Authors: Marissa Burt
S
now was on her way to grab a quick lunch before class when her mother caught up with her in the middle of the quad.
“Professor,” Snow said, and nodded at her. Her mother had never sought her out during the week before.
“I’ve been looking for you, Snow.” Professor Thornhill’s usually smooth face was creased with worry. “I don’t think it can wait.” She touched Snow’s shoulder lightly and steered her toward an iron bench.
“I don’t have long,” Snow said. What was she supposed to do, drop everything just because her mother had come to find her? Over the weekend her mother had met the strange man at the cathedral again. But this morning when Snow asked if she had a nice break, her mother claimed to have spent the whole time on campus. Snow pursed her lips and sat stiffly on the edge of the bench.
Professor Thornhill folded her hands in her lap. “I’ll get straight to the point. Why is Mr. Elton interested in you?”
Snow stared down at her hands. “I don’t know what you mean.” She fidgeted with her satchel. Why should she feel guilty for agreeing to help Elton? Her mother was the one who was sneaking around and lying about it.
I’m not doing anything wrong.
She stuck out her chin and stared defiantly into her mother’s eyes. Eyes that always looked sad.
“Snow, he is an evil man,” she said.
Snow laughed at this. “He’s a stupid old fool, but he’s not evil.”
Her mother didn’t argue. Instead she said, “Whatever he’s asked you to do, please don’t do it.”
Snow stared hard at her mother. “Are you two having some sort of . . . fight?” she asked slowly.
Her mother brushed at her skirt and shook her head. “Snow, that’s really none of your business. The point is: he’s evil. And he must be stopped. Please. Don’t do whatever it is he wants you to do.”
Snow stiffened. “I hardly think his requests are evil.”
“So he
has
asked you to do something.”
Snow looked into her mother’s sad eyes and said, “That’s really none of your business.”
Her mother flinched.
Snow stood. “I have to go.”
When she glanced back at the bench, she saw her mother folded over, her head in her hands. Well, let her be upset! Why was she trying to interfere with Snow’s life anyway? What did she expect? A cozy little chat?
Why sure, Professor, we can talk about dresses and boys and, oh yeah, where you’ve been for the past thirteen years.
She walked briskly across the quad. It wasn’t like she was telling Elton anything important. Besides, as much as she hated Elton, she could understand what it was like to have someone not like you back. Didn’t she feel like slapping Una’s smug little face whenever she saw her laughing with Peter? And Elton had it worse than she did. He must have really fallen hard for her mother. His suits hung a little looser these days, and his face looked gray and old. Maybe she would toss him a bone. It would probably make his day if she told him her mother had asked after him. Was her mother still sitting on the bench? Snow resisted the urge to look over her shoulder. Instead, she held her head up high and didn’t turn back.
Una stifled a groan when Snow popped through the Villainy classroom door and slid into the seat next to her. Neither said anything, and Una felt lucky that their mutual silence was holding outside of their dorm room. A tiny woman dressed in a black jumpsuit swept in next, a line of students emptying into their seats behind her with a minimum of fuss. Somewhere, a class bell rang.
The woman had a veil over her face that bobbed as she clapped her hands. “Good afternoon, class. I am Mrs. Underwood, and I will be substituting for Professor Thornhill, who was called away unexpectedly. I hope you have come prepared for a practical lesson today.” It was an ordinary enough sentence, but Una drew in her breath when she heard it. Something about Mrs. Underwood’s voice compelled Una to listen and want to do what she said.
“The power of the human voice to enchant its hearer is one essential to Villain and Hero alike,” Mrs. Underwood said.
Una didn’t know whether it was an enchantment or a magic trick, but she craned her head with the rest of the students. Mrs. Underwood settled herself in the front corner of the room. Where was Thornhill? And what had she been doing last night at the Talekeeper Club
?
“Today, we will have a Battle of Words,” Mrs. Underwood announced, her rich voice at once beckoning and commanding. An excited whisper ran around the room.
