The Mystwick School of Musicraft Read online

  “It sounds like a marching band,” I say. “Or . . . a marching orchestra?”

  She just grunts.

  I stumble to the window and see a group of people standing on the grass by the lake, lit by the blue light curling up from their instruments. Fog drifts on the surface of the water, and the moon is low behind the trees, full and shining.

  It’s the Maestros, not just the four I met at auditions, but a whole orchestra of them, probably all the teachers in the school. Their illusion spell sends fireworks zinging into the air, where they burst with big, colorful pops. The music is loud and robust, a crashing cacophony of notes that quickens my pulse and startles the sleep from my eyes. Trombones and trumpets and strings, cymbals and tubas, a man with a huge bass drum that sends deep rolling booms across the grounds. Even the cellists and bassists walk along, their instruments in harnesses against their chests.

  I press my hand to the window and feel the vibrations of each resounding beat, shivering up my arms and echoing in my rib cage.

  I turn back to Darby. “What in the world—”

  A pounding on our door makes us both jump. Before we can move, it’s thrown open and Phoebe fills the doorway, clutching her clarinet case.

  “Grab your instruments, guppies!” she shouts around the reed jammed between her lips. “You have thirty seconds to meet us outside!”

  “What?” Darby gropes for her oboe case. “But—”

  “Move!” bellows Phoebe. Then she’s gone, banging on Amari and Victoria’s door.

  We don’t even have time to change. I trip over Darby’s flute case and knock it over, and she yelps and grabs it, glaring at me.

  “That’s a family heirloom!” she snaps, as she tucks it safely under her bed. “My great-grandfather played this shakuhachi!”

  “I’m sorry!”

  She pushes past me, muttering under her breath in Japanese.

  Bleary and stumbling, Darby and I make our way down the hallway with dozens of other bewildered, pajama-clad seventh-grade girls. I bump into one lugging a cello and mumble an apology.

  “This is ridiculous,” says Claudia, the clarinetist. “Our first orientation class isn’t until nine. This is inhumane!”

  “Your breath is inhumane,” Hana retorts, wrinkling her nose. “Point it in another direction, please.”

  Claudia glares at her.

  “Wasn’t there supposed to be some sort of ceremony this morning?” asks Rabiah.

  “The Planting Ceremony,” I say, remembering that the headmaestro had mentioned it.

  Outside, we see the boys coming from their dorm across campus, just as confused as we are. Some of them aren’t even wearing shirts, hugging themselves in the cold air. Their dorm captains lead the way with flashlights.

  I spot Jai and wave, and he waves back excitedly. His matching pajamas have music notes all over them. The light from the Maestro’s fireworks illuminates his face: blue then red then green.

  The Maestros start marching across the lawn, still playing their spell, while we students look at each other, shrug, and fall in line behind them. Fireworks pop and crackle above us, reflecting off the windows of the buildings. The dorm captains herd any slow students into line and help the double bassists and tubists with their heavy cases.

  We walk for a few minutes in the dark until we finally come to the Echo Wood and the amphitheater behind Harmony Hall. The greenhouse is behind us. Everything is dim and foggy, but the sky is faintly gray now. It’ll be morning soon.

  The Maestros gather on the stage while the captains sort us into roughly equal groups: strings, percussion, woodwind, and brass. Some instruments are already set up and waiting for their students—the pianos, drums, xylophones, and other large pieces. I find myself sitting between Claudia, with her clarinet, and Darby, with her oboe.

  Then my attention is drawn away by the Maestros, who finish their spell with a mighty crescendo, sending up a dizzying spray of fireworks. We all stand up and cheer as the sparks dance and fade around us. Only Darby stands in silence, her face flat.

  Miss Noorani then plays a soft melody on her viola, and behind us, a long row of fire suddenly shoots from a curved channel above the bleachers, just a foot away from me. Several students cry out, startled, but the fire doesn’t give off heat. I hold a hand into the flames, watching them lick my palm. The fire illusion smells sweet, like vanilla.

  “What are you doing?” Claudia hisses.

  I withdraw my hand, showing her that it’s unharmed. “It’s just an illusion. Not real fire.”

