stepping over branches and winding around rocks and stumps. Awen began to ease her grip on the horse’s mane. In time she loosened her fists, resting her hands on its neck.

The pair stopped throughout the day, to eat, and to let Crissy drink, graze and rest. By the time they finally left the confines of the woods, the sky had begun to darken. The change was abrupt: the trees ended, revealing an open field. The grass here was light green, wispy, and so long that the horse had to slow to a walk. Many blades reached high enough to tickle Awen’s legs, and she felt as if she and Francis were wading through a green sea. She caught herself smiling, and almost laughed.