Topsy’s eyes go all misty. ‘Dearie me. Where was I? Oh yes, before you take your suitcases outside, please can you make your way to the theatre for the director’s assembly.’
Everyone starts herding down the corridor but a shriek from the galleried landing stops them in their tracks.
‘MILLY, IT IS YOU!’
I shrink by at least two and a half centimetres. Skipping down the grand staircase is a pretty blonde girl with a white-swan neck. She’s wearing a pale-blue leotard and a floaty skirt that matches her violet eyes. Her rosebud lips are all aquiver.
My heart says it can’t be.
My brain says it is.
My mouth says, ‘Hello, Willow.’
My legs want to run after Bab. But what if Mum knew Willow was here? What if she wants me to make amends?
What if this is THE TEST?
Garghhh.
Willow Perkins tugs off my beret. ‘Millicent Kydd. What have you done to your hair?’
I try to snatch it back, but another girl bars my way. She’s got lovely dark curls, golden eyes and a mouth that goes down in the corners.
Topsy beams. ‘You two know each other? Amazeballs!’ She glances at her wrist. ‘Eek, message from Ms Celia – all totally fine – be back in a tick.’
‘What are you doing here, Millicent?’ hisses Willow. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been recruited?’
‘Recruited?’
‘Keep your voice down, Kydd,’ says Spencer. ‘POS.’
‘POS?’ I ask.
‘He means, Parents Over Shoulder.’ Willow nods at a couple following their daughter through the hall. The mum has tight red curls and a walk that knows where it’s going. The dad has black hair and twinkling eyes just like Mr Ling’s from across the road. I’m admiring the girl’s swishy black hair when she turns to scowl at Willow. Her right eye is black and blue. Both are dark and fierce. Willow scowls back.
‘Ouch,’ says Spencer. ‘Did you see her? That must have hurt.’
Willow wrinkles her nose. ‘Don’t waste your time feeling sorry for Li.’ She reads Spencer’s pass. ‘I haven’t seen you before.’
‘First day. You?’
‘I joined when Millicent lost me my Scarlet Slipper. If you want to stay out of trouble, you’ll forget her and come with us.’
Spencer turns up his jacket collar. ‘Actually, Trouble’s my middle name. Plus, I’m famished. Going to grab a bite in the refectory before assembly. Coming, you two?’
Merv shakes his head. ‘Ah-own-oo-rwmph.’
‘What did he say?’ says the girl with the upside-down mouth.
Merv lifts his mask. ‘I said I don’t do refectories.’
‘Who cares. Let’s go, Bumble.’ Willow rolls her eyes so far back I can only see the white bits. To be honest, I wish I could do that and still look pretty. But as Willow would say, I’d have to be pretty in the first place. She shoves my beret into my chest and storms off.
‘Why didn’t you go with them?’ I ask Spencer.
Spencer shrugs. ‘You aren’t the only one who’s been kicked out of their old school. We should stick together.’
‘Really? What did you do?’
‘Borrowed the headmaster’s Porsche.’ Spencer grins at my expression. ‘I did take it back, minus the bumper. Anyway, the director got to hear about it and asked me to audition.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true. We Spencers are like cats. We land on our feet. Why did they ask you?’
‘I have no idea. It’s a bit of a mystery, really.’
‘Not as much of a mystery as the contents of Merv’s satchel.’
Merv backs into a breathless Topsy.
‘Sorry, Merv, such a big lump. Me, not you, obvs. Milly, I’ve got to drag you away from your new besties. Someone wants to meet you.’ She tugs me towards the staircase. ‘Don’t want to keep her waiting.’
‘Who wants to meet me?’
‘Just Ms Celia – eek – but, I’m sure it’s nothing serious.’
‘Do you mean Celia Sitwell, DCB? Isn’t she the director?’
‘Yes, but everyone calls her Ms Celia, as in “Mzzz”. She teaches ballet and –’ Topsy looks over her shoulder – ‘other things. Come with me, please-thank-you – her room’s in the octagon on the top floor. This way.’
