The Mystwick School of Musicraft Page 15

  We both suck in our breaths.

  There she is, vague and filmy, looking like nothing more than a blurry wisp of smoke. I can’t show this to anyone, at least, not as the proof I need. They’ll just say it’s a weird glare or something.

  But I know better. And so does Darby.

  “She’s real,” I whisper.

  Darby meets my gaze. She looks not terrified, but excited.

  As if finding a ghost in our room at three in the morning is a good thing.

  “Oh, she’s real,” she says. “And I know who she is.”

  “You . . . do?”

  I swallow as Darby leans toward me, grinning like a jack-o’-lantern.

  “It’s her,” she says. “It’s Amelia Jones.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dead Girls Tarantella No Tales

  “DARBY! DARBY, THIS IS CRAZY!” I have to jog to keep up with her. It’s pouring rain, and we have to practically swim from breakfast to the library. In addition to the downpour, it’s getting colder each day as fall marches toward winter. I’ve got my sweater buttoned over my flute case, as extra protection against the water. Darby’s wearing a huge poncho that makes her look like a ghost herself, albeit a shockingly yellow one. I’m pretty sure that poncho would be visible from space, it’s so bright.

  “If that’s all you’re going to say,” Darby says, “then leave. I don’t need your help anyway.”

  “Shouldn’t we at least tell someone? Miss Noorani, maybe?” With Darby to back me up, maybe that’s all the proof the Maestros will need.

  But Darby doesn’t even bother replying.

  After shoving down breakfast, she took off at a sprint, and I couldn’t let her do any investigating without me. I hurry behind, yawning with exhaustion. We didn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night, but stayed up talking. I told her about all the weird stuff that had been happening to me, and how I thought I was being sabotaged by the ghost.

  “Why?” Darby had asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Why is she trying to sabotage you?”

  I’d been caught off guard, able to only stammer a weak lie: “Because . . . she must be jealous, you know, that I’m hanging out with her old best friend.”

  But she’d seemed unconvinced.

  We reach the library doors and slip inside, shaking rain off our clothes and shoes. I wince at the puddle we leave on the carpet, but we’re not the only ones. Everyone inside is soaked through, even Miss March, who’s shelving books on our left with her pan flute, her spell sending each one back to its spot on dusty golden streams of magic.

  “Don’t drip on the books!” orders Miss March. Then she mutters, “Strange weather. Strange weather, indeed . . .”

  I glance past her at the phone on the library counter, where kids are lined up to call their parents, and remember it’s been a while since I tried to call Gran. But my guilt turns into anger—if she really wanted to talk to me, she’d answer one of the dozens of emails I’ve sent. Anyway, even if I did call, what would I say? Hey, Gran, don’t worry about me, everything’s fine and class is great and oh, by the way, I’m being haunted by the ghost of the girl whose spot I stole, no big deal, gotta run now! Bye!

  Yeah, right.

  Darby heads upstairs, with me close behind, unable to get two words in. On the third floor, she goes straight to the computers and sits hard in an empty chair. Her fingers fly on the keys, pulling up the digital card catalog. Every spell in the library is logged here for easy lookup.

  Dragging a chair from the next desk, I sit and watch over her shoulder as she types in: Spell for contacting ghost.

  She pounds the Enter key, and a little loading symbol pops up—a tiny metronome clicking, clicking, clicking . . .

  Then the screen goes black.

  A little message appears in red letters: ERROR. REQUEST DENIED.

  “That’s weird,” Darby mutters. “What—”

  Another message pops up: BLACK SPELLS ARE FORBIDDEN AT THE MYSTWICK SCHOOL OF MUSICRAFT.

  We stare at the screen. Darby looks like she’s about to punch through the glass. My heart pounds in my chest like a furious tarantella, notes galloping and tumbling through me.

  I frown. “Here’s what I don’t get. If black spells aren’t real, then why are they against the rules? That’s like saying it’s against the rules to ride a unicorn in Harmony Hall. Or summon a fairy to do your homework for you.”