  The flames illuminate Mrs. Le Roux as she steps forward. She is dressed in a long burgundy gown, her lips painted to match. Her hair is twisted into a bun and spiked with long feathers, and gold earrings brush her shoulders. Her musicat, Wynk, is at her side, licking his paw and watching us with glowing yellow eyes.

  Miss Noorani finishes her spell and lowers the viola.

  “Students of Mystwick,” begins Mrs. Le Roux, in her deep, soothing voice. Firelight glints on her earrings and the rings on her fingers. “From all over the world you have come, bringing your own unique music to add to our symphony. We hope you will come to think of this place as a home.”

  There are tears in my eyes. I brush them away, before anyone can see. Stupid, crying at some rehearsed speech, I know. But I think of my mother standing here years ago, hearing this same speech under these same trees, and something in me crumbles.

  I’ve never felt this close to her since she died. Ever since I went to live with Gran, it’s like I’ve been searching for some way to reach Mom, and now, for the first time, I feel like she’s here. It’s almost as if she’s standing right beside me now, as if I could reach out and touch her.

  I may have gotten here by accident, but I’m going to fight to stay. I’m going to fight like I never have before.

  Miss Becker begins a tight drumroll, which ends when another Maestro clashes a pair of cymbals. Then Mrs. Le Roux raises her hands.

  “Welcome, Aeros!” She gestures to us woodwind instruments, and the kids around me let out whistles. I join in, following their lead.

  “Welcome, Percussos!” The percussionists stomp their feet in a thunderous roar, and when Mrs. Le Roux calls on them, the Chordos (Jai’s group of string instruments) make a buzzing sound, and the brass players—or Labrosos—give loud whoops, like a gang of monkeys, until the rest of us roll our eyes and shout at them to shut up.

  “These are the four classes that comprise our student body,” Mrs. Le Roux says, smiling as we settle down, “and your classmates are your brothers and sisters. There will be times when magic demands everything from you. It is then you will look to each other for strength, for as the Fourth Rule of Musicraft states . . .” She holds out a hand to us expectantly.

  In unison, we say, “The more who join into the spell, the greater will its power swell.”

  She nods. “We, your Maestros, are here to guide you, but it is the students on your right and your left who will be your support and strength. The friendships you forge at Mystwick will endure for the rest of your lives.”

  I glance at Darby.

  She stares hard at Mrs. Le Roux.

  The headmaestro gestures to Miss Noorani and Mr. Pinwhistle and the others, who step forward and ready their instruments. “The great echo trees behind me represent every student who has gone before you, as well as your teachers here at the school, and now you’ll add your own trees to the forest. Join together in a rendition of Canon in D Major, and think of your own echo trees taking root in the wood, making you forever a part of this place and the Mystwick family.”

  She flicks a hand, a Conducting baton appearing from her sleeve. Everyone scrambles to take out their instruments, quickly tuning up. No one has told me whether or not I should play, given that my tree is already planted.

  I hold my flute uncertainly, face warming, until I hear a soft cough behind me. Turning, I see Miss March, the lady who met our zeppelin last night.

  “You too, Amelia,
” she says. “This spell is for all who have a place in the Echo Wood, and you are part of its music now too.”

  I smile and nod, and try to believe her.

  Finally, Mrs. Le Roux nods to Miss Noorani, who raises her viola and draws her bow over the strings. The eight solemn notes of Canon sound out, rich tones made eerie by the darkness.

  Then Mrs. Le Roux turns and motions for us to join in.

  One by one, the other kids slip into the spell. I wait a few breaths, then add my flute’s silver tones to the rest.

  We’ve never played together before, and I think most of us had never even met each other till yesterday. But Canon in D is one of the most basic of summoning spells, so we make it work with Mrs. Le Roux guiding us along. Though she isn’t playing an instrument herself, as Conductor she is the heart of the spell, knitting all our magic threads into a whole, making sure we play together. Conducting is an entire skill unto itself, and not many musicians have it.

  I manage to keep up, but I start noticing the other flutists begin to thread complicated runs and trills into the spell. Watching them, I start to get nervous.

