The Crickhowell School for the Muses Read Online Free Page A

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.

Three
    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.