Dance of Fire (27 page)

The room seemed to close in around me, the walls shrinking, as I understood what Erik's plan had been all along. ‘You always knew there were necrodancers in the Royal Court. So I'm . . . bait.'

‘No, no – I mean, yes, you're an especially enticing prospect for them, but that wouldn't matter if you weren't the exquisite dancer that you are. When you win – and you
will
win – you'll be right in their midst. You can find out who they are, and the two of us can make them pay for what they've done.'

I searched his words for some hint of the boy I had fallen in love with, but the Erik standing in front of me now was a stranger. Had it all been a lie?

‘I don't want to be your tool of revenge,' I said. ‘I want to
dance
. That's all I've ever wanted to do. I don't want to be Josef's doll, and I don't want to be part of your vengeance. I'm sorry, but I can't do this.'

‘You have to, Margaret. If you love me, you won't say no to me.'

I backed away, horrified, not just at Erik, but at myself. Who was this person? Every touch, every kiss – it had all been part of Erik's plan. I had let myself fall in love with a fa
ç
ade. The boy that I loved had never been real.

‘I'm sorry if I deceived you,' Erik said, standing up. ‘I just didn't know how to tell you. Get some rest tonight. I know you're going to win.' He smiled. ‘I'm counting on you. And I love you.'

I should have walked out, diary. I should have run away or called for help or done anything but go out on to that stage and dance.

But where would I go? Except for Erik and Hal, I don't know anyone in England. I don't even have my own identity. At least for today, I am Margot Adams.

Even if I didn't do everything Erik wanted me to, I reckoned I could at least try to win for that dead girl whose name I was using. That would have to be ­motivation enough.

I'd figure out what to do afterwards.

But now it
is
afterwards. I won, and at dinner I sat and let Erik praise me – and let him think, after all, that I would be his puppet. It's midnight, and Hal and Erik are asleep across our attic room. I wish I could call Vanessa. She would listen to me and remind me that no matter how hopeless things may seem, there is more to life than just ballet.

I think I know what to do, but I'm going to need help.

Chapter Nineteen

The stage was illuminated by a single spotlight.

The theatre was silent, the audience nothing more than a sea of black. The three judges scrutinised her from the front row. Becky Darlington crossed her legs and jotted something down on a notepad.

Vanessa took her place in first position. She hadn't had another chance last night to rehearse her solo, but it didn't matter; she knew the moves by heart.

Vanessa dropped her arms to her sides as the buttery trill of a clarinet drifted over the speakers, enveloping the theatre in the first notes of Gershwin's
Rhapsody in Blue
, warm and lazy like a Sunday morning.

The spotlight spilled down like sun filtering through a window. Vanessa lifted herself on to her toes, stretching her arms wide, her body arching back in a deep yawn.

She twirled across the stage, her steps quick and delicate, the piano fluttering like the patter of footsteps. She skidded to a stop, the horns pushing her back, forcing her in the opposite direction. So far, so good.

And then a hiss of dry heat blew over the stage. It was here. She could feel the demon close by, its warmth seeping into her skin, making her head throb. It was more overpowering than she remembered.

She strained her mind, trying to focus, to find a memory of her sister, but she couldn't. The force within her pushed back, twisting, reaching deeper inside her. She wasn't strong enough.

Do not fight me
,
Vanessa
, she heard it say.
Embrace me
.
Together we can win
.

Vanessa took a breath, steadying herself. The raspy heat coiled through her, making her sweat. The piano on the soundtrack seemed louder than normal, filling her ears and making it impossible to concentrate. She willed her limbs still, then bent forward in a deep bow and saw the pink satin tops of her ballet slippers, exactly like her sister's.

Margaret.

She thought about everything her sister had been through – all because of necrodancers and demons. She felt rage boil up inside her.

