The Crickhowell School for the Muses by Rachel Waxman

,” she pointed at herself in emphasis. “Tonight.” She glanced up at the dark window. “ Now .”
    A moment passed, a furrowed brow the only response from Awen.
    “It would be temporary, of course, although you still would not go to Sir Robert Thomas. I have a different patron set up for you. It would be a much better deal, I assure you.” Rosaline placed a hand in her pocket, and Awen heard the clinking of metal against metal. Coins. “Well…?” Awen noticed Rosaline chewing the inner edge of her lip. “The rest of them are waiting for us outside.”
    Awen shivered. Rosaline had spoken with finality, and it was all too clear that she had no choice. She would be leaving tonight.
    “All right, then,” Rosaline exhaled, “I will just assume that means yes .” She made a grab for Awen’s arm.
    Awen leapt up from the mattress. She focused her eyes furiously on Rosaline and began to step backward, as if moving toward the back wall would keep her from Rosaline’s grip.
    With a skittish glance toward the door, Rosaline sprinted forward, catching Awen’s arm as if she were merely plucking a daisy from the earth.
    Awen gritted her teeth, pulling back desperately. She tried to twist her body to the side, hoping to break Rosaline’s grip, but it was no use. Her pale arms were twigs beneath Rosaline’s grasp, and her bare feet had no traction on the wooden floor. All she did was slide forward, moving in whichever direction Rosaline pulled her.
    * * *
    Rosaline’s yellow lantern bobbed in the black night. Awen kept her eyes downcast, watching her own bare feet squish the wet grass; the ground gurgled with every step. She imagined Rosaline’s heeled shoes making deep holes in the damp earth, and she wondered if it would be possible to fall through them.
    Awen had not set foot outside for weeks—two months, maybe three, maybe more. Not since the night she arrived. But now, despite the gentle breeze and a woody scent in the air, she wished she were back in the castle. Her wrist began to burn under Rosaline’s grip.
    Awen had no idea in which direction they walked, only that it was away from the castle. She could feel that they moved downward, descending from the hilltop upon which the Crickhowell School stood. She remembered the night she had arrived here: the dusty wagon creaking upward; her first sight of Miss Nina with her black eyes. Then, she had believed Miss Nina to be the one whom she was supposed to fear, to shrink away from at the sound of her footsteps. But she had seen very little of the woman during her stay.
    “Ahhh,” Rosaline called out in a hushed tone, “Mr. Berwick! Miss Tori?”
    “Yes! Here, here,” a male and a female voice responded simultaneously. Then the female added, “Neither of us ran into any trouble—we got both of the girls.”
    “Wonderful,” Rosaline said under her breath. Awen could hear her smiling. Suddenly, Rosaline came to a full stop, and Awen nearly tripped over the woman’s feet. “Clumsy girl,” Rosaline muttered.
    Awen peeled her eyes from the ground to look up at Rosaline for the first time since they had left the castle. The lantern gave her skin a yellow tint. Gazing past Rosaline’s illuminated face, Awen could see that they stood next to a shoddy-looking wooden carriage—it was closed, but the glass appeared to have been removed from the windows, offering no protection from the outside. From the light of a small lantern hanging from the ceiling, Awen could tell that the carriage was big, as it already held four passengers. However, from the looks of the outside, she could not imagine that the seats were anything but wooden benches. Awen could not see any horses hooked up to the carriage, but the sporadic neighs, sniffs, and stomped feet told her there were at least two. They must have been coal-black, blending in with the night.
    Rosaline pushed Awen forward toward the carriage. She let go of Awen’s arm, swinging open a small door in the middle of the