The Mystwick School of Musicraft Read online

  Jenkins is the last one off the ladder, and as he jumps down, a woman comes running toward us. She is small and primly dressed, with very short blond hair and an expression of fury, like an angry little fairy.

  “You’re late, Mr. Jenkins!” she says, all out of breath. “The other zeppelins landed hours ago. You’ve got to stop chatting at every pick-up! And don’t tell me you landed for tacos again!”

  Jenkins grins and holds out a wrapper to the woman. “Brought you one, Miss March. I know you like extra guacamole.”

  She scowls but takes the taco. “Don’t think this lets you off the hook.” Shaking her head, she turns to us kids. “Come, come, students! You’ve missed dinner, thanks to your incompetent pilot. There’s still some left, if a little cold. Hurry now!”

  We follow her up the grassy hill, dragging our instruments.

  “Farewell, young musicians!” Jenkins calls out, holding on to the ladder as it rises back into the zeppelin. He waves grandly, his hair fluttering, and adds, “And farewell to you, Miss March!”

  Miss March rolls her eyes, but I notice spots of color in her cheeks.

  “I think somebody has a little crush on the zeppelin captain,” I whisper to Victoria, who rolls beside me.

  She giggles, then stops her wheelchair to look up.

  Miss March brings us to a halt in front of the main building, which has the words Harmony Hall over the front doors. It has a peaked roof and huge timber walls and lots of windows. Six giant logs rise vertically to support the front overhanging roof, each one carved with spiraling music notes. On either side of the door, wild horse statues rear up, wooden manes and tails flowing with lifelike detail.

  A huge banner above the doors shouts: WELCOME, NEW STUDENTS!

  And in smaller letters under that: AUDIENTIBUS MUSICA ADEST.

  I stare at it, my heart fluttering. I’m half-afraid to blink, in case it all were to vanish.

  “Children, gather around,” says the woman. “I am Ellie March, the dean of students. We’re currently putting together dinner for you. Give us fifteen minutes and everything will be ready, I assure you. In the meantime, wait here and, um . . . enjoy the view. I’ll be back shortly for you. Oh dear, oh dear, day one and already a crisis!”

  She hurries inside, leaving us standing on the front steps.

  Swinging my flute case at my side, I turn and survey the lake, the trees, the mountains beyond. The school buildings are arranged in a semicircle around the water, all timber-framed like Harmony Hall, except for what looks like a glass concert hall on the other side of the lake. I spot a soccer field and a gym, and what might be an indoor pool. And there are statues everywhere, of Composers and Maestros both past and present. Bach and Mozart stand nearby, looking solemnly out at the mountains, and I turn and find the serious stone face of Toru Takemitsu frowning down at me, a plaque at the base of the statue telling of his great achievements and most famous spells.

  The sky is fading from red to violet, the buildings growing indistinct in the shadows. I breathe in deep, relishing the cool clarity of the air, though I know I’m going to need to adjust to the altitude before I attempt any long spells.

  Closing my eyes, I listen for the school’s music. It’s soft and whispery, an easy nocturne of murmuring voices, chilly mountain wind, the lake lapping below, and a distant owl’s low hoot.

  The other kids seem too excited to stay still, and a few wander down to the lake while the rest spread across the nearby grass, looking around. Jai climbs onto the statue of Mozart and plays air guitar, and Hana yells at him to get down before he gets us all in trouble.

  I figure it won’t hurt to take a look around. I’m itching to explore, and anyway, Miss March did say to enjoy the view. So I slip away and follow a stone path that goes around Harmony Hall. I pass more stone Maestros on the way, and there’s just enough light to make out their names: Fanny Mendelssohn, Solhi al-Wadi, Samuel Coleridge-Taylor, and many others.

  I feel a sudden chill and shiver. Maybe I should go back. It’s pretty dark over here, and I don’t want to get lost on my first day. I start to turn around—then hear a soft voice.

  “Amelia . . .”

  Surprised, I turn a bend in the path and find myself standing at the edge of the forest. To my left is a large amphitheater, bleachers and stage all sunken into the grassy ground. There’s no sign of the person who called my name. Maybe it was my imagination.

