The Crickhowell School for the Muses by Rachel Waxman Page B

thin, silvery pencil, Tori added yet more.
    Rosaline appeared to be reading from a small book, though unlike the paper Tori held, its pages looked crisp and new. She, too, held a small silver pencil, but hardly seemed to use it. Rosaline sighed, then flipped a page. Abruptly, she looked up, gazing straight ahead. Awen dropped back to the bench, jerking her head downward. She held her breath, waiting for Rosaline to yell at her. But the silence remained, and she guessed her gaze had gone unnoticed.
    Awen turned to look out of one of the glassless windows. She could just see the rounded bottom section of the moon. Full. Yellow. She wondered if that meant anything. A gust of wind filtered into the carriage, making Awen shiver. She crossed her legs and arms to keep warm. Awen’s ruffled dress, with its short sleeves and mothy fabric, was no barrier against a breeze. No one else seemed to notice the drop in temperature.
    The trip went on like that—cold and silent. The rocky movement of the carriage eventually produced a nauseous feeling in Awen’s stomach; she was forced to lean back against the side of the carriage and press her forehead into her hand. Now she was glad she had not eaten anything after all. At some point on the journey, she looked out the window at the full moon again and watched grey-blue clouds travel across it, momentarily blocking the light. Then it all started to get fuzzy, and her eyelids grew heavier with each rock of the carriage.
    And she was asleep.…
    * * *
    It was the change of movement that woke her.
    The carriage wheels slowed with every turn, the clops of the horse hooves becoming ever so leisurely. “Whoaaa,” the driver called. The horses whinnied in response, and their steps became even heavier and more deliberate as they halted. The carriage gave a minute shudder as it came to a stop. Awen heard a horse stomp its hoof against the ground.
    The carriage gave another jolt; a corresponding thud sounded on the ground outside. Awen guessed the driver, Mr. Berwick, had jumped down from the seat above. She looked up groggily at the other passengers—the girls were still sleeping, but they had changed positions, now leaning haphazardly away from each other. Though the paper and book were still in their laps, Rosaline and Tori were both rubbing their eyes; they must have dozed off, too.
    A light tap came from the door of the carriage, and then it swung open, letting in a cool gust of air. Awen shivered, her body colder after sleep.
    “Rosaline?” said a man’s voice.
    “Mr. Berwick…have we arrived?” Rosaline leaned toward the open door.
    Awen could not see the man from her position inside the carriage.
    “Yes. I think if you all get out here, I can bring them horses ’round to the back and hook everything up to a post out there for the night. If you can see from where you are, the entryway is just over there. See that light?”
    Rosaline nodded. “Yes, mm-hmm. Perfect.”
    “A’right. Lemme help you down, then.” Mr. Berwick’s hand appeared. He leaned farther into the carriage, reaching for Rosaline—his wrist, his hairy arm, his face.…
    Awen jumped in her seat. He was looking at her—watching, from the corner of his dark green eye. His face was worn, tanned, and leathery from the sun, or the wind, or whatever other force Awen could not guess. A deep, purplish scar ran from his left temple, curving all the way down to his jaw. It made Awen want to gag. The man wore his hair wild: dark, curly, unkempt and probably unwashed, with a thin line of mustache across his upper lip. He gave Awen a half-smirk, and she could see his teeth were yellowing.
    Then, helping Rosaline out, he disappeared back into the dark outside.

Nine
    The ground was dry here, and bare. Nothing more than a velvety dirt floor with sporadic clumps of brittle grass. The night was opaque, and Awen could see only lights ahead: glowing windows on a building that was all shadow, and lanterns that hung outside. Faint