The Mystwick School of Musicraft Read online

  I swallow hard. “I can do better, I promise. Just give me a shot. I’ll prove I’m good enough.”

  “That’s not how it works,” he replies. “Mystwick has a reputation for finding the very best, most talented young musicians in the world, and you are not—”

  “Mr. Pinwhistle, that will do,” Miss Noorani cuts in. “Amelia, I’m sorry, but this is out of our control.”

  I start to feel tears, but I blink them away. I will not cry in front of them. I won’t let them think I’m a pathetic crybaby, in addition to being the worst audition they’ve ever seen.

  “Aren’t you all in charge of this school? Why can’t you just let me try?”

  “This school has traditions that have been here far longer than us,” says Mrs. Le Roux in a stern voice. “It has functions we cannot control.”

  “Such as those annoying humfrogs in the lake,” says Mr. Walters.

  “And the squeaky doorknob in my office that’s always spelling itself shut and locking me in,” grumbles Mr. Pinwhistle.

  “And the echo trees,” adds Miss Becker.

  “And the order in which students are granted acceptance to the school,” finishes Mrs. Le Roux.

  Something niggles at me. I frown, looking out the window at the forest. “The echo trees. Is that what they’re called?”

  Miss Noorani arches her eyebrows. “You’ve seen them?”

  “I heard them too,” I say sadly. “They’re like living music. We played Canon together.”

  The Maestros all stare at me.

  Mrs. Le Roux presses her hand to her lips.

  “You played a spell with the echo trees?” she asks in a very soft voice.

  I shrug. “They asked me to. Or someone did. I heard a voice telling me to play for them. So I did. I’m sorry if I wasn’t supposed to.”

  I’m not really sorry, though. If that’s to be my only good memory of this place, then I’m not sorry at all. Maybe I’ll sneak back there and play again.

  What can they do? Kick me out twice?

  All the Maestros are looking at me like I just admitted to some terrible crime. I didn’t hurt anything, did I? It was just a little music.

  “To be clear,” says Miss Noorani, “you played Pachelbel’s Canon in D at the edge of the Echo Wood?”

  “I said I’m sorry,” I mumble.

  They look at each other, then back at me.

  Then Mr. Walters says, “Do you think . . .”

  And Miss Noorani replies, “We have to check.”

  I look at each of them, confused. “What did I do?”

  But it’s like no one hears me. They turn to each other instead.

  “This is completely unforeseen,” Mr. Pinwhistle says. “The whole situation. It’s unprecedented!”

  “Yes,” replies Miss Noorani. “But this is a school of Musicraft. Our mix-ups generally do have odd and unpredictable consequences.”

  I guess I’m the odd and unpredictable consequence she means.

  “Well, we’d better see what the damage is,” sighs Mrs. Le Roux.

  Mr. Pinwhistle, Mr. Walters, and Miss Becker excuse themselves in order to get back to the other students, after making Miss Noorani promise to fill them in later.

  Fill them in on what? I want to ask.

  Miss Noorani and Mrs. Le Roux lead me out of the office and down the stairs. We stop at another door, this one locked tight. Mrs. Le Roux opens it with a large key, and then we’re walking onto the grass behind the school, near the amphi­theater I saw earlier. Ahead, the Echo Wood waits in silence and darkness. The air is much chillier than it was when the zeppelin arrived, and I shiver, despite my jacket.

  “I don’t understand what’s wrong,” I say. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Hush now,” orders Mrs. Le Roux. “We will see what we will see. Miss Noorani?”

  Miss Noorani nods and holds up her viola, striking a quick tune that produces three bobbing spheres of blue light. One hovers over each of our heads, lighting the grass around us as we walk.

  When we reach the edge of the trees, the Maestros begin looking all around. They walk this way and that, illuminated by their glowing blue light-balls, while I stand there like a dummy with no idea what they’re doing. I hug my flute case and wait, tapping one foot. Whenever I move, my little light moves with me, casting dancing shadows all around.