  Suddenly a wind pours in from my left, and all the trees start to sway and rustle.

  I gasp.

  When the wind rushes through their leaves, they don’t sound like regular trees at all. Instead, the noise they make is like an orchestra tuning up. Violins humming, flutes and oboes trilling, groaning cellos and twanging harps and deep, deep tubas. The music is faint, like listening to a recording at the lowest volume, but there’s no mistaking that it’s completely magical. And in the canopy, among those swaying branches, the faintest golden dust swirls.

  These are no ordinary trees.

  Then the wind dies down and the trees go silent. They leave a hollowness inside me, a yearning to listen to their music for hours and days and years. I’ve never heard anything so beautiful or strange.

  “Amelia . . . play for them, Amelia . . .”

  Is it . . . the trees talking? Play for who?

  Then I laugh uneasily at my own ridiculous imagination. Trees don’t talk.

  Of course, they aren’t supposed to make music either.

  And before I half know what I’m doing, I’ve taken my flute from its case. I feel like I’m trapped in a spell, my brain all fogged up.

  “What should I play?” I whisper.

  The trees don’t answer. But the wind blows again, harder this time, and the leaves sing in response. Listening very close, I can pick out a melody, so soft and faint I might be imagining it.

  It’s a spell I know well: Pachelbel’s Canon, a summoning spell, meant to move an object from one place to another. But what would trees need to summon?

  After a moment of hesitation, I play along. The notes rise from my flute in glowing yellow streamers, coiling and fading. Slow and measured, the same eight notes repeating over and over, a melody with no clear end.

  Is it my imagination, or are the trees echoing the notes back to me, harmonizing with my flute?

  My arms break out in goose bumps.

  When the wind dies down and the trees fall silent, I hold the last note of the spell, then lower my flute. The air around me feels charged and tight. But as the music fades, everything relaxes, until it seems it was all just my mind playing tricks.

  I pack up my flute and hurry to the front of the school. I’m probably not supposed to be back here. And I definitely don’t want to start my year at Mystwick with detention—if they even have detention. I’m beginning to think this place will be nothing like my old school.

  Back in front of Harmony Hall, I see I’ve returned just in time. The other students are heading in, with Miss March waving them through the main doors. I jog up and slip in line behind Amari.

  “Come in, come in,” Miss March says. “Check in with Miss Noorani on your left, then head through the back door to dinner. Hurry, now!”

  We walk into a grand foyer with wood floors and a huge fireplace against the back wall, surrounded by couches and tables, all in warm tones of red and brown and deep purple. Iron chandeliers hang above, and the columns supporting the high ceiling are carved like real trees. In one corner sits a huge, gleaming grand piano, and even though I’m not great at piano, I still sigh with awe when I see it. Above us, three inner balconies overlook the common area. The entire front wall of the hall is made of huge windows, giving incredible views of the lake and mountains.

  Standing on a large rug with music notes all over it, I turn a full circle and take everything in, mouth gaping. I listen to the sounds of the students’ shoes squeaking on the floor, their soft conversations, and from one of the upper floors, the low tone of a cello.

  Just as I e
xpected: perfect acoustics. I bet every room in this school has perfect acoustics, bouncing sound around until it’s as pure and sweet as it can be.

  “Ahem,” says a voice. “Name?”

  I turn around, startled, to see everyone else has finished checking in.

  I recognize the woman, Miss Noorani, from my auditions. She’s the one who smiled at me . . . until I ruined everything. For a moment, it all rushes back—the bungled spell, the mustache man staring angrily at his sudden bounty of facial hair, the poor little tree twisting sideways.

  And I wonder: What did the Maestros see in me? What about me made them overlook the disastrous audition? The questions have been buzzing in my mind ever since I got the acceptance letter, but I haven’t had the guts to really think about them.

  I almost ask Miss Noorani, but then my courage fails. She doesn’t seem to recognize me.

  But when I tell her my name, she gives me a startled look. “Did you say Amelia Jones?”

