The Mystwick School of Musicraft Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prelude for a Chicken

  The Itsy-Bitsy Fire

  Sonata in Oops Minor

  The Treehouse Blues

  The Flight of the Purple Bumblebee

  Nocturne, Nocturne, Who’s There?

  The World Tuned Upside Down

  Requiem for a Roommate

  A Perfect Harmony

  A Tough Octave to Follow

  Gone with the Woodwinds

  The Second Rule of Musicraft

  Serenade with a Chance of Snowstorms

  Go Yell It on the Mountain

  Music Is There for Those Who Listen

  Nothing but Treble

  Dead Girls Tarantella No Tales

  Between Rock and a Hard Place

  Croak, Croak, Croak Your Boat

  The Sound of Musicats

  Catch Us If You Canon

  The Chords of Binding

  Time to Face the Music

  Desperate Measures

  In the Key of Perfection

  Crescendo

  The Ghost of Dissonance Past

  The Music Inside

  Overture and Out

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH on Social Media

  Copyright © 2020 by Jessica Khoury

  Illustrations copyright © 2020 by Federica Frenna

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  hmhbooks.com

  Cover design by Opal Roengchai

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Khoury, Jessica, 1990– author. | Frenna, Federica, 1990– illustrator.

  Title: The Mystwick School of Musicraft / by Jessica Khoury ; illustrated by Federica Frenna.

  Description: Boston ; New York : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2020] | Summary: Twelve-year-old Amelia gets the opportunity to attend a boarding school and learn how to use music to create magic, hoping to become a Maestro like her deceased mother.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019001117 (print) | LCCN 2019002595 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328625632 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780358164449 (e-book)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Magic—Fiction. | Music—Fiction. | Boarding schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Fantasy.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.K5285 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.K5285 Mys 2020 (print) | DDC

  [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019001117

  v1.1219

  For Madelaine,

  who knew Amelia first

  Chapter One

  Prelude for a Chicken

  IT’S HARDER TO CHARM A CHICKEN than you might think.

  I guess it’s because they have such tiny brains. Nothing against the chicken, of course—it’s not like it asked to be stupid.

  That’s just the way it is.

  Not that I’m in any sort of position to judge.

  After all, I am lying flat on my back on a ground definitely covered in chicken poop, my upper half wedged under a shed and my flute clenched between my lips as I shimmy farther in. It’s hard to charm a chicken in any position, but doing so while wedged under a shed is not exactly ideal. I’m pretty sure my music teacher would confiscate my instrument if she saw me like this.

  But sometimes, life requires you to rescue a trapped chicken with a bit of magic, even if it means getting a little dirty.

  Taking my flute out of my mouth—after thoroughly wiping my grubby palms on my jeans, of course—I try the regular, nonmagic route one more time:

  “Here, chicken, chicken!”

  The little rebel I’m after is crammed just above me, between the shed and the fence on the other side. She’s attempting an ambitious escape, pecking at the metal fence wire.

  Sighing, I turn my head just slightly and purse my lips over the flute’s embouchure. It’s an awkward angle, with my face half planted in dirt, and I wonder if this is really worth the five dollars Mrs. O’Grady offered me.

  “Just a simple chicken charm, Amelia,” she’d said this morning, standing on our front porch, her cheeks ruddy from working in her little vegetable garden. “It’s that Rooter. She’s got herself jammed again, I’m afraid.”

  Well, I do need the five dollars.

  My fingers find the flute’s keys, arranging themselves in preparation.

  Before I start, I take a few deep breaths. It’s no good playing when your heart’s bouncing around your chest like a basketball in a washing machine. I might set Rooter and me and the whole chicken coop on fire.

  As the First Rule of Musicraft states: A spell can charm or do great harm. Before you play, clear the way.