  Overhead, a gentle breeze curls through the canopy, and the faint music hums and then fades, like violins testing their strings before falling silent. A brief dusting of magic lights the trees then dissipates.

  Then Miss Noorani shouts, “Here!”

  Mrs. Le Roux and I hurry over to where Miss Noorani is pointing at something on the ground. I don’t see it until I step around her—and then I gasp.

  “Recognize this?” she asks me.

  I nod, unable to believe my eyes. “That’s . . . my audition tree.”

  I’d recognize it anywhere. It’s a little taller than it was six weeks ago, yet it’s just as crooked, stuck forever in a low bow. But it looks healthy, even if it is shaped funny. It has more leaves now, and they’re green and glossy, shining in the blue lights suspended over us. The soil around it is fresh and damp, like it was just planted there.

  “It’s an echo tree?” I ask.

  “Yes,” replies Miss Noorani. “Echo trees are special. They thrive on music.”

  “But most important of all,” adds Mrs. Le Roux, “they protect the school and everyone inside. You see, their natural music is Canon, a summoning spell. Many people think Pachelbel Composed it, but really, he only recorded it after discovering a grove of these trees. And when you change a summoning spell to a parallel key, in this case, D major to D minor—”

  “—​it reverses and becomes a repelling spell,” I whisper. “The trees change key?”

  “Yes, the moment any unwanted visitor sets foot in the forest, they’re repelled.” She reaches out and puts her hand against one of the bigger trees, smiling up at it. “Better than any electric security system.”

  She says electric like it’s an affront to magic.

  “So . . . how did my tree end up here?”

  “You put it there yourself.” She points to a building I’d not noticed before, a large greenhouse that reflects the moonlight.

  We walk over to it and find the door hanging open. Inside are rows and rows of shelves, and on the shelves are a lot of small pots, each holding a little echo tree. I notice right away that most of them are very straight and perfect, the way little echo trees ought to look.

  Not at all like mine.

  Miss Noorani hunts down the shelves until she finds an empty spot.

  “Here it sat,” she said, “until you played the trees’ summoning spell. Then it would have flown out and planted itself with the other trees.”

  “Tomorrow,” says Mrs. Le Roux, “we will hold a grand Planting Ceremony, in which all the new students will add their trees to the Echo Wood.”

  Miss Noorani nods. “Every tree in the forest represents a student of Mystwick, most of them long since graduated.”

  So . . . somewhere in this forest is a tree planted by my mom.

  “What about the rest of these little trees?” I ask. “There are a lot more than a hundred here.”

  “Well, we never throw them out until we’re certain who will be in our new class. There are often a few dropouts just before the term begins. That’s why we don’t send rejection letters till next week.”

  “Which is why I never got one,” I mutter. “Well, unless you’re going to rip up my tree, I guess at least a part of me will always be here. That’s something, anyway.”

  The Maestros exchange a long look, and then Miss Noorani takes my hand in hers.

  “Amelia,” she says softly, “I don’t think you understand.”

  “Understand what? I know I have to go home.”

  She shakes her head. “Like we said earlier, not everything in this school is ours to control. By planting your tree in the Echo Wood, you�
�ve come under the forest’s protection. If you leave the school now, your tree will wilt and the protective barrier around the campus will weaken, making everyone inside vulnerable. There are only two ways to safely leave Mystwick for good—by graduating or by being expelled, either because you chose to drop out or because you broke enough rules.”

  Mrs. Le Roux nods. “And expulsion is a difficult process. It takes an entire orchestra of Maestros playing very complicated and taxing spells to forcefully remove a tree from the wood. We only do it when absolutely necessary, for it causes a great deal of strain on both us and the forest.”

  I lick my lips, my heart seeming to stand still. “So . . . what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, Amelia Jones, that accident or no, you’re a part of Mystwick now. And you’re not going anywhere.”

  “I’m . . . not?” I suddenly feel lighter than air, like I could float right up into the sky.