  Darby slams her fists on the keyboard, rattling the whole table and all the computers on it. The other kids sitting there look up, startled.

  “What’s the use of a school of Musicraft,” she growls, “if they won’t teach you the most important spells?”

  “Um . . . okay, well, I’d never filed ghost communication under most important before, but—” When she turns her glare on me, I quickly add, “But I can see why you’re upset.”

  She lets her face fall into her hands. “We just need a plan.”

  “Right. So, I was thinking . . . maybe it’s time to tell the Maestros.”

  “No!”

  Her shout is so loud everyone on the third floor says “Shh!” at the same time.

  Darby leans close, her eyes blazing. She’s like an entirely different person right now.

  “This isn’t the only place at Mystwick where we can get spells,” she says.

  “Look, if you want to talk to the ghost so badly, just wait around a bit. She’ll show up sooner or later—probably sooner—trying to yank my flute away or something.”

  “And you’re just going to let her?” Darby gives me a disgusted look. “You really are nothing like my Amelia. She wouldn’t let some dead girl push her around. She’d take action. She’d—”

  “Fine, fine!” I throw my hands up. “You win. Just please stop telling me what the other Amelia would do, all right?” I do enough of that myself.

  “Come on, then, and no more wimping out.”

  She stands up and charges back to the stairs. Sighing, I run after her. Whatever she’s up to next, I don’t know if I should leave her alone to do it. I’ve never seen her like this. She’s all fired up, ready to snap.

  I nearly bowl over Jai when I go running down the stairs after Darby.

  “Whoa!” he says, rubbing his ribs where we’d collided. “Is this how you just are, naturally? Like a walking tornado?”

  “Sorry.”

  He’s blocking the way down, his arms wrapped around a book—the Composing book, I realize.

  “I managed to get a slot in the best practice room, after dinner,” he says. “It’s far away from any other rooms, so we could, I don’t know . . . maybe try to get you to conjure up another snowstorm?”

  “Jai! Shh!” Looking down, I see Darby’s almost at the first floor. “I told you, I can’t do that again. It’s too risky.”

  “I’ve been reading up,” he says, tapping the book. “There’s some good stuff in here that might help—”

  “Jai. I’m in the middle of something with Darby right now.”

  “What? You two are, like, friends now?” He presses his hands to his head in mock terror. “Is this some kind of alternate universe? Have I woken up in the right reality?”

  “Oh, shut up and come on!” I grab him by the backpack and pull him along. He yelps, but falls into step beside me, shoving the book back into his bag.

  “What’s going on? Hey, wait! My umbrella’s back there!”

  He grabs it and opens it, shielding his violin case. Then we burst through the front doors and into the rain. Darby is a short distance ahead, making for the Shell, her oboe case jutting under her poncho like a third arm. She doesn’t even look back to see if I’m still following.

  “Last night, Darby and I saw a ghost in our room,” I explain.

  Jai stops dead. “Okay. Either I did wake up in an alternate universe, or you’re making fun of me.”

  Sighing, I turn to face him. “Look, someone’s been trying to sabotage me and I think it’s the ghost and Darby thinks so too. She
thinks . . .” I draw a deep breath, then finish, “She thinks it’s the ghost of Amelia Jones. The other Amelia Jones.”

  He blinks at me, then slowly backs away, pointing his umbrella at me like a defensive sword. “Okay . . . Clearly you two have been playing one too many mental spells—”

  “She’s telling the truth,” says a voice.

  We turn to see Darby standing a short distance away, the rain plastering her hair to her face.

  She glares at me. “Why did you tell him? I thought I said no telling anyone!”

  “He can help us!” And maybe help me keep Darby under control. She’s in a wild mood that makes me almost as nervous as the ghost of Other Amelia herself.

  “I can?” Jai echoes.

  “He’s a great violinist,” I say. “Whatever spell you’re looking for, he can help us play it.”

  “I can?”

  “If it’s a black spell, we’ll need all the help we can get,” I add.