  “I have my letter.” The paper is soft and wrinkled from me unfolding it so much—as in, twelve times a day and a couple times at night, when I woke up thinking it must all be a dream.

  She takes the acceptance letter and scans it, her brow furrowing. She looks at me again, then down at the papers on her desk.

  My stomach starts to sink.

  She purses her lips, then turns and beckons to Miss March.

  “Take the others on to dinner,” she whispers. “I’ll look after this one.”

  Uh-oh.

  Something is wrong.

  Miss March rounds up the rest of the group and leads them to an open set of doors, through which I can smell the unmistakable aroma of pizza. But my hunger seems to have vanished. I don’t think I could eat so much as a pepperoni.

  Miss Noorani picks up a viola, tucks it under her chin, and plays a quick summoning spell that I don’t recognize. Then, giving me a tired look, she says, “Follow me, dear, and we’ll sort this out.”

  I nod woodenly.

  Miss Noorani leads me through a door and down a hallway, then up a shining spiral staircase. My steps get heavier and heavier. My flute feels like it weighs a ton. I can’t even begin to wonder what the problem is, because if I do, I think I might throw up. So instead I just watch my feet.

  We stop in front of a large door on one of the inner balconies and find three more Maestros waiting there. I recognize them all from my audition: the mustache man, a tall, skinny man, and a short, muscular woman with braided hair.

  “Miss Noorani, we are all exhausted from chasing new students,” says the skinny one. “I hope this is important.”

  “Yes, with all the chaos I almost didn’t hear your summoning spell,” says the lady with the braids, in a strong accent. German, maybe? “What’s wrong?”

  Miss Noorani puts her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry for pulling you all away at such a busy time,” she says. “But I wanted you to meet Amelia Jones.”

  The three Maestros stare.

  “Amelia Jones?” echoes the skinny one. “Amelia Jones?”

  “Why is he saying it like that?” I ask Miss Noorani. “What’s wrong with being Amelia Jones?”

  Oh no. Did Gran change her mind? Did she call the school and demand that I be sent home?

  “Amelia,” Miss Noorani says, “these are the deans of Mystwick.” She introduces them—the skinny one is Mr. Walters, Maestro of brass; the German one is Miss Becker, Maestro of percussion; and the mustache man—his facial hair a lot shorter than it was the last time I saw him—is Mr. Pinwhistle, Maestro of woodwinds.

  Wonderful. He would be in charge of flutes.

  “I, of course, am Maestro of strings,” she adds. “Now, why don’t we all go into the office and see what the headmaestro has to say?”

  Day one, and I’m already being sent to the principal’s office.

  Miss Noorani gestures to the big door behind us. The others nod and head toward it. None of them look annoyed anymore that they were called away—worse, they look grim. Like my arrival is the worst news they’ve had all week.

  What is going on?

  The door takes us up another staircase to a big office. A window on the back wall overlooks the forest beyond, where I played my flute earlier. It’s mostly dark now, and I hear a strange, musical humming that I can’t trace to any source.

  At the center of the room is a desk lit by a stained-glass lamp, and behind it sits the most elegant woman I’ve ever seen. She has warm brown skin and a heart-shaped face. Her hair is twisted in a tall swoop like a piece of art. She’s working at a computer, the blue light of the screen reflecting on her glasses, and there is a cello propped behind her.

  She looks up as we enter, taking off the glasses and blinking at me, then at Miss Noorani. Something jumps from her lap—a sleek, spotted cat with yellow eyes. It runs around the desk and rubs against my legs. I realize it’s the cat who’s humming, repeating a low, simple melody deep in its throat. Faint wisps of gold magic curl around its whiskers and then fade away.

  A musicat!

  I’ve only ever read about the rare species, which, like Jenkins’s parrot, is one of the few types of animals capable of working magic. Leaning down to pet the cat, I hear a cough from Miss Noorani, who shakes her head at me.

  “Better not,” she says. “Wynk tends to purr when you pet him, and his purring has a rather . . . somnolent affect.” She pauses, then adds, “It makes you fall asleep.”