I follow Topsy up the winding stairs. Why does the director of Swan House want to see me? My stomach misses a step. Maybe she’s going to explain about the scholarship? Maybe she knows something about Mum?
Topsy points from the staircase. ‘Keep going. This is the first floor. Wardrobe’s on the right, shoes on the left.’
A snubbed pink nose appears from a small door. I watch it sniff then disappear again.
‘Come along, slowcoach!’ Topsy pauses on the top landing and blinks up at what looks like a smoke alarm. ‘Lasers,’ she says. ‘Slice you in half if you don’t have clearance.’ Then she beams at me and I smile back.
Help. Topsy wasn’t joking when she said she was crazy.
She drags me along a wide corridor and through a gallery of paintings. Portraits of ballet dancers with beautiful faces, sparkly costumes, murky backgrounds.
‘Who are they?’
‘This is Ms Celia’s Hall of Fame. All past students. Smashtastic, aren’t they? Apart from him, of course . . .’ She shudders at a handsome boy with piercing eyes and a sly half smile. ‘Those eyes follow you everywhere. Right, here we are. I’d say good luck, but that’s bad luck, isn’t it?’
Topsy turns a brass handle and the door creaks open. Seconds later, she’s galumphing back down the stairs.
When I lean inside the octagon, it’s dark. Topsy didn’t say anything about it being dark.
Looks like I need more than luck; I need a handy pen and torch in one.
5
The Spy Maker
‘H ello?’
I stretch my eyes wide and shuffle inside with my arms in front of me, like a mummy without the bangages.
‘Open the blind so I can see you,’ says a woman’s voice. ‘Then come nearer to the desk.’
Desk?
‘Ouch!’ Oh, that desk. I feel my way to the window and tug on the blind.
‘Good. Can you see the laptop?’
I turn from the window and spot a computer on the desk. A woman’s face flickers on screen. She gestures down a gloomy alley. ‘As you can see, I’m running late, hence the video-link. I’m afraid the internet connection in this part of London is unreliable so please forgive me if we are interrupted. Do sit down, Milly.’
I plop into a comfy leather chair. ‘Are you Ms Celia?’
‘I am.’
I take a closer look at the face in front of me. Ms Celia’s short wavy hair is a bit like mine. It’s swept off her face with a green paisley scarf.
Unlike mine, her forehead is the sort that does way too much thinking.
She sizes me up with clever brown eyes. ‘So, you’re Eva Kydd’s daughter – well, good for you—’
‘Ms Celia, sorry to interrupt, but is that why I’m here? Did Mum arrange my scholarship?’
Ms Celia frowns. ‘What made you think that? She had nothing to do with it.’
‘So, this wasn’t Mum’s idea?’ My insides sag like an old sofa. If I didn’t win the scholarship, it means no more Willow. But it also means no more ballet. I don’t suppose it matters. Either way, I’m going home. I push myself up. ‘I understand. You made a mistake, I’d better call my babushka—’
‘Sit down, Milly. You will come to know that I rarely make mistakes. Your name is Millicent Eva Catherine Kydd. Born November first, King’s College Hospital, London. Weight, eight pounds, six ounces. Your mother, Eva Kydd – neé Lilova – moved from Moscow to London to study dance at the Royal Ballet School aged eleven. Your father was British and is now deceased. Your grandmother, or babushka, as you prefer to call her, is one Catherine Lilova – born in Russia to Casovan parents.’ Ms Celia arches a pencilled eyebrow. ‘Am I right so far?’
‘H-how did you know all that?’
‘You didn’t read the prospectus I sent you?’
‘Not exactly.’
Ms Celia sighs. ‘There’s one on the desk. Open it.’
The prospectus is next to the computer. I reach for it but a loud bang on screen makes me jump. Embers begin to float around Ms Celia like cherry blossom. She brushes her sleeve and squeezes between two dirty old bins.
Very odd behaviour for a grown-up, if you ask me.
She carries on as if nothing happened. ‘My letter said the prospectus would shine a light on any questions you had. I would like to point out that the phrase shine a light was underlined. There is a second item on my desk you may find familiar.’