  “A what spell?” Jai waves his hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let’s just back up a few—”

  “Ugh!” Darby growls, and she turns away, chewing her lip. Then she whirls back to us. “Fine! But if you tell even one more person, ghosts will be the last thing you need to worry about!”

  “Fine!” I shout.

  “Fine!”

  “Uh . . . ladies,” says Jai, raising his hands. “I don’t remember agreeing to—”

  “Come on,” Darby snaps, and she drags him along by his umbrella.

  * * *

  “So, what are we waiting for, exactly?” Jai asks.

  He’s trapped between Darby and me. We’re crouched behind a statue of Beethoven next to the Shell, watching a little side door into the concert hall. The rain is coming down sideways, but we’re all so drenched by now that we barely notice. Our instruments are sheltered under Jai’s umbrella; like the musicians we are, we’re far more worried about keeping them dry than ourselves.

  When we tried the door, it was locked. I suggested we wait until it stops raining and then try an unlocking spell with our room key whistles; Darby pointed out it wouldn’t work, since every door only opens to a unique set of notes, and it could take years to figure out the melody to open this particular one.

  “Someone will come soon,” she says. “They’ll unlock the door, and we’ll slip in behind.”

  “Or we could try the front doors,” Jai replies. “They’re always open.”

  She shakes her head. “There’s no access to the basement from inside. This is the only way in.”

  “How do you even know that?” he grumbles, half to himself.

  “What’s in the basement, Darby?” I ask.

  “Someone who can help us.”

  “Someone who’ll skin us alive,” Jai adds. “Rebel Clef meets down there.”

  “Rebel who?” I ask.

  “The school rock club. Which happens to include some of Mystwick’s biggest and meanest.”

  I swallow hard, starting to feel bad for dragging him into this. “I guess you can leave if you want.”

  “No he can’t,” Darby says quickly. “He knows too much. He stays.”

  Jai gulps.

  So we wait. At least the rain slacks off a bit, but thunder begins booming over the mountains. Another storm moving in. It seems there are more and more of them every day.

  Strange weather, indeed, Miss March had said to herself.

  If we don’t get inside quickly, we’ll be stuck in a monsoon.

  Darby might be convinced someone will come by before long, but I’m starting to doubt it. It’s a good thing it’s Saturday, or we’d have missed two classes already. Jai’s stomach growls. He takes a bag of peanuts from his backpack.

  “So, how do you know it’s the other Amelia?” he asks. “Not that I believe there’s a ghost, but say I did, for like, five minutes. Why her?”

  “Because,” Darby says, “Amelia Jones was the only person I ever knew who actually pulled off a black spell.”

  I stare at her. She hadn’t told me that before.

  Jai freezes, a peanut halfway to his mouth. Then, slowly, he lowers it. “Say what now?”

  Darby looks away, her eyes distant. “A year ago, Amelia told me she had found a spell. A black spell.”

  “You didn’t actually see her do it?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “But she wouldn’t lie to me. We’re—we were—best friends.”

  “So what was the spell?” asks Jai.

  “Her dog got hit by a car, and Amelia said she used the spell to bring it back to life.”

  His jaw drops open. “A resurrection spell?”

  Darby nods.

  “But that’s impossible!” Jai looks angry. “Resurrection spells are just stories. Like the Necromuse, raising up evil zombie servants. If resurrection spells are real, why didn’t my dad use one when my grandpa died last year?”

  “Black spells are the most powerful of all,” Darby says, and for once, her tone is actually gentle. She looks at Jai with pity. “But they’re also the hardest to play. Like, really, really hard. The best Maestros in the world can’t play them. Or if they try, and they mess them up, things go very bad, very fast. Amelia told me that the spell she used had been used before, by another musician who tried to resurrect his dead sister. But he messed it up, and the sister came back . . . wrong. It was like her body had come back without her soul. She burned down their house with both of them inside.”

  “That’s not true,” scoffs Jai. “It would have been all over the news, and we’d have heard about it.”

