I slip it off my wrist and put it in my pocket. I don’t need a Swanphone to tell me when I’m angry.
There’s a SHHHH as I enter the dorm.
Willow and Bumble are sitting on their beds. ‘Did you have a nice little talk with Madame?’ says Willow.
‘How did you know about that?’
‘She messaged me to say you didn’t want to share with us. That’s not very nice, is it, Bumble?’
‘We were quite hurt,’ says Bumble. ‘Especially as we’d unpacked for you and everything.’
Willow smiles sweetly. ‘I wanted to make up for that silly prank earlier so I made up your bed too.’ I look at the suitcases piled high on the third bed. ‘Not that one, silly, it’s through there.’
My anger fizzles out. This is the first nice thing she’s ever done for me. Maybe she is a little bit sorry?
There’s a door leading to an adjoining room. I trip over my slippers. My trunk lies on its side. Everything else I own is in the bath. The shower head is still dripping.
Bumble giggles. ‘Some of it was a bit smelly so we gave it a wash.’
A furry ginger tail hangs out of the loo. I cry out, ‘Boris!’ I rescue my hot-water bottle Boris and slam the door.
Sorry? Willow Perkins doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
9
The Shoe Keeper
I wake up with a damp, furry hot-water bottle on my cheek.
Where am I? The pale-blue ceiling is painted with fluffy, white clouds. Light leaks through the shutters. Across the room, two bodies are snuggled under their quilts.
My heart sinks into the mattress.
Today I have my first ballet class. Two hours of Willow being Cinderella. Two hours of me being a pumpkin.
I pull on some leggings and a T-shirt and tiptoe outside. In the morning light, the courtyard doesn’t look spooky at all. Shutters cover the windows. Hanging baskets brim with pansies. Sunlight winks through the trees behind the stables. There’s a rustle behind me, but it’s only a blackbird in the treetops.
Waiting on the reception desk is a delivery from Meekes. I unstack the shoeboxes and find mine on the bottom. Stamped on the soles of my pointe shoes are my initials and little black hearts. I press the satin against my cheek.
Perfect.
When I get back to the dorm, Willow and Bumble have gone for breakfast, so I sit on my bed and prepare my pointe shoes just like Mum used to. I sew on the ribbons and elastic. Slice and bend the soles. Then bash each box until it’s just right. Happy with my work, I leave them at the end of my bed and go to find Lottie.
I spot her jogging across the courtyard, already dressed in her practice clothes. ‘I was just comin’ to get you. What happened last night?’
Over breakfast, I tell her about my meeting with Madame, but I don’t mention what happened with Willow and my things. Lottie will get mad and the last thing I want to do is get her into more trouble.
She throws down her spoon. ‘Why won’t Madame let you swap dorms? It’s no skin off her nose.’
‘I don’t know. I’ll just have to avoid Willow somehow.’
Lottie nods at the door. ‘Look, she’s headin’ for class. You’re safe to get changed now.’
Back in the dorm, I wriggle into my new tights and leotard, roll on my stripy leg warmers, and scrunch my hair into a pea-sized bun. I fug the room with hairspray, then grope the floor for my shoes.
I peep under my bed. Look in my trunk. Glance at my wrist.
‘Eight forty-eight,’ says my Swanphone. ‘Twelve minutes until your class with Madame.’
Willow and Bumble must have hidden my shoes. I look under their beds. Nothing.
I start rifling through Willow’s clothes. No shoes in her cupboard. Blimey, how many leg warmers does a two-legged girl need?
Rifle, rifle – drat.
I run back to reception, but all the boxes have gone and there’s no one to ask.
Five minutes until class.
I sprint back to the dorm.
‘Your class with Madame will begin in three minutes,’ says my Swanphone. ‘I suggest you leave now.’
What should I do? Lottie said Madame hates people to be late, but I can’t go to class without shoes. Then I remember my mentor.
Filipp Popov leaps onto my trunk. I suppose it’s easier to look down his see-through mousey nose at me from up there. ‘What do you want?’ he snaps.
‘I’ve got a class with Madame, but I’ve lost my new shoes.’
Filipp taps his sticky-out teeth with his finger. ‘Let me think.’
‘Please can you think a bit faster?’
‘Sorry, I am unable to process your request . . . would you like me to reboot?’
‘NO! I mean, no thank you – just tell me what I should do.’
‘Have you been to the Shoe Keeper?’
‘The Shoe Keeper – who’s that?’
‘You haven’t met Madge Little?’ Filipp jumps off the trunk and stumbles to the door. ‘I’ll take you to her cupboard.’
Her cupboard?
I watch my mentor jeté clumsily across the courtyard. At this rate, I’ll never get to Madame’s class.
‘Please just tell me where this Madge person is, and I’ll find her myself.’
‘Suit yourself. She’s on the first floor. Go right at the top of the stairs.’
I take the stairs two at a time. The door isn’t locked, so I push straight in.