I pick up a Christmas gift catalogue. Free gift inside, it says on the cover. Handy pen and torch in one. ‘Ooo, we got one just like this.’
Ms Celia sighs again. ‘Indeed. What do these two items have in common, I wonder? The logos, Milly, look at the logos.’
‘They’re both swans?’
‘At last, we appear to be getting somewhere. Shine the torch inside the prospectus.’
‘But there’s nothing in it.’
‘Humour me – please.’
I open the cover. The moment I click the handy pen and torch in one, shapes appear on the page. There are smiley faces. Shiny facilities. And words. Lots of them.
‘UV light on invisible ink,’ says Ms Celia. ‘Child’s play. It would also have highlighted some of the more interesting subjects on the timetable we sent you.’
I gawp at the pictures. The ‘facilities’ include an assault course and a shooting range.
‘Please turn to page five, third paragraph.’
My fingers run down the page. My eyes bulge over the words. Some are more alarming than others.
Pas de deux . . .
SURVEILLANCE . . .
Character dance . . .
CODEBREAKING . . .
Pointe work . . .
SELF-DEFENCE . . .
Yoga . . .
WEAPONS TRAINING . . .
‘Blimey. Swan House, it’s . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s a . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s a ballet school . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘FOR SPIES!’
Ms Celia nods. ‘I knew we’d get there in the end.’
‘You’re not an ordinary ballet teacher, are you?’
She glances down the alley. ‘Not exactly. As well as a teacher, I am an intelligence officer – agent – spy – call it what you will. You see, Milly, ballet dancers make excellent undercover agents. They are physically strong and mentally resilient. They also have good reason to travel the world.’
‘You mean everyone at Swan House is going to be a spy when they grow up?’
‘Those who graduate, yes. British Intelligence has a generation of Swan House dancers in their ranks. But we don’t wait for you to grow up, Milly. At Swan House, we nurture the spies of the future and, when necessary, put their talents to good use. We would like you to join us.’
I blink. Me. A spy? ‘B-but why?’
‘You have something we need. Thanks to your grandmother, you are fluent in several languages including Casovan – áno or nie?’
‘Uh, áno. Yes.’
‘In which case, your mission is simple. We want you to befriend a young Casovan ballerina. With your ballet background and knowledge of the language, we believe you will be a perfect go-between.’
‘Wh-who is she?’
‘Suffice to say she’s a pupil of an ex-student of ours. You will be fully briefed in good time.’
‘But Ms Celia, I saw this film about spies once, and nearly all of them came to a sticky end.’
Ms Celia’s lips twitch. ‘I can assure you, you will receive the necessary training in spy craft to ensure you do not come to an end, sticky, or otherwise.’
‘And I won’t have to k-kill anyone, will I?’
‘I promise you won’t have to kill anyone before Christmas.’
‘Is that a joke?’
No answer.
I wonder if Ms Celia is crazy too. ‘I’m sorry, it really was very nice of you to ask me, but I can’t accept your offer. There must be another twelve-year-old Casovan-speaking ballerina somewhere in Britain who’d make a much better spy than me.’
Ms Celia mutters under her breath. ‘This has nothing to do with being nice, Milly. We really don’t have a choice in the matter.’
‘But you can’t keep me here.’
‘We would not choose to keep you here against your wishes, but if it came to it, we could.’
I get up. ‘Bab won’t let you. She’ll come to get me. She won’t budge until you’ve let me go. Not budging is what old ladies do best.’
‘I’m afraid you’re wrong, Milly. Believing anything you tell them is what old ladies do best. Even as we speak, your babushka is packing her bags. You will be pleased to know that we have seen to it that she has won a once-in-a-lifetime tour of Argentina. She is, and I quote, “Obradovannaya.”’
‘Delighted?’
‘Quite. You’d do well to remember that most people, young or old, believe what they want to believe.’
‘But if Bab goes to Argentina, who’s going to look after our cat? Boris is very picky about humans.’
‘I believe your neighbour has offered to take care of him. So you see, Milly,’ says Ms Celia. ‘It couldn’t have worked out better.’
‘What if my mum comes home and no one’s there?’
