Read Online The Crickhowell School for the Muses by Rachel Waxman - Free Book Online
Authors: Rachel Waxman
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the stairs, “you will not be having any manners, beauty, or cooking classes. This is unfortunate, as every other girl at Crickhowell is expected to be well-versed in those areas. But your patron will just have to understand the situation.”
Awen barely kept up with Rosaline’s speedy pace, almost slipping on the hem of her ruffled dress. She wondered at Rosaline’s choice of words— situation .
Rosaline did not speak again until they had reached the top of the curved staircase. “Now, since you will not be receiving any training in these fundamental subjects, you will be held to an even higher standard in your music. Anything less than what is expected of you…” She stopped abruptly, turning to Awen. “Anything less will not be tolerated.” She smirked, dropping Awen’s arm, and continued down the hallway, calling behind her shoulder. “Now, go fetch your music. I will wait for you outside Mr. Whitewood’s office.”
Awen stood still for a moment, watching Rosaline’s shoes bob up and down as she walked past the closed doors off the hallway. She had never really looked at those shoes before, only heard them, listened for them. They were black, probably leather, with a rounded-off toe and thick heel around three inches high. Awen looked down at her own feet: bare, slightly dirty. She imagined Rosaline’s heel squishing down on her foot, pinning it to the wooden floor.
Awen scrambled off to her room to grab the piece of music. The song, “A Rainbow,” was lying on the floor next to her mattress, with specks of dust dotting the page. She picked it up with two fingers, the paper folding a little under the pressure, and shook it off. Awen turned left out of her room and began toward Mr. Whitewood’s office at the end of the hall.
Awen’s eyes flickered across the tops of the door frames as she passed, silently reading the names carved into the wood. Crisp —she remembered that one from yesterday. Then, a new name, Rusch , and a blank door to her left.
As she walked toward Rosaline, who waited outside Mr. Whitewood’s room with her back turned, Awen felt an unexpected surge of elation. It was the feeling of desire for something—what for, she did not know. Singing. The possibility that what waited for her after Crickhowell might be good. Hope for something. Maybe just the fact that it was all unknown, and she could imagine it to be however she wanted.
She wondered how long this feeling would last.
When Awen reached the end of the hall, Rosaline was leaning against the wall, arms folded, countenance unreadable. Mr. Whitewood’s door was open, and he stood just inside, an angry expression with an edge of concern pulled across his face. When he saw Awen, his mouth relaxed into a welcoming smile. He flicked his eyes toward Rosaline, not bothering to move his head. “Well, I suppose you can go now,” he said flatly. He did not move or speak again until, with the trace of a grin, Rosaline turned and headed back down the hallway.
Mr. Whitewood sighed. “Well, hello, dear. How have you been?”
Awen raised one corner of her mouth in a half-smile.
He nodded slowly. “Do come in.” He motioned Awen into the room, closing the door behind her. “I suppose you did not have much time to review that piece of music there.” He motioned toward the sheet of paper in Awen’s hand. “I had hoped to hold off on teaching you how to read it until next week, but it looks like Rosaline has other plans for you.” He paused for a moment. “Well then, come now.” He walked to the piano and patted the bench.
Awen sat, but he remained standing. “The song I gave you yesterday can wait for a later lesson. Instead, let us take a look at this.” He motioned toward a sheet of paper sitting on the piano’s music stand.
Awen studied the page before her, illuminated in the windowless room by the same crimson candle she had seen atop the piano yesterday. The page was thick and cream-colored, with rows of thin black
Awen barely kept up with Rosaline’s speedy pace, almost slipping on the hem of her ruffled dress. She wondered at Rosaline’s choice of words— situation .
Rosaline did not speak again until they had reached the top of the curved staircase. “Now, since you will not be receiving any training in these fundamental subjects, you will be held to an even higher standard in your music. Anything less than what is expected of you…” She stopped abruptly, turning to Awen. “Anything less will not be tolerated.” She smirked, dropping Awen’s arm, and continued down the hallway, calling behind her shoulder. “Now, go fetch your music. I will wait for you outside Mr. Whitewood’s office.”
Awen stood still for a moment, watching Rosaline’s shoes bob up and down as she walked past the closed doors off the hallway. She had never really looked at those shoes before, only heard them, listened for them. They were black, probably leather, with a rounded-off toe and thick heel around three inches high. Awen looked down at her own feet: bare, slightly dirty. She imagined Rosaline’s heel squishing down on her foot, pinning it to the wooden floor.
Awen scrambled off to her room to grab the piece of music. The song, “A Rainbow,” was lying on the floor next to her mattress, with specks of dust dotting the page. She picked it up with two fingers, the paper folding a little under the pressure, and shook it off. Awen turned left out of her room and began toward Mr. Whitewood’s office at the end of the hall.
Awen’s eyes flickered across the tops of the door frames as she passed, silently reading the names carved into the wood. Crisp —she remembered that one from yesterday. Then, a new name, Rusch , and a blank door to her left.
As she walked toward Rosaline, who waited outside Mr. Whitewood’s room with her back turned, Awen felt an unexpected surge of elation. It was the feeling of desire for something—what for, she did not know. Singing. The possibility that what waited for her after Crickhowell might be good. Hope for something. Maybe just the fact that it was all unknown, and she could imagine it to be however she wanted.
She wondered how long this feeling would last.
When Awen reached the end of the hall, Rosaline was leaning against the wall, arms folded, countenance unreadable. Mr. Whitewood’s door was open, and he stood just inside, an angry expression with an edge of concern pulled across his face. When he saw Awen, his mouth relaxed into a welcoming smile. He flicked his eyes toward Rosaline, not bothering to move his head. “Well, I suppose you can go now,” he said flatly. He did not move or speak again until, with the trace of a grin, Rosaline turned and headed back down the hallway.
Mr. Whitewood sighed. “Well, hello, dear. How have you been?”
Awen raised one corner of her mouth in a half-smile.
He nodded slowly. “Do come in.” He motioned Awen into the room, closing the door behind her. “I suppose you did not have much time to review that piece of music there.” He motioned toward the sheet of paper in Awen’s hand. “I had hoped to hold off on teaching you how to read it until next week, but it looks like Rosaline has other plans for you.” He paused for a moment. “Well then, come now.” He walked to the piano and patted the bench.
Awen sat, but he remained standing. “The song I gave you yesterday can wait for a later lesson. Instead, let us take a look at this.” He motioned toward a sheet of paper sitting on the piano’s music stand.
Awen studied the page before her, illuminated in the windowless room by the same crimson candle she had seen atop the piano yesterday. The page was thick and cream-colored, with rows of thin black
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