Mrs. Underwood instructed the students to line up facing each other. Once everyone had situated themselves to her satisfaction, she raised both hands. The two girls at the front of the line curtsied formally to each other.
Mrs. Underwood called out, “Mystery.”
“Secret,” the girl on the left said.
“Riddle,” the other answered.
Mrs. Underwood held up her right hand, and the first girl smiled. She moved to the back of the line. The other girl went to the side of the classroom.
Thornhill is one big mystery
. If Una hadn’t seen them both at the Club, she might have guessed that Thornhill and Red were one and the same.
What is Thornhill’s secret?
Una hadn’t participated in this sort of challenge before, but it looked easy enough. She just had to say a word similar to the one Mrs. Underwood called out. And remember to curtsy. No matter how often she practiced, her curtsies usually came out all wobbly.
“Silence,” came the voice from the front of the room. Una shuffled forward in line as the other students replied.
“Quiet.”
“Solitude.”
And on and on it went. When Una stepped up to meet her opponent, it was none other than Endeavor Truepenny. She felt the heat rise to her face as she dropped into a low curtsy. It worked well enough until the last minute, when she had to slide her foot out to catch her balance. The boy smiled at her. He had a nice smile.
“Stranger,” Mrs. Underwood’s voice called out.
“Villain,” Truepenny said as though it was a question.
Una looked him directly in the eye. “Misfit,” she said. She didn’t know why the boy was involved with the Merriweathers’ group or what he was doing at the Talekeeper Club the night before. But he had to know she was not a Villain.
His smile this time was lopsided, and Una followed his gaze to Mrs. Underwood’s raised hand. She had won. She gave him another curtsy and slowly turned around to walk back to the end of the line. She almost felt bad for beating him.
While she was waiting for her next turn, she wondered at Mrs. Underwood’s choice of word. Did she suspect that Una was a stranger? Peter would say it was a coincidence, but she wasn’t so sure.
And where is Peter anyway?
He had disappeared after lunch, but he should be here by now. The Battle of Words continued, getting harder as students were eliminated. “Sincerity.” “Phenomenal.” “Execution.” “Lascivious.” “Foppish.” She swiveled around as a carroty-haired boy in front of her lost his match. She was next, and standing opposite her was Horace Wotton.
Una gave him a scathing look as she curtsied. Horace smirked back and didn’t even bother to bow.
“Victory,” Mrs. Underwood called out. The challenge word echoed off the walls.
Horace lifted his head back and laughed. Then, he looked right into Una’s eyes and shot his word at her. “Superiority,” he said, and didn’t even watch for Mrs. Underwood’s raised hand before sauntering off.
Una stared at his spiky hair. That jerk thought he had already won. She clenched and unclenched her fists. “Mastery,” she said in a clear voice that sliced the air.
Everyone watched Mrs. Underwood’s hands. They wavered for a moment, but then the hand on Una’s side went up. Most everyone cheered, and Una tipped her head toward Horace as she went to the end of the line. Horace scowled and slumped down next to the other students who were out of the game.
The class was dismissed soon after, and Una floated out of the room, buoyed up by her victory over Horace and the fact that she had won every round she played. Maybe she was starting to fit into this world after all.
Sam caught up with her as she was crossing the quad.
“Have you seen Peter?” she asked.
“Cutting class,” Sam said, unconcerned. “The Museum.”
“Without us?” Una demanded. “We’re supposed to go tomorrow!” He was probably trying to protect her.
He’ll need protecting when I get my hands on him.
What if he found something interesting without her?
He won’t even be looking for clues about the King!
“He said he’d fill us in during Outdoor Experiential Questing,” Sam said as he loped along. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
P
eter crossed his arms and scowled down at the floor. His plan wasn’t working at all. Losing Una on the way to Villainy wasn’t the hard part. Nor was skipping class. Neither was getting into the free tour of the Museum. The problem was that he couldn’t break away from the group.