‘I can assure you, in the eventuality that your mother returns, you will be the first to know. Now, I suggest you make your way to the theatre post haste. I have some unfinished business to attend to.’
A shout echoes down the alley behind her. Ms Celia pulls something from her jacket and backs into the shadows.
‘Wait – please, Ms Celia, what if I can’t do it? What if I’m no good at being a spy?’
‘According to the Captain, you saved a boy’s life today . . . I think you have—’
An explosion fills my ears. Ms Celia grimaces.
The laptop screen goes black.
6
Cycni Venustas, Cor Leonis
‘H ave what?’ I shout at the laptop. ‘Have what?’
No Mum?
No Bab?
No clue what’s going on?
Suddenly there are two bendy straws where my legs used to be.
I wobble towards Ms Celia’s gallery, and pause to let my knees catch up. Underneath the portrait of the man with the shifty eyeballs is an inscription.
Ivan Korolev in his role as Von Rothbart, Swan Lake.
Swan Lake. The ballet that made Mum famous.
I take a closer look at the painting. A winged cape hangs around the boy’s shoulders. Black feathers gleam green and gold against his skin. A tiny glass bottle glints in his hand. It’s etched with a skull and crossbones.
No wonder he gives Topsy the jitters.
I move along the line of paintings. Strapped to the tights of a girl in a lilac tutu is a dagger. The skinny little boy next to her is karate chopping the air. I read the name under the painting. Filipp Popov.
‘What are you gawpin’ at?’ I turn and recognize the girl with the black eye. She bounds down the corridor and pulls up an inch from my nose.
‘One of the Popovs was a spy?’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘It’s hard to take in, that’s all. Until a few minutes ago, I thought this was an ordinary ballet school.’
The girl tucks a folder under her arm and I notice a scrape along her knuckles. ‘No one told you this is a spy school? But I just saw you talkin’ to Princess Perkins downstairs.’
‘Willow Perkins wouldn’t tell me anything.’
‘You ain’t a friend of hers then?’
‘Not exactly. You?’
‘I’d rarver be friends wiv a rattle snake – at least you can hear them comin’.’ The
girl holds out her hand. ‘Name’s Lottie. Lottie Li. What’s your name?’
‘You don’t recognize me from the Scarlet Slippers?’
‘Nah, between you an’ me, ballet ain’t really my fing.’ Lottie’s smile comes with dimples and a gap in her front teeth.
‘I’m Milly. Milly Kydd.’ I smile back and point at the painting behind me. ‘He doesn’t look like a Popov. What happened?’
‘Dunno – before my time. All I know is his family’s famous, but he never came to much. Anyway, you’d better get goin’. Assembly’s about to start and Madame’s a stickler for timekeepin’.’ Lottie nods at her folder. ‘I’ll catch you up. Got to leave my translations on Ms Celia’s desk. She’s old school. Likes hard copies of everyfink.’
‘Translations?’
‘Just a bit of Mandarin and Malay – my dad’s side’s from Singapore. Tryin’ to learn Russian too but even the names do my head in.’
‘My mum’s half Russian. I could help, if you like.’
Lottie backs towards the octagon. ‘I might take you up on that! My mum’s from Hackney – her only language is Cockney. Fat lot a good that is in Vladivostock. Is your dad Russian too?’
I feel for the ballerina on Mum’s bracelet but she’s gone. ‘No, he’s English, but he died when I was a little.’
‘Sorry,’ says Lottie. ‘Me and my big mouf.’
‘It’s all right,’ I say in Bab’s chirpy voice. ‘It was a long time ago and I never really knew him. Anyway, I’d better go. Do you know where the theatre is?’
‘Turn left at the bottom of the stairs, cross the hall then take the door on the right. Carry on straight fru’ the double doors and Bob’s your aunty. Save me a seat!’
I rush down the stairs. Left at the bottom. Across the hall.
Which door? I search for someone to ask but the hall is all air and echoes.
A hand pats my back. ‘I thought you might like company,’ says Willow Perkins. ‘Walking into a room with everyone staring and talking about you must be cringy.’ She pulls a sad face. ‘But you’d know that better than anyone.’
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