The Crickhowell School for the Muses Read Online Free Page B

Norwich…Freer . If she listened closely, she could hear the arching melody of a singer behind one door, and the light tinkling of a keyboard behind another.
    Awen felt the same fizzing-up of curiosity she had felt those days before, when she had first peered into the rooms of girls dancing and playing instruments. But this time, it was tamed by something acidic: the memory of her fall down the stairs. She poked at the one bruise on her left arm that had still not quite faded, watching it turn white, then back to a faint yellow.
    “Ah.” Rosaline stopped at the second-to-last door.
    Awen searched for the name above the doorframe. Whitewood . Her face twisted into a half smile; the name was too apt a description for the castle itself.
    Rosaline pressed her ear to the door, then tapped lightly with her left hand. “Mr. Whitewood?” she called. “Your new student is here.” She pulled away as footsteps emanated from the room beyond.
    Awen watched with wide eyes as the door opened, and out stepped a tall, silver-haired man wearing a dark-brown jacket. Silver square spectacles balanced atop his crooked nose, and his face was crinkled into a pleasant smile. She was not afraid to look into his eyes.
    “Ah!” he exclaimed, stretching out his arms. His voice was smooth, with a hint of graininess. The sound made Awen think of a creamy pudding with nuts sprinkled on top. “You, my dear, must be Awen.”
    Awen nodded slowly but did not speak.
    Mr. Whitewood turned his head to the side, peering inquisitively at her.
    “This one does not…hmm…say much,” Rosaline answered his unspoken question. She chuckled lightly. “I will be surprised if you can get anything more than air out of her.”
    Mr. Whitewood turned to Rosaline, frowning at her words. “Well, why don’t you just let me see what I can do?” Something bitter flashed across his eyes. He turned again to Awen; the obliging smile was back. “Come, dear.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, guiding her into the room. As Awen walked over the threshold, she cast a glance back at Rosaline.Rosaline’s eyebrows were knitted together, the rest of her face unreadable. And then, the door closed.
    Awen gazed around the new room. It was darker, cozier—nothing like the cold white walls of the rest of the castle. The floor was of a dark cherry wood, and a heavy rectangular carpet lay atop it. Awen studied the design: gold and red threads with intricate, curvy shapes swirling about. She thought she saw a dragon in there somewhere, and a lyre, and some sort of…she twisted her head from side to side…she could not make it out.
    Her eyes wandered upward to inspect the wall. Most of it was covered with heavy tapestry in a design much like the carpet; only small bits of dark stone peeped out from behind the decoration. There were no windows in this room—or if there were, they were obscured behind the heavy wall hangings. The only light came from scattered candles: tall cream pillars, crimson ones rolled from beeswax, and gold tapered ones that reached toward the ceiling. These lights had been placed haphazardly—some atop a small table, and others just set down on the floor.
    Awen’s gaze caught at a large crimson candle in the corner of the room, burning brightly inside a frosted glass. It sat atop a large black structure with glimmering white keys. Awen had seen something like this before, many years ago, though the one that glided vaguely through her memory was not nearly as sleek, not nearly as clean as the instrument that stood before her.
    A high-pitched tinkling cut through the silence.
    Awen jumped. Mr Whitewood stood at the far right end of the instrument, his right index finger pressed down on one of the white keys. She had almost forgotten him in her silent contemplation of the room.
    “Piano,” he said quietly, smiling down at Awen. The note resounded off the walls for an impossibly long time. Mr. Whitewood removed his finger from the key, and the noise came