  “Oh.” I withdraw my hand, and settle for watching the musicat as he slithers between my legs and moves on to rub on Mr. Pinwhistle, who grumbles irritably.

  The woman at the desk ignores all of this, instead asking, “What’s wrong, Lila?”

  “A bit of . . . confusion, Mrs. Le Roux.” Miss Noorani hands her my acceptance letter.

  I stand very still while Euphonia Le Roux, headmaestro of the Mystwick School of Musicraft, reads the letter that bears her own signature at the bottom. She takes her time, until the other Maestros start to fidget. Wynk hums and licks his paw.

  Finally, Mrs. Le Roux lowers the letter with a long sigh.

  “Amelia Jones,” she says. “Well, this is a development.”

  I look up at her pleadingly. “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  Mrs. Le Roux stands up and circles her desk. She folds her arms, my letter pinched between her fingers, and studies me like I’m a dog that sat up and asked her for the weekly forecast.

  “Miss Jones, I’m sure you understand that each year we audition thousands of students all over the world.”

  I nod. Will she just get to the point?

  “Because we see so many children, it’s inevitable that we usually see several with the . . . same name.”

  I suck in a breath, as the floor seems to fall out from under me. I understand at once what she means.

  That letter was never mine at all.

  This was all a huge mistake.

  Because I’m the wrong Amelia Jones.

  Chapter Seven

  The World Tuned Upside Down

  THE ROOM SEEMS TO SPIN. I concentrate very hard on not throwing up on the headmaestro’s expensive-looking shoes.

  “Perhaps I ought to explain further,” she says. “You see, a young lady also by the name of Amelia Jones—a remarkable pianist of uncommon skill—entered our Los Angeles auditions two months ago. Then, a few weeks later, she embarked on a yachting trip with her parents in the Maldives. Tragically, a storm capsized their boat and everyone on board was lost.”

  “Oh,” I say in a very small voice. “That’s terrible. That poor girl.”

  For a moment I forget all my worries and instead imagine this other Amelia Jones, terrified for her life as waves crash all around. While I was worrying about my audition, she was drowning.

  “This occurred the same day the Mystwick acceptance letters were sent out via a finding spell,” Mrs. Le Roux explains. “And I imagine when this letter”—she waves the paper that I’ve treasured like gold—“was unable
to find Miss Jones—uh, the other Miss Jones—it found you instead.”

  “A terrible misunderstanding,” says Miss Noorani. “Made possible only by the most extreme of circumstances.”

  I don’t know what to say. I can hardly think straight, but I know what this means.

  I’m only here by accident. I was never supposed to be here at all.

  I should have known. I should have seen this coming a million miles away. After the audition I had? Why would they want me?

  My face flushes with embarrassment that I had ever imagined I might be good enough for this place. All those years devoted to a single dream, only to have it taken away from me twice in one summer. First, the disastrous audition, now this.

  I can’t even begin to think about how I’ll tell Gran.

  But then . . .

  My heart skips a beat, and I curl my hands into fists.

  Why should I have to tell her anything at all? Why should I have to go home?

  I came all this way, and I know, I know I can be good enough. Maybe not now, but if they just let me try, I could get better. I could be what they want me to be. I could do or become anything if it meant being a part of Mystwick.

  This is the first time in my life that I’ve felt this close to my mother. It’s like her presence is here, in the walls and in the trees and in the light glittering on the lake. This was the place she loved best, and if there’s anywhere in the world I will discover more about who she was and who I am, it has to be here.

  I look the headmaestro in the eye.

  “If the other Amelia Jones isn’t coming,” I say, “then that means there’s an available spot.”

  In the silence which follows, Mrs. Le Roux winces.

  “Well,” says Miss Noorani, hastily stepping in, “that’s true, but . . . that spot is technically for a pianist, not a flutist, and besides, there is a waiting list.”

  “And you’re not exactly at the top of that list,” grunts Mr. Pinwhistle. His hands goes to his mustache. “I remember your audition, young lady. And I don’t remember many auditions. Disastrous! One of the worst I’ve seen.”