  I told the Maestros I could prove I belonged here.

  But that was before I realized how good the other students are.

  Some, like me, follow Miss Noorani with the melody, but many break away to add their own harmonies and counter­melodies, showing off their dexterity and creativity. Several of the strings players lift their bows and instead pluck notes or tap rhythms. The pianists make use of the full range of their keys. A few students go high and sweet, jumping octaves, while those with bass instruments provide a deep, resonating foundation. No showy trills from me—I won’t be the one who ruined the entire Planting Ceremony by getting my fingers all twisted up. I’m not even sure I could manage some of the gymnastics the other flutists are doing with their fingers. So I focus on Mrs. Le Roux’s baton, following the simple melody.

  And if anyone gets too creative, Mrs. Le Roux reins them in with a look and a small, disapproving tilt of her chin. Somehow, she keeps everyone under control and in sync, and though we sound a bit messy at first, the spell begins to even out as each of us finds our place and tempo.

  Then, it’s as if everything clicks, and our individual spells merge into one. All our instruments weave and blend together, until goose bumps run down my arms at the beauty and immensity of the combined sounds.

  The melody is every spell’s heart, giving the magic structure and direction. It’s the most important part of any piece. But beneath the melody are harmonies, adding strength to the spell. One flute playing alone might move a branch, but a five-piece ensemble might move a tree. A full orchestra of Maestros could move a forest.

  It isn’t long before the spell begins to work, and magic rises all around us.

  I’ve never played with an orchestra this big—just the small Musicraft classes back at my old school. So I’m not prepared for the brilliance of the light that springs from our instruments. It’s like watching a fireworks display.

  No, scratch that—it’s like being a fireworks display.

  In golden curls and yellow spirals and twisting threads the magic rises, shimmering before fading into the air. From the students who add complicated scales and arpeggios to the harmony, the lights peel away in tight curly strands. From the slower notes, like the ones my flute is producing, they rise in smooth streams. The percussionists give off bursts of color, crackling balls of light that dance over our heads. Wisps of magic curl around Mrs. Le Roux’s baton and hover at her shoulders like curious butterflies.

  I’ve never seen anything this beautiful. It makes my chest ache. And to top it off, the sun begins to rise behind us, its fiery glow spreading across the forest canopy.

  Sensing movement above, I look up and see little pots floating overhead.

  The echo trees!

  As if suspended on invisible strings, they glide through the air and dip to the ground behind Mrs. Le Roux and the other Maestros, who are playing along with us. There’s one for each student, summoned by their music. They pop out of their pots and burrow into the earth.

  I manage to spot my little tree—it’s not hard to recognize, as it’s the only one jutting at a right angle halfway up. Quickly I look away, as if someone might guess that the crooked tree is mine. My cheeks warm with embarrassment at how ridiculous it looks alongside all the others.

  But at least it’s there. And right now, it’s the only reason I’m standing here.

  This has to be the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen: over a hundred individual summoning spells merging together into one great protective ward, like many threads woven into one fabric.

  At last, the spell reaches its end and Mrs. Le Roux drops her hands, signaling for us to lower our instruments.

  Only in the silence that follows do we hear the echo trees singing, faint and mellow, that sound like instruments being tuned. For a minute, we all listen in awe.

  I hear a loud sniffle, and glance aside to see Darby with tears in her eyes.

  “Hey,” I whisper, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  She gives me a scowl and pulls away, and I grimace, remembering that even looking at me probably reminds her of her Amelia. I’ve got to be the last person in the world who could make her feel better.

  “Musicians,” says Mrs. Le Roux, raising both hands toward us. “Welcome to Mystwick.”

  * * *

  We walk back to the dorms through a thin layer of fog, as the rising sun chases away the morning chill. The Maestros have disappeared. Our captains walk together, flirting and laughing with each other. A couple of kids start calling dibs on showers.

  Then Phoebe whistles sharply. We all gather around her and the other seniors. They’re grinning—and not in a nice way. More like a hungry, sneaky way that immediately puts me on my guard.