Slowly Vanessa raised her head, moving into a deep
port de bras
.
Think of Margaret's shoes and nothing else
, she told herself. She dragged her feet across the floor, tracing her sister's name as they wove in and out of each other. The abridged version of
Rhapsody
that she was dancing to seemed to burst out of the speakers, the orchestra bathing her in a cacophony of sounds. Her body felt as if it was being gripped in a vice, but she fought – fought as hard as she could as the music played and she whirled across the stage.

Margaret's shoes, that memory – they were her talisman. That's what Zep had taught her. She jumped into the air, her feet switching position in a
changement
as the tempo of the accompaniment changed. Vanessa struggled to recapture the memory she'd recalled in the cemetery last night, when Margaret had got her new ballet shoes for NYBA:
These are going to be my favourite shoes, Ness
. . .

Images of her sister flashed before her: Margaret's smile. Her hair. The smell of her perfume and the sheen of her lipgloss. They came and went in seconds; trying to hold on to them felt like grasping for water.

Let me in, Vanessa
, the demon said, its voice harsher, almost desperate.
Now
.

Vanessa shook her head, lifting her arms and rushing across the stage in quick steps.
Focus
, she thought.
Margaret's shoes
.

The
couru
section of her solo was here; swiftly she brought her back leg forward and poured herself into a
pas de basque
, then twirled into a
sauté
mid-air. All she could see was Mar­garet's ballet slippers; it was almost as if her sister was right
there with her. She focused on images of the ribbons, the fresh satin, the square toe box. She felt the demon's heat begin to dissipate, and she was able to unclench her jaw and let her limbs relax. Zep had been right – picturing the shoes filled her mind's eye completely. There was no room for the demon.

She felt its grasp waver.
Vanesssssa, my love
. . .

The air around her cooled just enough for her to take a sharp, deep breath. The loneliness of the years since Margaret's disappearance seeped into her, and the warped notes crackled and faded until the only sound that filled her was the nostalgic lilt of Gershwin's piano.

The music swelled, the orchestra crescendoing and then a quick diminuendo, leaving only the sounds of a piano, softer and softer until there was only a trickle of sound, and then: silence.

Vanessa opened her eyes.

The room was quiet, the faces of the judges and the people in the audience motionless, as if caught in time; the only sound was her breathing. In the wings, Justin stood frozen, as if something had surprised him. Between them, dust glimmered in the beam of the spotlight, suspended in the air like specks of gold.

And then – a crashing of sound as the room exploded with applause. She planted her feet in third position and raised her arms.

Vanessa's temples were damp with sweat. She had blocked out the demon and finished the dance without his help. She gazed out into the audience, the dazzle of lights and camera
flashes making the entire theatre glitter. And sliding one foot behind her, she lowered herself into a deep curtsy, her eyes lingering on her sister's shoes.

‘For you, Margaret,' she whispered, lifting her head and listening to the applause.

The clock ticked above the open doors of the dressing rooms.

Vanessa sat cross-legged on the floor, her hair still loose around her face. Justin sat on the bench a few feet away, taking nervous swigs from his water bottle. She couldn't tell if he'd watched her performance or not.

The rest of the dancers were scattered on either side, Geo leaning against the wall next to two boys from the Paris Opera Ballet Academy, his head bowed in his hands. He had performed a quiet but elegant dance to Rachmaninoff's
Danse
Orientale
. An olive-skinned boy paced in front of him, muttering to himself in Italian, while a Chilean boy shushed him. Pauline had performed beautifully, almost ethereally, to a solo from Prokofiev's
Romeo and Juliet
.

Ingrid whispered to a teammate, glancing at Vanessa every so often with daggers in her eyes. Nearby, Maisie sat quietly on the floor, bandaging a blister on her heel. The clock kept ticking like a communal pulse.

Through the curtains, Vanessa could hear the loud chatter of the audience, could swear she could even make out her mother's voice. Standing, she made her way to the girls' dressing room, but when she entered, she realised she wasn't alone.

Svetya stood by the mirror, blotting her lipstick with a ­tissue. ‘What are you looking at?'

