After Einar and I unpack–at least enough for one week–we settle down and talk about music, our hometowns, and of course, girls. Other than claiming that his girlfriend back home has bigger… assets, than my Aubrey, we get along fine.
As I sleep, I dream of the song I heard in the hallway. It makes me feel warm, floating in my ears but invading my veins and arteries as it turns my blood to the sweetest nectar. I dream of dancing with Aubrey to it. We sway down the hallway of the main Conservatory until suddenly we are in the dorm building, sashaying down the red and gold carpet. As we reach the end, Aubrey opens the door to the stairwell and pulls me into the room. We tiptoe down a few steps until we’re face to face with the basement door. My gaze fixates on Aubrey, wearing a blue gown that ripples like water droplets, but I can see the door opening in my periphery. I see only darkness inside.
Just then, Aubrey leans in and whispers in my ear, “Find me.”
I feel her hand pull from mine as she lunges towards the door and is sucked inside as if through a black hole. I shout into the blackness and wake up in a cold sweat.
I blink through the fog and feel Einar staring, but as I sit up, he quickly looks away.
“Good morning,” I say, trying to seem nonchalant.
“Morning,” he replies.
Those are the only words we utter to each other, both seemingly content to get ready for the day in silence.
An hour or so later, we’re in the main building of the Conservatory, standing with Roy and Clyde across from the Headmaster. After a poor excuse for a greeting, he asks, “You all have perfect pitch, yes?”
We nod, and he mimics the movement. “Then, to keep from recognizing each other’s notes, you will work in the sound booths. They are soundproof and should have everything you’ll need to write. Take all the time you need.
“I’ll collect you at noon for lunch in the high dining room,” he continues. “Three out of four of you will be going home in a few days. The least we can do is offer a nice meal with a view after bringing you out here.”
The sound booths are in a separate building along the courtyard, perpendicular to the main Conservatory and dormitory building. Inside, individual booths are separated by thick, reinforced walls and contain their own doors with small glass windows. Each booth is equipped with its own Steinway and blank sheet music, an overhead microphone with audio recording built in for syncing to external computers, and other toys.
Roy doesn’t look at us but mutters, “Good luck. You’ll need it.”
Clyde sneers but marches into a booth without a word. We each follow suit, shutting the doors behind us.
Once alone, I sit at my piano and stare at the blank sheets as I hover my fingers over the keys. I feel the urge to write increase as I begin to warm up my ears and hands, playing basic scales and then more complex ones. Then, when I finally come to the point of creating something new, my muscles seize up. I play something I had written only a year ago, which slowly transforms into something unique but uninspired.
I try again before lunch with no luck and begrudgingly get up to answer the knock at my door. The Headmaster stands outside, patiently waiting with hands folded. Realizing I’m the first to arrive, I awkwardly stand halfway inside the booth.
The Headmaster nods to me. “Mr. Shiron.”
I return his nod, clenching my teeth behind a polite smile.
“I think you must hate me,” he guesses, “after how I put you and your partner on the spot. I hope you will come to understand that I only intended to serve your best interest.”
What is his game?
“If you cut out such distractions, I think you have a shot at succeeding. I hope you’ll be able to meet my expectations,” the Headmaster elaborates.
My brow furrows, but he walks to the next booth, knocking on the door before I can question him.
***
The dining hall is the last unexplored building bordering the courtyard, directly across from the sound booths. Like the dormitory building, two floors clearly support the power difference between the pros and amateurs that permeates every square inch of the campus.
The ‘high’ dining hall, as its name suggests, is on the second floor and faces a lake several feet in the distance. A forest drapes the water on either side, and though the branches are bare, I don’t think they would block out the view at their fullest. They also fail to hide the large dome on the shores of the water, which the Headmaster earlier revealed to be an open-topped theatre. The hill that the Conservatory is perched on is well above tree level, allowing for a spectacle all year round.
The difference in view between this and the first floor lies with the balcony. Double sets of doors open onto a fenced balcony with room enough to fit the entire class. The outdoor alcove is carved out of a gentle gray stone that seems almost purple in the fog that’s begun to settle over late morning. Yet, the opulence doesn’t end there.
The hall itself is reminiscent of what I assume an ancient Roman temple might look like. White columns line the room, matching the white floor and ceiling. The ceiling seems to move through waves of pronounced arches with natural light streaming through slanted windows on either side. Directly below is a long table and multiple bronze chairs with blue cushions.
Several instructors have already sat themselves, many of whom I recognize from the day before. Our Headmaster encourages us to sit wherever we like, but we all end up at the vacant end of the table, closest to the exit. It seems fitting given the clear placement of instructors congregated at one end. Maybe they planned it that way.