The Shoe Keeper’s room is musty and lined with cubby holes. Every inch is crammed with shoeboxes. Propped against the back wall is a little ladder. At the top, a pair of flowery curtains is drawn across a human-size cubby hole. The curtains flutter – someone is snoring inside.
‘Hello? Miss Little, are you there?’
There’s a hrmph.
‘Miss Little?’ No answer. ‘Madge?’
A face peeps between the curtains. Madge Little has a snubbed pink nose and the worried expression of a guinea pig.
‘What time is it? Who are you? Do you have an appointment?’
‘It’s five past nine and I’m Milly Kydd and no I don’t, but it’s an emergency.’
‘Emergency? What are you here for? Shoes or –’ Madge Little lowers her voice – ‘doobries?’
‘Uhh . . . shoes? Definitely shoes.’
‘Sorry, I’m busy.’ The curtains snap closed.
‘Miss Little, please – I’ve lost my new shoes and I’ve got a class right now this very minute.’
‘Who with?’ she asks from behind the curtain.
‘Madame.’
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Milly. Milly Kydd.’
There’s a scrabbling noise, then Madge scoots down the ladder. Her streaky grey hair sticks up on one side and her winceyette nightie’s inside out.
‘Madame won’t like you being late. Not one little bit. What did you need?’ She scurries along the row of boxes.
‘A pair of size fours,’ I say. ‘As quickly as possible, please.’
‘Size fours, did you say? Oh dear. Oh no. Got me out of bed at six o’clock, she did, and took every pair of size fours I had. And did she say thank you, Miss Little, sorry to disturb you, Miss Little? No, she did not.’
‘Who? Who took all the shoes?’
‘Miss Perkins. Do you know her? You could ask her to lend you a pair.’
Willow. I can’t let her get away with it this time. ‘I’ll take a pair of size fives, please.’
‘You are eight minutes late for class,’ says my Swanphone.
‘Oh dear. The fives are all out.’ Madge Little reaches for one of the cubby holes. ‘I’ve got a pair of three and a halfs, but they won’t do your feet any good.’
‘I suppose they’ll have to do – but please can you hurry!’
By the time I skid into Madame’s studio, I’m not late. I’m history.
Twenty pairs of eyes look up from the barre. Sunlight streams through the windows and bounces off a wall of mirrors. Willow Perkins sm
irks at my reflection. My hair’s escaped. My face is pink and worried. I could be Madge Little’s guinea-pig daughter.
Madame doesn’t bat a pearly eyelid in my direction. ‘Charlotte, zis is ze ballet not ze boxing. Now ze other side. Same arm as your working leg.’
A lady in a cardigan and thick, brown tights thumps at the piano. Madame holds up her hand and the music stops. She turns to me. ‘You are late.’
‘Sorry, Madame, I lost my sh—’
Madame waves her hand impatiently. ‘If I want an excuse, I will ask for an excuse. We follow one simple rule in my class, and it is zis: if one person is late, everyone is punished. Comprenez-vous?’ Twenty pairs of eyes roll in my direction. ‘I said, do you understand?’
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘Class, as Millicent missed ze warming-up, you will all start from ze beginning. So, attention –’ she demonstrates a combination of steps – ‘Begin with battement tendu devant. Zen de côté. Zen derrière. Close to first and repeat de côté. Finish in first with your arms in bras bas and repeat on the other side.’
My head is spinning and I haven’t even started yet.
She waves at the piano. ‘Music, Mademoiselle Batty.’
It’s been eight months since I’ve been to a ballet class. By the time I’m tenduing devant everyone else is tenduing derrière. I wipe the sweat from my eyes.
Willow isn’t even glowing.
‘Keep up, Millicent!’ snaps Madame. ‘Ze other leg! Now balance . . . hold . . . hold . . . and finis!’
The balls of my feet are great balls of fire.
‘G-golly,’ says Miss Batty. ‘It’s a qu-quarter past ten, Madame.’
‘I am aware of ze hour, mademoiselle.’
‘But isn’t it t-time for our little b-break?’
‘Break, mademoiselle? Do you forget why zese children are here? Will zey have a little break when zey are under ze cover? Will zey have a little break when zey are interrogated and tortured? Pah! Go for a cup of your precious English tea. Everyone else will stay until she –’ she points at me – ‘is perfect!’
Even Lottie groans. Miss Batty gathers her music in her arms. Sheets fly as she scurries across the studio.
Madame claps her hands. ‘Girls, change into your pointe shoes. Vite!’
I grit my teeth as I change from my teeny-tiny flats into my teeny-tiny pointe shoes.
Madame hovers over me. ‘What is taking you so long, Millicent? I do not comprehend. Why are you wearing shoes zat are too small? You are like one of Cinderella’s ugly sisters, non?’
Everyone laughs.
‘I lost my shoes, Madame. These were the only size the Shoe Keeper had.’ I spot Willow’s face in the mirror. All violet eyes and innocence.