  “Listen up, guppies!” she says. “Now that the boring stuff is over, it’s time to really initiate you into the Mystwick family. This part is fully optional, but you should know . . .” She drops her voice so we all have to crane to hear her. “Every student who wimped out in the past eventually met a grisly death.”

  Someone in the back gives a frightened squeak.

  Claudia rolls her eyes. “That’s a lie.”

  “Is it?” Phoebe looks straight at her, eyes narrowing, and Claudia pales.

  “What are we supposed to do?” asks Jai eagerly.

  Phoebe grins. She holds out a finger and points it like she’s playing eeny, meeny, miny, mo. In a singsong voice she says, “You have to face your deepest fears, unearth your darkest secrets, and . . .” Her finger lands on me. She tilts her head. “Can you swim, shorty?”

  I blink. “Wh-what? Yeah, but why—”

  She suddenly bursts forward, throws me over her shoulder, and then runs down the hill toward the lake.

  I’m so startled I can’t even struggle. As I bounce on Phoebe’s shoulder, I gape at the other students. Without slowing, Phoebe pounds across a little dock, skids to a halt, then shouts, “Welcome to Mystwick, guppy!”

  Then she pulls my flute case out of my hands and tosses me into the lake.

  I hit with a splash, and that water is cold. It closes over my head and pulls me under.

  Sinking in a cloud of bubbles, I feel a sudden burst of panic in my chest. My muscles seize up and my lungs squeeze tight like the water’s electrified. The deeper I sink, the darker it gets, until I can’t even see my own hands.

  A strange memory takes hold of me: dark water, my hands—too small, the hands of a child—reaching, reaching, for something I can’t quite grasp. A swift current sweeps me down, down into black murky depths.

  It’s a memory I didn’t even know I had.

  And now it fills me with fear and panic and desperation.

  As I claw my way upward, my lungs squeeze and my head reels. I know how to swim, but I still feel like I’m drowning. Like the water has got me in its teeth and it’s not going to let go. I fight ag
ainst it, a scream locked in my mind.

  Then, finally, I break through the surface, sucking down air and finding myself in a beam of sunlight. The dark memory fades away.

  Gasping, I start paddling back to the dock as fast as I can, but then I see a flood of students running toward it. I shriek and dive under as they all jump over my head, flipping, falling, and cannonballing into the water. When I pop back up, almost all the other seventh graders are splashing and swimming around me, squealing at how cold it is. Phoebe helps Victoria into the water, and then the captains jump in, whooping, looking for seventh graders to dunk.

  Pull it together, Amelia.

  Maybe that wasn’t a memory at all. Maybe it was just a moment of panic from the surprise of being chucked into a freezing lake. Still, it takes a few minutes before the shakiness leaves me. The lake starts to feel a little warmer, and the rising sun turns it to liquid gold. I try to enjoy the swim, basking in the beauty of the setting.

  I’m determined to enjoy this day, no matter what.

  But then I see Darby sitting on the dock, by Victoria’s empty wheelchair. Darby’s legs dangle over the side, and she watches her reflection as if the rest of us aren’t even here.

  I know she’s thinking of Amelia Jones.

  My gut twists. I didn’t even know the other Amelia Jones existed until yesterday, but we are connected in such a big way. We have the same name, and I have her acceptance letter. I’m even rooming with her best friend. It’s like I took over the life she was supposed to have.

  I wonder what Other Amelia would think of me taking her place. I wonder if she dreamed about this day for as long as I have. And I realize then that if it would bring that other Amelia back, I’d give all of this up in a heartbeat. It belongs to her, not me. I didn’t earn this. She did.

  But I’ve never heard of a spell that can bring back the dead.

  Chapter Ten

  A Tough Octave to Follow

  LATER THAT DAY, the older students start arriving. The Mystwick campus, which had seemed so huge and empty and quiet, now fills up with noisy kids who call out to each other, greeting friends they haven’t seen all summer. They walk around like they own the campus, knowing exactly where to go and how to get there. I, on the other hand, feel like an actual guppy, flitting between schools of much bigger, louder fish. But that’s okay, because all I want right now is to blend in until the Maestros can’t possibly tell me apart from everyone else.