  “Why do you think we didn’t?” she snaps. “Grownups don’t want to admit that black spells are real. They wouldn’t publish that kind of story. Because if everyone knew they existed, they’d be trying to bring back the dead all over the place, or other stuff that would have terrible consequences. They’re forbidden because they mess with laws that shouldn’t be bent—things like life and death.”

  “You seem willing to bend them,” I point out.

  Darby shrugs. “I never said I was perfect. Anyway, I don’t see you running in the other direction either.”

  She’s got me there. This is the only way for her to talk to her dead friend, and I want to stop her dead friend from destroying my life. I guess neither of us has much choice.

  Shaking my head, I ask, “But how would Amelia come back as a ghost? It’s not like she could have played a black spell while she was dead.”

  “Maybe someone else summoned her,” says Jai, who is apparently now a believer. “And let’s think . . . who around here would want to summon Dead Girl?”

  He eyes Darby.

  “Hey!” Darby snarls. “First of all, her name isn’t Dead Girl! And believe me, I wish I had summoned her. But I didn’t.”

  “Why is she bothering our Amelia anyway?” asks Jai.

  Hastily, before either can give that too much thought, I cut in. “Maybe we’re going about this all wrong. What if we just try to talk to her? You know, ask politely? No magic necessary?”

  Darby shakes her head. “You saw her run when we spotted her. She’s probably worried we’ll try to banish her back to the realm of the dead.”

  “And . . . we aren’t going to do exactly that?” Jai asks. “She’s trying to get Amelia—this Amelia—expelled!”

  Darby shrugs. “I don’t see a problem.”

  I groan. How did she get to be in charge of this mission anyway? I don’t remember voting to make her leader. And clearly she has no issue getting me kicked out.

  “There,” Darby says, pointing. “Told you.”

  A student is hurrying over from the cafeteria, carrying a guitar case on his back. He looks like a senior. When he reaches the locked door, he plays a quick tune on an ocarina he takes from his pocket—too soft for us to hear—and the door opens.

  “Now!” Darby hisses. She yanks on a string wrapped around her finger; it stretches all the way to the door and around a rock by the wall. When she pulls on it, the rock shifts and slips to
jam the door open, just slightly. The kid who went in doesn’t even notice.

  Darby grins. “Open sesame.”

  “Not bad,” Jai says, impressed.

  “You go in first,” Darby says. “Tell us when the coast is clear.”

  “Me?”

  Before he can argue further, Darby gives him a firm push through the door. “Signal when he’s out of sight!”

  “Fine, fine,” Jai grumbles. “But I’d like to have it formally noted that I strongly object to this plan.”

  “Move that skinny butt, Kapoor,” growls Darby.

  Jai makes a face at her, then creeps into the dark hallway. I start to step in behind him, but Darby grabs my shoulder and shoves me into the wall. I gasp, surprised at how strong she is.

  “Darby! What are you—”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Now?”

  “It was no coincidence, was it?” she whispers, her eyes piercing mine. “You being here, being my roommate. Another Amelia Jones.”

  My heart begins to sink. I only stare at her, speechless.

  She looks like she’s about to shake me, as if that could rattle the truth out of me. “You were never supposed to get into Myst­wick, were you? You’re obviously behind everyone else, always messing us up in the orchestra and ensembles. You’ve been last chair in Aeros since the first week of class. So I have to ask myself, how does a musician as terrible as you get into a place like this? And why would my best friend return from the grave just to haunt you?”

  My mouth is so dry I can’t even answer her.

  “I don’t know how it happened,” she breathes through her teeth, “but you stole her place.”

  “It was an accident,” I whisper, going limp. “I got your Amelia’s acceptance letter. It was a mix-up. But the Maestros are giving me a chance to prove I have what it takes. Please, please don’t tell anyone. Not even Jai.”

  Even as her eyes burn with anger, she blinks away a tear. She finally releases me, just as Jai calls out that the hallway is clear.

  “I know what you are now, Amelia Jones,” Darby says. “But I want to talk to my friend. So we do this my way. Or I’ll make sure you’re kicked so hard out of Mystwick, your grandkids won’t have a shot at getting in.”