  “At least not yet,” Mrs. Le Roux adds, and my stomach sinks a little. “I will make a deal with you, Miss Jones. I will give you two months, in which you will participate in all your classes and activities as if you were a normal student. And at the end of those two months, if you pass an exam I myself will administer, then you will be allowed to stay on. For good. But fail that exam, and you will be expelled, so that another, worthier student might have your place.”

  She exchanges a look with Miss Noorani, who nods in agreement.

  “Well?” Mrs. Le Roux says, extending one elegant hand toward me. “Do we have a deal?”

  I stare at her hand a moment.

  But I already know I don’t have to think twice about my answer.

  If it’s a perfect musician they want, then it’s a perfect musician they’ll get.

  I shake the headmaestro’s hand.

  Chapter Eight

  Requiem for a Roommate

  THE GIRLS’ DORM is a long timber-frame building overlooking the lake, with a wide front porch lined with rocking chairs. Miss Noorani escorts me there, where all the other seventh-grade girls are settling into their rooms. We stop outside the door, and I can hear giggling and shouting inside.

  “If you need anything, ask for Phoebe. She’s your senior captain.” Miss Noorani gives me a black bag. “I found a uniform and shoes that ought to fit, and here is your room key. Oh, and the cafeteria will send over a sack dinner for you soon, since you missed the evening meal. Good luck, dear!”

  She hands me a little wooden whistle with three holes in it. It’s the oddest-looking key I’ve ever seen.

  Drawing a deep breath, I head into the dorm.

  At least the Maestros are keeping this between me and them. The other students never have to know that I accidentally got accepted into Mystwick. I just have to blend in for the next two months, focus on my studies, and all of this will blow over.

  This may have started as a big mistake. But I can fix it, if I can just stop being the Amelia who screwed up her audition, and instead become someone better. More talented. More disciplined. More like the other students. I’ll practice every single hour of the day. I won’t miss any classes. I’ll do every extra credit assignment.

  I am not going to give them a single reason to expel me.

  From here on, Amelia Jones will be known as the Perfect Student.

  Inside the dorm, I find a scene of chaos, girls running up and down the hallway, dragging suitcases, yelling for dibs on showers. Quietly, I take my key and go from door to door, listening to the others squeal when they find the doors their whistles open. Victoria and Amari discover they’re roommates and immediately start planning how they’ll decorate their room.

  An older, blond girl who must be Phoebe sees me standing in the hallway like a dummy, my eyes wide and probably looking totally overwhelmed. She looks pretty worn out herself, her cheeks flushed and her ponytail half fallen down.

  “What’s your name, guppy?” she asks in a tired Australian accent.

  “Amelia,” I say, my voice little more than a squeak under all the noise. “Amelia Jones.”

  “Right, then, you’re down at the end in the—”

  “What did you say?” hisses a voice right behind me.

  I turn around and see a girl standing there, wearing a blue dress, her black, silky hair cut to her shoulders, framing her dark eyes and narrow face.

  “Um—” I start.

  The girl’s hand darts out and grabs my shoulder. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Uh . . .” I swallow hard, not sure why my stomach suddenly feels like it’s flooded with scrambling mice. “My name is Amelia. Amelia Jones.”

  The girl sucks in a breath and her eyes fill with tears. Bewildered, I step back, bumping into Phoebe.

  “Hey,” Phoebe says, staring in shock at the girl. “C’mon, now, no tears on day one. Little early to be homesick, don’t you think?”

  “I thought—” The girl’s face is very pale. “When I heard that name, I thought it was—”

  With that she turns and runs out of the dorm altogether, pushing through the other girls.

  Phoebe sighs. “What the heck was that about?”

  Another student answers, one of the ones the girl pushed on her way out. I remember this one from our zeppelin, and because her name alliterates: Claudia the clarinetist from Canada. “That was Darby,” she says. “I didn’t think she’d still come to school, not after what happened to Amelia Jones.”

  “What?” I whisper.

  “Everyone at dinner was talking about it,” says Claudia. “She and Darby were best friends. They used to go to the same Musicraft camp as me, and they were always together.”