The tour guide watched everyone like a hawk, his turquoise umbrella held aloft as he said in a crisp voice, “This way, please. Follow me. Keep up, please.” His stories were interesting, but how he could go on and on about dates and facts and minute details
and
notice every person in the tour group and where they were headed was a mystery to Peter.
Twice he had deliberately tried to linger in corridors, feigning interest in plaques of celebrated Talekeepers shaking hands. Immediately, the tour guide popped up next to him, crossing from the front of the group to the back in seconds. “We’re leaving this area now. Please keep up with the rest of the group.” Each time Peter fell back in line with the others.
The Museum itself was beautiful. Peter’s last visit had been the year before on a school field trip, and he had only cared about getting to the gift shop at the end. Now he kept a sharp eye out for anything remotely connected to Muses, books, or being Written In—but so far, no luck.
The building sprawled like a palace, corridors sprouting off in every direction. Long ballrooms with painted frescoes connected to immense bedchambers, the king-size beds tiny compared to the vast rooms and high ceilings. And desks were everywhere. Ornate wooden pieces took up entire walls, their massive doors hiding who-knew-what. One room was filled with polished wood desks that reflected the chandeliers above. Another had only glass-topped tables with quills and ink set at jaunty angles.
The guide went on and on about which Talekeeper had stayed in which room, but what he never said was whether anyone’s Tales had been written here. The closest he had gotten to anything remotely interesting was when he said there used to be rooms dedicated to each of the Muses. But then the whole group had gone all quiet, and it wasn’t like Peter could ask a follow-up question about the Muses. The tour guide hadn’t said another interesting word since.
Peter squared his shoulders and pretended to be captivated by someone’s question about an ancient-looking printing press. If he could just find one of those Muse rooms. Peter felt a chill and shrugged it off. He kept reminding himself that the Muses weren’t hiding in the Museum
.
But it didn’t make him feel any braver.
The tour guide paused his lecture and stooped to tie his shoe. Now was Peter’s chance. He ducked out of the group, slipped under a maroon rope with a Restricted sign hanging from it, and hurried down a narrow corridor. With any luck, the guide wouldn’t notice he had left.
Peter had only gone a little way when he heard approaching voices. His heart sank. If he was caught now, he would certainly be kicked out and, no doubt, reported to his parents. He glanced quickly about and slid into a small room off to the left. It was barely furnished: a few chairs, low tables, and a marble-topped desk that took up most of one corner. Opposite it, a curving iron staircase twisted up to another floor. The voices were getting louder.
“Books are disappearing from the Vault,” a man said. “One has even been erased. It’s time for us to read them. And why shouldn’t we? We’re Talekeepers, after all.”
They were right outside the door. Peter ran over to the massive desk and flung himself beneath it, pulling the desk chair in front of his body. Anyone who looked closely would spot him, but it was the best he could do. A moment later, three figures entered the room, deep in conversation.
“You’re Talekeepers and you’ve never read any of the Tales?” one of them said. The voice was familiar, but Peter couldn’t quite place it. He peeked out from under the desk, but he could only see one of their faces.
“No.” The Talekeeper scratched at his beard and scuffed his foot on the floor. “I actually believed that Story was better off without them. Until now.”
“And you? You’ve swallowed everything you’ve been told as well?”
Peter strained his ears. Where did he know that voice from?
The other Talekeeper shrugged apologetically. Peter thought he looked too young to be a Talekeeper. “But we want to read them now.”
“Which is why you’ve called me here.”
“Of course. We’ve heard that you were the best. That you knew the most about”—the bearded man’s voice dropped—“the old ways.”
They moved toward the staircase, and their voices faded. Peter leaned forward, straining his ears. The floor beneath him creaked, sounding exceptionally loud in the little room. The three paused at the bottom of the stairs.
“Did you hear that?” One of them turned to peer back at the doorway. Peter stifled a gasp. He should have known! The familiar voice belonged to Professor Thornhill! He had listened to her often enough in Villainy. The seconds dragged on. Peter held his breath.
