The Crickhowell School for the Muses by Rachel Waxman Page A

benefit. “And Mr. Berwick, well, I heard he used to teach at Crickhowell, many years ago, but was dismissed for something terrible. I don’t know what…” she trailed off. “Anyway, both Carmella and I play harp. But, well, I heard them—Tori and Rosaline—discussing something. A school for the muses—but it wasn’t Crickhowell. I heard the name of a town—Beaufort, or Goodwick, or, I don’t know…but I heard my name, as well.” Then, even more quietly: “They wanted to take me there.” She paused for a moment. “This was a month ago.”
    Awen knew, then, that they were the beginnings: Genevieve, Carmella, herself. They would be the first students at a new school—but this time, with Rosaline as the head. Awen guessed that was where they would travel to now—to a new town—and Rosaline would be like what Miss Nina was at Crickhowell, and Tori would teach, and Mr. Berwick—Awen shivered at the thought of his horrible face—he might teach something, too. She prayed it wouldn’t be singing. How could a man like that know music?
    Awen felt a tingling in her legs, and, realizing they had been crossed this whole time, stretched them out in front of her. Then she bent her knees, hugging them to her chest. She glanced to either side, wondering what expression she might find on the other girls’ faces. But it was too dark to tell. She could only see that they were both lying down, stretched out awkwardly on the inadequate cots.
    She heard a sigh from her left—Genevieve. Awen saw her dark shape turn over uncomfortably. She whispered, “So, you understand now?”
    Awen swallowed.
    “We’re going away. Somewhere…I don’t know where. I don’t know for how long.” Her voice broke off, and Awen heard the squeak of the cot as she shifted. “Well,” her voice was stronger now, “I’m going to sleep.”
    No one spoke again.
    Awen carefully turned herself around so that she faced the back wall. There was a tiny rough-cut window just above her cot; yellow light poured in, shining down on her like a spotlight. She straightened up onto her knees and placed her hands on the wall to steady herself. From this angle, she could see the full moon in its entirety. She leaned her forehead against the pane. The glass was strangely clean—she could not imagine how a room like this could be anything but filthy all over. Awen yawned, then folded herself back down onto the cot.
    She thought she should be terrified of the events about to take place, of what had already begun to happen. Crickhowell had been no home to her, but at least she knew what waited behind its closed doors, even if she feared some of those things. Now, she was headed toward the unknown. But the strangest thing to her was that she was not afraid. She could not let herself be.
    Awen fought back another yawn and sank farther down, so that she lay on her back. There was something else she had to think of. Something else she knew she had to…Her eyelids drooped. Something she needed to…Her head lolled to the side. There was a reason why she was not afraid. Because ultimately, she had to…Her eyelids closed all the way.
    Yes, before too long, she would have to escape.
    She faded into sleep.
    * * *
    A loud knock resounded throughout the room. No, it was more of a banging sound. Awen yawned, fitfully turning half of her body over. She kicked her feet, tangled in a thin layer of sheet.
    The banging sounded again.
    She curled into a ball. She wanted Rosaline to go away, to let her sleep. She did not want to practice, and she did not want a lesson, either. Maybe she would have lunch with Vivienne later.…
    She opened her eyes and sat up stock-straight. She was not at Crickhowell. Vivienne was gone. She would not be having a lesson with Mr. Whitewood. Ever again.
    Alarmed, she whipped her head around—there was Genevieve, and Carmella. They were both yawning and stretching, seeming to fight the urge to curl back into their beds. Awen turned around. There