  When I’m good and still inside, I purse my lips, then launch into the spell that usually works on Rooter: “The Ants Go Marching.” A simple tune, good for calming someone’s nerves and, if that someone’s a chicken, luring them out from under a shed. I could play it in my sleep, but it’s not just about hitting the right notes. It’s also about keeping tempo and staying focused, or I won’t produce any magic at all. Go too fast or slow, and the spell will fall apart. Play it in the wrong key, and its effects could reverse, and I could end up scaring Rooter away rather than drawing her to me.

  Anyone can pick up a flute and blow into it, but to turn music into magic, you have to play it right.

  Mrs. O’Grady could have probably played the spell on her old harmonica and done the trick, if she weren’t going tone-deaf. And I know she is because I once saw her try to summon an apple off a branch too high to reach.

  The apple exploded instead.

  So you can see why her attempting a charm on Rooter might end . . . badly.

  A few notes in, the spell starts to work. The magic isn’t strong—a few white wisps of light curl away from my flute and fade, shimmering, into the muddy ground. They reflect in Rooter’s black eyes.

  On the second repetition, the chicken’s head perks in my direction and she stops her mindless pecking at the fence. Her head twitches this way and that, her feathers ruffle, and then she scoots my way. Curlicues of light swirl around her, the spell drawing her along and infusing her tiny chicken brain.

  That’s it, I think. Come on, you old featherbutt.

  The magic swirls around like white feathers, and when it lands on my skin, I feel the slightest tingle. Sort of like snowflakes, there and then gone.

  I focus on Rooter, directing the flow of magic to her and not some other chicken in the yard. Playing while distracted is dangerous; the magic could get out of control fast without my willpower harnessing it and giving it a clear target. So I force myself to keep all my attention on the bird.

  But Rooter stops dead, then begins to reverse, chicken rump wiggling this way and that as she shimmies back to the fence.

  I’ve lost hold of her.

  My stomach clenches with frustration.

  I don’t have much time till I have to catch the train to the city. Before then, I’ll have to shower, pack lunch and my sheet music, and squeeze in a last-minute practice session.

  “It’s not like my entire future is on the line here, McNugget,” I growl, catching my breath before trying again.

  “What’s that, dear?” Mrs. O’Grady calls.

  I turn my head till I can see her feet—woolly socks in sandals below the hem of her flowered nightgown. Mrs. O’Grady has reached the age where it’s perfectly acceptable for her to wear a flowered nightgown no matter
the place or occasion.

  “Just making conversation,” I say, adding under my breath, “with a chicken.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” she replies. “Rooter’s a good one for a chat. Understanding eyes.”

  I look at Rooter’s eyes.

  They wobble at me.

  Wincing, I start playing again. It takes two repetitions of the melody before I can get Rooter’s attention once more. This time I give it all I’ve got, keeping my gaze locked on the chicken’s, until she starts moving forward again. Shimmying along, flute glued to my chin, I dare not go a smidgen faster or I’ll risk messing up and breaking the spell.

  Finally, I clear the shed, still playing, and Rooter’s just a few chicken steps behind. The minute she’s in the open, Mrs. O’Grady scoops her up and cuddles her, cooing and fussing. I finish the spell, then lie in the dirt and chicken poo a moment, catching my breath.

  “Oh, Amelia, thank you, dear!” Mrs. O’Grady says. “Now, haven’t you got somewhere to be?”

  I blink up at her; the sun’s in my eyes, and I shield it with a hand. “Gran told you about that?”

  Mrs. O’Grady strokes Rooter’s neck, and the bird coos happily. “You sound surprised.”

  I grunt, looking down at the ground. “She doesn’t really like Musicraft much.”

  “No doubt that’s because you remind her of your mother.” Mrs. O’Grady sighs. “I remember her at your age, running around in the woods with that flute, charming the squirrels right out of the trees. Such a shame, what happened to her. I remember once my kitchen caught fire, and your mother—no bigger than you are now!—came running over and put it out with a spell. Saved the house!”

  Swallowing, I squeeze my flute a little tighter. “Gran never told me that.”