Our Headmaster sits at the head of the table. He waits for conversations to abate before addressing the table, “For our newcomers who aren’t aware, this dining hall was designed by the founder of this conservatory. He was an enthusiast of Greco-Roman architecture and culture and believed that evoking these styles could call the Muses into the lives of musicians.
“Today,” he continues, raising his glass. “We welcome you to this hall and hope you will take inspiration from its beauty when composing your pieces.”
The other instructors hold up their cups as we hunch awkwardly in our chairs. Luckily, we don’t have to say anything as lunch is swiftly delivered—first soup or salad and then a soft chicken breast with rosemary, lemon, and another flavor I don’t recognize but don’t dislike.
The instructors talk lightly with each other, but the students barely say a word. Body language does the bulk of the work. Einar stares at his food and eventually an empty plate, shifting in his seat every so often. Clyde stares at Roy through the prongs of his fork while she nods along with the instructors’ conversation. I keep my eyes to myself, but the hair on my arms informs me of unwanted attention.
I glance up at the window innocently and catch the Headmaster peering across the table, watching with his bird-of-prey gaze. I focus on the lake outside, but wonder if he was being truthful. Did he want me to win the competition, or was it manipulation? I can’t find any reason except for inflating my confidence, but I know cockiness won’t be an obstacle. I have always been sure of my abilities–maybe less than usual–and it never distracts me from my work. Neither had the initial embarrassment.
I sit staring at the dome by the lake until it’s time to head back to the sound booths. Again, I find no inspiration and am easily distracted by the Headmaster’s comment. Perhaps that was his plan all along.
***
I dream of the basement door again. This time, the door is open. Somehow, it lies on the ceiling of my dorm room. I attempt to sit up and reach for it, but I can not pull my limbs from the bed. An invisible force streams from the blackness within the doorway, pushing me onto the mattress. I clutch the sheets, but my arms and legs are already sunken into the bed like quicksand. My throat burns as a scream begins to build. It roils behind my lips but is silenced by the gorgeous woman emerging from the doorway.
The woman dips halfway through the threshold as if she is leaning upright instead of upside down. She wears a wine-colored peplos lined with gold and a matching golden cypress crown that falls above her brow. She peers out, and as her eyes meet mine, I am paralyzed. My fingers release the sheets, but I don’t sink. I’m held in the tractor beam of her gaze, tears welling in my unblinking eyes. My throat is still too dry to speak, so I listen as she raises a flute to her rose-tinted lips.
The woman descends until her dark hair brushes against my cheek, and the sound of her flute penetrates my ears. It’s a sweet sound with the slightest undertone of savory bitterness as unnatural notes blend with her chosen key. I feel them lacerate my ear canal on their way in, hammering the drums farther in. My face remains stoic.
The woman smiles and takes the flute from her lips, though they remain parted. “I am Euterpe, Muse of Music and Pleasure.”
I’m not particularly superstitious, but I feel a strong urge to let the fantasy unfold. Maybe it will help me write.
“Why have you come?” I ask, but my voice comes out in a hoarse whisper compared to her melodic, yet compelling tone.
“Why do Muses expose themselves to mortals?” she counters, seductively.
The way her cheeks flush makes me think she isn’t always so blatantly promiscuous.
“To inspire them…?” I guess, and she nods. “But why me? There are other talented composers here.”
Her laugh is like honey, alluringly sweet and dangerously sticky. “None so talented as you,” she sings. “But you lack vision.”
I nod. Yes, I do–I really do.
“It’s true, I could inspire you… If only you didn’t have another woman in your life for whom you feel so strongly,” she hints.
I stare at her blankly. Then, my eyes widen. “Oh, I see…” I trail off, shaking my head. “I couldn’t. I won’t.”
Her expression is impassive. “If you change your mind, find this door and you will find me,” she reveals. “But be warned: a mortal who is inspired by a Muse will suffer too. A toll must be paid for help from the gods.”
I nod. Part of me still knows this is a dream–that anything I did would be only in my mind–but another part feels less secure. I remind myself that it could be weeks before I see Aubrey again, but it’s too soon to be thinking of anyone other than her–even in my fantasies. Not to mention, I don’t believe any god could send me a masterpiece. I barely believe I can deliver one.
I watch as Euterpe sinks back into the darkness, neither of us ever breaking eye contact until she’s fully swallowed up. Blackness encroaches on my vision as well until I’m taken over by a deep and dreamless sleep.
I wake up to find Einar standing over me, lips moving soundlessly, and I flinch. As I come to my senses, I realize that his hand is on my shoulder, and he’s saying, “We’re going to be late!”
TooShay 
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