‘Nothing,' Vanessa said, startled. ‘I just . . . nothing.'

‘You know,' Svetya said, ‘whoever wins – and it will be me, most likely, but anyway – it's been nice getting to know you.'

Vanessa was completely taken aback. Svetya liked her? ‘Um, you too.'

Just then, one of the stage managers poked her head inside. ‘Dancers, they're ready for you.'

Vanessa and Svetya joined the other ten dancers on the stage.

The audience grew quiet, the last stragglers scampering down the aisles to find their seats. The three judges sat in the front row, Palmer Carmichael gesturing while he whispered to the others, as if they were still arguing about the rankings.

Becky Darlington stood up, holding a clipboard. ­Car­michael
rubbed his hand over the smooth crown of his head, then stood with her. Finally Apollinaria Marie joined them, her long legs unfolding like a gazelle's.

‘We would like to thank you all for your beautiful performances,' Palmer Carmichael said, his eyes travelling over the dancers. ‘If we could take each and every one of you, we would. Since that is not possible, we would like to announce the winners, starting with third place.' He turned to his left. ‘Becky, if you will.'

A hush fell over the theatre.

Becky gripped her clipboard. ‘In third place for the women . . .' she looked up at the crowd, ‘Svetlana Chernovski.'

Svetya's face went blank when she heard her name.

‘Svetlana?' Becky said, smiling. ‘Congratulations.'

Reluctantly Svetya inched forward, glaring into the photographers' flashes.

‘And in third place for the men, Geoffrey Scott Alexander.'

Geo shot Vanessa a miserable look, then stepped forward beside Svetya, forcing a smile.

‘In second place for the women,' Becky continued, ‘Vanessa Adler.'

Vanessa felt her heart plummet as she came forward, forcing herself to smile. She'd failed. She hadn't won a spot in the Royal Court. She wasn't going to be able to avenge Margaret.

‘And in second place for the men, Jacques Lecole.'

Pauline's partner from the Paris Opera Ballet Academy stepped forward proudly, flashing a million-dollar grin at the cameras.

‘And finally, our first place winners and Royal Court ­scholarship recipients . . .' Becky said, her voice tinged with excitement.

Behind Vanessa, the other girls held their breath. Vanessa closed her eyes.

‘In first place for the girls, I would like to introduce . . . Pauline Maillard.'

Vanessa felt herself clapping instinctively, but all she could think of was that she had let her sister down. She'd never find the people who drove Margaret to her death. And she had let
herself down. She felt tears on her face and knew people would think she was crying about coming in second, but she didn't care.

‘And in first place for the men, I would like to introduce . . . Justin Cooke.'

Vanessa was so stunned she could barely believe she had heard correctly.
Justin
had won?

Becky cleared her throat. ‘Could you both step forward, please?'

Justin stepped out of line, then reached for Pauline's hand, pulling her towards the front of the stage. For an instant he smiled at Vanessa – wistfully, she thought. She had spent so long thinking about what she would do once she won, that she had never once considered the possibility that Justin might win instead.

‘I would like to formally welcome you both to the Royal Court Company,' Palmer Carmichael said. ‘I am sure you will both be invaluable assets to our company and to the art of ­ballet.'

Palmer turned to the audience. ‘I would also like to thank all of the dancers who participated in the earlier rounds. There will be a ceremony tomorrow evening, and all of our competitors are invited. I hope you, your coaches and your families will join us.' He clasped his hands together. ‘But tonight, you are free to celebrate. You're all winners to us.'

Apollinaria bowed her head. ‘We all know that dance is an ongoing competition. I look forward to seeing each of you on the stage in future.'

Justin led Pauline into a low bow, camera flashes flickering as the audience erupted in applause. Behind them, the other winners followed suit. Vanessa scanned the theatre for Enzo, but there was no sign of him.

As they filed off the stage, Svetya turned to Vanessa and said, ‘I did not see that coming at all. And I have twenty-twenty vision.'