  “Well, now, she does miss your mother an awful lot. Even after eight years, it’s hard for your gran to speak of her.” Mrs. O’Grady hands me a folded bill. “Here, now. You earned it.”

  “Thanks.” I take the money. And blink. “Mrs. O.! This is too much!”

  Maybe her eyesight is going as bad as Rooter’s. She gave me a twenty, not a five.

  “Hush!” she scolds, patting Rooter’s head. “Now run home. Tell your grandmother I’ll be around with more eggs tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” Then my attention snags on her watch, and I jump like I’ve been electrocuted.

  “It’s nine o’clock already!?” I shriek. Holy mother of Beethoven—I have to go!

  “Good luck, Amelia! You make us proud, now!” Mrs. O’Grady calls, as I dash away, leaping over the fence around the chicken yard.

  It’s only a minute’s walk across Mrs. O’Grady’s farm and through the weeds to Gran’s house, but I cut it in half by going at a dead sprint, my flute clutched in my hand like a runner’s baton. By the time I reach the front porch, I’m completely soaked in sweat. It’s midsummer and the sun beats down like a spotlight. Even the pine trees behind the house look droopy, defeated by the heat.

  “Gran!” I shout, running inside and letting the door slam behind me. “GRAN!”

  She comes walking out of the kitchen, covered in flour, her hair still in rollers. “Now, now, no shouting inside, please.”

  “Gran!” I look her up and down, stomach dropping. “What are you doing? You should be ready to go. We’re going to be late!”

  “Late?” She frowns. “For what?”

  “My audition!” I wave my flute, incredulous.

  “Oh.” She sighs and wipes her hands on her apron. “Is that today?”

  “Gran.” I grab her keys and thrust them into her hand. “We have to go now. We’re already going to miss the first train!” There’s another that leaves soon after, but missing the first one means I’ll barely make it to the audition in time.

  She blinks at my clothes. “Don’t you want to change first?”

  She’s stalling on purpose. That’s probably even why she sent me to help Mrs. O’Grady, hoping I’d forget about my audition.

  Gran is no fan of Musicraft. All my life, she’s suggested other forms of “self-expression,” giving me sports equipment for Christmas, making me try out for the school play, signing me up for horse-riding lessons and swim team and Girl Scouts. Anything that wasn’t musical. But none of it stuck. None of it called to me the way magic does.

  Always, I found my way back into Mrs. Parrish’s after-school Musicraft classes, with the other kids in my little town who had musical talent. At first, we learned kiddie stuff—weak summoning spells on plastic recorders, or making our lunchboxes float with kazoos—but that wasn’t enough for me. Mrs. Parrish somehow persuaded Gran to let her teach me on the weekends. And soon, it became my obsession. I practiced hours every day, woke up early to play before school, rode my bike to Mrs. Parrish’s house whenever she’d open her door for me. I’ve probably spent more time with that flute pressed to my chin than I have sleeping or studying or anything else. By third grade, I could outplay all the other kids in elementary school. By fifth grade, I was getting invited to play with the high school marching band. I’ll never forget the day Mrs. Parrish told Gran I might be the best musician she’d ever taught; Gran had huffed and sighed and looked at me like I was a crossword puzzle she was about to give up on, but I’d still glowed like a lightbulb with pride.

  Amelia could be a true Maestro, Mrs. Parrish had said. Only the second one to ever come from our town.

  Only the second one—after my mother.

  But it’ll all be for nothing if I miss this audition.

  Leaving her to clean up, I race through the house and throw a change of clothes into a bag, my heart pounding. Then I stuff in my sheet music and a bottle of grape juice. If I’m late for the audition, they won’t even give me a chance to play. I’ll be cut, just like that. I can’t think of a stupider reason to ruin the single greatest opportunity I’ll ever have.

  “Let’s go, let’s go! We’re going to miss the nine thirty train!” I yell, and I race through the house, leaping over the coffee table and sprinting outside. Gran ambles out, taking her time.