After a long pause, Professor Thornhill leaned back against a low table. “And what do Talekeepers hope to find in the old Tales? I thought it was your policy to lock up anything the Muses had written. Don’t you people set the enchantments yourself so that no one can read them? Why, Mr. Elton himself just—”
“The Tale Master doesn’t know.” The young Talekeeper clasped his hands together as though he were praying. “And he is the one who sets the enchantment. Look. Some of us just want to read the Tales.”
“Elton doesn’t know.” Thornhill raised her eyebrows. “Now, that’s interesting. But I need more. Tell me what you hope to learn, and I’ll decide if it’s worth the risk.”
The young Talekeeper seemed to come to some sort of internal decision, for his nervousness disappeared as he answered. “We want to know about the Muses. What made them go bad? And what kind of Tales did they write?”
Thornhill’s face was unreadable. “And how am I to know you won’t turn me in for practicing the old ways?”
The bearded Talekeeper dug in his pocket and opened his palm to Thornhill. “We want to find the Muses.”
Peter’s mouth dropped open. Thornhill didn’t question his statement or scoff at the idea that the Muses weren’t really gone from Story, like Peter’s father had done. She studied the Talekeeper’s palm. “And what makes you think the Muses want to be found by you?”
The Talekeeper had no answer, but he stubbornly held his hand out. Whatever was in it, it apparently satisfied Professor Thornhill. “Very well,” she said decisively. “The old saying goes, ‘Books that you carry to the fire and hold readily to hand are the most useful of all.’ Take me somewhere private and I will show you.”
The trio disappeared up the stairs, and Peter didn’t waste any time after they had gone. Things were worse than he had thought. He crept up the narrow staircase and followed the sound of muffled voices. They were moving farther away. He paused at the first landing and tried the door. It clicked open, and Peter peered into a dark room. Everything was quiet now.
So all the books in the Vault are blank.
It sounded like something the Tale Master would do: enchant them blank just in case a character actually got ahold of one. He tried not to think about the other thing, the part about looking for the Muses. He moved quickly through the room to the door opposite.
The voices moved farther from the door, and however much he strained his ears, after a while Peter heard only silence. He tried the door handle, but it didn’t budge. He slumped down against it. So much for learning more about the books.
The shaft of light from the stairway entrance bathed everything in shadows. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the room was full of oddly shaped furniture. The thing closest to him was covered with an old sheet. He reached up, pulled it off, and a cloud of dust sent him coughing. Underneath, he found a solid-looking round wooden table. He moved past it and uncovered an imposing thronelike chair, a set of wooden benches, and an old jousting lance. He turned around and nearly bumped into someone. Choking back a scream, Peter was halfway to the door before he realized it wasn’t a real person. He crept closer and tugged off the figure’s sheet to uncover a set of rusted knight’s armor. His heart sped up. This stuff was old. He made his way around the room, sorting through the jumble of odds and ends: old tent frames leaned up next to some ancient-looking swords, and a few splintered spears were mixed in with cartographer’s instruments and old saddles. This room wasn’t like the rest of the Museum, full of desks or disproportionate beds. This was a forgotten armory.
In the farthest corner, he found a pedestal that looked just like the ones in the Tale station. But where the exam packet would have gone, there was a layer of dirt. Peter leaned in close and rubbed the grime off with his sleeve. It looked like there was some sort of symbol carved into the stone. And the letters above it were much clearer. A few more scrubs, and he could make them out:
VIRTUS.
Peter stared at the letters.
Virtus. The Muse.
His skin felt all crawly. He bent closer and studied the pedestal. Characters must have entered the Muse books from these rooms at the Museum. Now that he thought of it, it was obvious. It wasn’t like they’d have had a Museum about the Muses back in the days of the Muses. This building must have been something else at one time. A place especially for the Muses.
A sound from the next room startled him. Thornhill and the Talekeepers were coming back. He moved swiftly toward the open doorway and stumbled out into the light.