  “Oh, right,” Phoebe says. “I heard about that girl. She was some kind of piano prodigy. Real sad story.”

  Immediately I feel sorry for the girl in the blue dress. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose your best friend, and only a month ago. They were supposed to come here together.

  No wonder she looked at me like I was a ghost.

  I groan and rub my face.

  “So . . .” Phoebe pats my shoulder awkwardly. “Two Amelia Joneses. Weird coincidence. You all right, then?”

  “Yeah . . .” I look down at my shoes, feeling like a total fraud. Maybe it’s not my fault, but it is true that if she hadn’t died, I wouldn’t even be here at all. As far as any of the other kids know, I got here the same way the rest of them did: by being a good musician. Though Claudia is giving me a suspicious look. I quickly turn away, before she can see the guilt in my eyes.

  Phoebe shows me my room, which is at the end of the hall, the door shut. There are two silver nameplates nailed to it, one blank, the other with the name Hamako Bradshaw. Leaving me to it, Phoebe goes to check on the crying girl.

  Taking a deep breath, I raise the whistle to my lips and blow, covering each hole in slow succession the way I’ve seen the other girls do, producing three smooth notes: C–E–E♭. It’s a haunting little tune, but I hear a click and look up to see the door creaking open in response, and on the blank nameplate, letters materialize: AMELIA JONES.

  I look at my own name uneasily and wonder if it even is my own name. Or was this room also meant for the other Amelia? Am I just inheriting an entire life that was never supposed to be mine, from a spot at this school to the pillow I’ll sleep on?

  With a little shiver, I step inside and look around. The space is long and narrow, with a bed on either wall and a desk at each end. A sign reads PRACTICE IN DESIGNATED ROOMS ONLY! ABSOLUTELY NO MUSIC IN THE DORMS! Noting an old scorch mark on the ceiling, I wonder how many people set fires or unleashed floods in their room before they had to make that rule.

  My duffel bag is waiting on the floor. Beside it sits a suitcase—expensive, black, and polished—along with two instrument cases, one for an oboe and another I don’t recognize. Snooping outright, I peek inside and see a kind of wooden flute. Some students, I learned on the zeppelin, bring secondary instruments that they get special tutoring with. Whoever Hamako is, she’s c
learly very talented.

  I run my hands over the desks, feeling the grooves and dents from generations of students bearing down too hard with their pencils. Opening the bag Miss March gave me, I take out my very own Mystwick uniform. I unfold the sweater vest with the school crest on the front; it’s just like the one my mom was wearing in her graduation picture. Holding it now, I can almost feel her standing behind me. Which room was hers? Did she have a view of the forest or the lake? What if she even had this room?

  I stand up and go to the window, staring at the water, beginning to smile.

  Maybe I didn’t get here the same way as everyone else, but I’m here.

  All I have to do is prove I deserve to stay.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” says a voice.

  I whirl around, startled.

  The girl from the hallway, Darby, is standing in the door, her gaze boring into me and her whistle-key glinting in her hand. Her eyes are still red from crying.

  “Um, hello,” I say. “I’m not sure you got the right room.”

  She jabs her finger at Hamako Bradshaw’s nameplate. “Darby’s my middle name. So. You’re the replacement, then?”

  My heart jumps into my throat. “W-what?” How does she know my secret already? Am I that guilty-looking?

  “My replacement roommate,” she says flatly. “Since my original one died.”

  “Oh,” I say weakly, only a little relieved. “Uh . . . I guess so.”

  So I didn’t just take the other Amelia’s dorm room.

  I inherited her roommate too.

  Chapter Nine

  A Perfect Harmony

  I’M AWOKEN IN THE MIDDLE of the night by a blast of trumpets.

  Startled, I jolt out of my narrow dorm bed and fall to the floor, tangled in my blanket, eyes gritty with sleep.

  “What the heck?” groans Darby.

  It’s pitch-black outside, and the only light comes from Darby’s alarm clock, which reads 5:30 a.m. In its green glow, I can make out her vague form as she sits up.