The Crickhowell School for the Muses by Rachel Waxman Page A

coach. For a brief moment, Awen wanted to run—back to the castle, down the hill, into the forest, anywhere. But she dismissed it, knowing all too well the slim chance of her making it even three steps.
    Rosaline handed her lantern to the woman inside and then halfway picked up Awen, forcing her into the carriage. Awen misstepped and found herself on the wooden floor. Looking up to her right, she saw the woman who had answered Rosaline’s calls—Miss Tori. She sat on a low-backed wooden bench, arms crossed, staring down with disapproval. On the bench just in front of Awen sat two girls: students, like herself, though a few years older. They were huddled together under a thin blanket, but Awen could still make out the familiar cream-colored ruffled hem of the Crickhowell dress. The three passengers all faced inward, toward each other.
    “Move it, girl!” Rosaline began to climb into the carriage.
    Awen scrambled to her feet, careful not to stand too tall in the low-ceilinged coach. She scuttered to the left before Rosaline had time to push her away. There was a third bench on this side, backless and empty. Awen placed her hand on the bench, checking it for…sturdiness? Dryness? She did not know. She sat tentatively, facing in like the rest of the passengers. She was glad that the two other girls separated her from Rosaline and Miss Tori.
    Suddenly, Awen realized that the owner of the other voice she had heard—the male one—was not present. She looked behind her; was there some dark corner of the carriage in which he hid? But there was just a wooden wall. She slid her hands along the bench, fearing they might bump into a leg, or a hand…but, no: she sat alone. Maybe she had imagined the other voice, as there clearly was no one else in the carriage. But then a shifting from above, which made the whole coach shudder, reminded her that there had to be a driver.
    Sure enough, a voice called from above, “Is everyone in? Ready to go?”
    “Yes, Mr. Berwick,” Rosaline said, “you can drive us onward now. Are you clear on the direction?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    The carriage jolted forward, and Awen, who sat only partially on the bench, had to grab onto the wooden plank to keep herself from smashing against a wall. As the coach’s movement steadied, she realized that she was moving backward, and was therefore seated in the front of the carriage. This discovery unsettled her—something about being in the middle, between the driver and the woman who had forced her out of Crickhowell. Had she been in the back, at least there would have been the possibility of escape—a window to leap from, perhaps. A wave of claustrophobia swept over her like nausea.
    Awen looked down at her hands, which she noticed were clamped tightly together, and her bare feet, crossed at the ankles. She uncrossed them, then slid them around in circles on the floor. She could feel a soft coating of warm dirt beneath her feet, and she brushed her toes through it, imagining the little designs she might be creating. Awen remembered that she had not eaten dinner that night, and strangely, the smooth dirt made her hungry. Her stomach bubbled in reply.
    It was not until they had been moving for at least ten minutes that Awen realized no one in the carriage had spoken. She straightened up and scooted a bit to her right to see what the two other girls were doing. They were still curled up under the blanket—the one on the left leaning against the wall, and the other leaning against her. Awen could only guess that they were sleeping, or pretending to.
    Awen craned her neck to watch Rosaline and Tori. They were both looking down at something in their laps with intense concentration. Awen lifted herself up a bit more, no longer making contact with the bench, and saw that Tori was studying an oversized, yellowed page. It looked heavily creased, to the point where little square sections might break off, and scribbled with all sorts of marks and circles. With a