  While she drives five miles under the speed limit, I clean my flute and go over my audition music in my mind, again and again, until the notes are engraved onto my brain. It’s only three miles to the train station, and I’m starting to think riding my bike there would’ve been faster.

  We drive by my school, which is quiet and empty during the summer, looking smaller without all the buses and kids. I see the trailer where my Musicraft class meets, and press my hand to the window in farewell.

  If today goes as planned, I may never set foot in my old school again. It makes me sad to think about, but also queasy with nerves and excitement.

  I can do this, I remind myself. I HAVE to do this.

  I open my flute case and stare at the photo taped to the inside. It’s the one thing that makes me feel calm before an audition or recital. It’s been with me for as long as I’ve played the flute, always reminding me why I’m doing this.

  This picture is one of the only ones I have of my mom. She was just eighteen in it, with curly dark hair and dimples. In the photo, beneath her graduation gown, she was wearing a sweater, and on the sweater was a crest: a wreath of ivy around a harp, and the word Mystwick.

  I was four when she died.

  My dad disappeared after it happened, and no one knows where he went. I guess he loved her so much that he didn’t have enough love left for me. Of him, I have few memories at all, mostly of a deep laugh coming from someone who is always just out of sight. When I think of my parents, usually I just remember Mom, playing her flute—the same one I’m holding now—filling the air with crackling, glowing magic. But even of those vague memories, I’m not always sure which ones are real and which ones I made up.

  “Gran,” I say cautiously, “Mrs. O told me my mom once put out a kitchen fire for her. You never told me that.”

  Gran snorts. “That Clara is a gossip. Can’t keep her mouth shut for anything.”

  “Were you there? Did you
see it?”

  But instead of answering, Gran just frowns at the road ahead. Her eyes pinch and her lips press flat, and like she always does when I ask about Mom, she closes up tighter than a scared turtle.

  Well, I know one thing for sure: my mom is the reason I always hear music in the back of my mind. She is why I love Musicraft, the art of spinning sound into spells. She is why I dream of it every night and long for it every day. It’s a part of me because it was a part of her.

  I need to find out how much of her lives in me.

  And that means starting at the place she loved most: the Mystwick School of Musicraft.

  Chapter Two

  The Itsy-Bitsy Fire

  WE HAVE TO WALK four blocks from the train station to the hotel where the auditions are. I spent the whole two-hour trip watching the brass trio play the locomotion spell that powered the great metal train, and now I hum their spell as I walk beside Gran. The street is lined with tall brick buildings, the sidewalks flooded with people hurrying in all directions. Cars jam the road, horns blaring, taxi drivers leaning out of their windows to shout.

  This is only the second time I’ve been to the city. The first time, I came with Mrs. Parrish and the other Musicraft students from school, to see a movie at the big cinema. That was one of the best nights of my life. They had a Maestro who played the film score on the piano while we watched it, and her spells had produced all kinds of effects—wind, rain, fireworks—so it had felt like we were in the movie. I’d been so starry-eyed afterward I’d barely noticed anything else after we left the cinema.

  But now, I look around with my mouth hanging open, eyes as round as cymbals.

  There is magic everywhere.

  I’ve never seen so many types of instruments, or heard so many different spells being played at once: summoning and hovering spells, illusions and glamours. The air carries the smoky smell of magic, like the scent of a match right after you blow out the flame.

  Through the open windows of a café, I hear a pianist playing a complicated concerto that delivers diners’ plates and cups on glittering ribbons of magic. Across the street, on a fifth-floor balcony, a little girl plays “Au Clair de la Lune” on a plastic recorder, her magic coaxing a small potted lily to unfurl its petals. I recognize that spell—it’s a common practice piece for young musicians, and I remember playing it over and over when I first began my training, until I was hearing it in my sleep. But the girl is having trouble focusing, because several balconies over, a man with a jug and a pair of castanets is playing a messy wind spell, perhaps trying to cool down his apartment. I wince at the din he produces; just because anyone can play a spell doesn’t mean they should.