‘I do not tolerate excuses in my class.’
I bite my lip. ‘Sorry, Madame. I’m ready now.’
‘Zen to ze centre, if you please. Your mother made her name in Swan Lake, did she not?’
Twenty pairs of eyes watch me hobble to the centre. ‘Yes, Madame.’
‘People say she made thirty-two fouetté turns look – how do you say – easy-peasy.’
‘Yes, Madame. She was amazing.’
‘You are lucky to have a mother who could teach you so much. I suppose she taught you to perform ze perfect fouetté?’
A voice whispers in my head. A velvety voice that conjures up tutus and tiaras.
Clever girl, Milly, that was so, so close. Just try one more time . . .
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘Excellent. Now you will show us all what you have learnt.’
I glance down. My toes are sticky with blood.
Mum whispers through the pain.
You can do it, sweetheart. Start in fourth.
I stand in fourth position.
It’s all about your supporting leg, remember? Now lift your chest and passé.
I lift my chest and passé.
Find your spot and spin. Move your arm and leg like they’re on a string.
I find my spot and spin, but my toes are on fire. On my second fouetté, I teeter. On the third, I totter. On the fourth, my toes fold and I tumble to the floor.
‘A pity,’ says Madame. ‘But it is only to be expected.’
Willow Perkins shoots up her hand. ‘Madame, Eva Kydd taught me too. I can show you her method.’
‘Thank you, Willow, please do.’
With every perfect fouetté, I hear Mum’s voice. Beautiful, Willow. Did you see, Milly, how well Willow is doing . . .
Mum taught her brilliantly.
Madame applauds. ‘Bien. If only Ms Celia had chosen you to dance in the ze Scarlet Slippers, Willow.’
A mumble travels along the barre.
‘What do you mean, Madame?’ says Willow.
‘As you know, each of ze schools must perform three times. Zis year, ze dances are taken from variations from Ze Sleeping Beauty, Romeo and Juliet and Swan Lake. Ms Celia has decided zat just one person will lead for Swan House in all three dances . . .’
The mumble turns to a rumble. Madame circles the room.
‘Who’s that?’ says Willow.
Madame stops next to the piano and carefully closes the lid. ‘Class, please join me in congratulating our new principal dancer . . . Millicent Kydd.’
10
The Dance of Death
At lunchtime, I try to concentrate on my food but it’s not easy with everyone staring and Spencer groaning, ‘I can’t believe the mission hangs on Kydd,’ between every mouthful.
‘Shut up, Spence,’ says Lottie.
‘It’s all right, Lottie,’ I say. ‘I honestly don’t know what Ms Celia was thinking. I thought she wanted us to do well?’
‘Exactly. Or lives will be lost and all that.’ Spencer jabs his fork into the slice of rubber on his plate. ‘Thought this was supposed to be beef Wellington.’
‘More like wellington boot,’ says Lottie.
I push away my plate. ‘I really, really need to see Ms Celia right now, this very minute.’
Spencer puts down his fork. ‘She’s gone out. Saw her take off in Winifred like she was off to save the world.’
‘Then what am I going to do? You saw me in class. I can’t even do a fouetté!’
‘It ain’t your fault you fell over, Milly,’ says Lottie. ‘Blame Perkins. Your shoes was too small.’
I groan. ‘And what’s Madge going to say? There’s blood all over her three and a halfs.’
‘That’s nuffink,’ says Lottie. ‘Last term I mistimed a karate chop and broke the Captain’s nose. Should have seen him wiv a pink beard. He looked like a giant My Little Pony.’
Spencer grins. ‘Cheer up, we’ve got Spy Craft next. That’s going to be so cool.’
We give up on our wellington boots and head upstairs to the gym. At the top of the staircase, I glimpse Ms Celia’s Hall of Fame. Didn’t Topsy say there were lasers up here? I stay as close as possible to Lottie.
The gym has rows of leather punch bags and targets on the walls. Waiting next to a dummy hanging from the ceiling is the Captain. He’s swapped his suit and tie for a karate suit and a bag full of headguards and boxing gloves.
The double doors swing open and in walks Merv. I don’t think he’s going to need his satchel.
‘Listen up, you lot,’ says the Captain. ‘It’s just twelve weeks until Korolev shows up, so here’s the deal . . .’ He rubs his beardy jaw. ‘No crying – I can’t be doing with tears. No backchat – you’ll do what you’re told, no questions asked. And no whinging – I especially can’t be doing with whinging.’
‘Why’s he looking at me?’ says Merv.
‘As a few of you are new, we’ll start with a basic warm-up. Everyone grab a mat.’
Turns out the Captain’s warm-ups are worse than Madame’s. The next hour consists of an unnecessary amount of shouting (the Captain) and an unnatural amount of puffing (me). I finish my bottle of water in the first five minutes and survive the rest of the class by licking the swea
t off my top lip.
When the torture stops, I collapse on the mat. Only one person looks worse than me. In fact, it is entirely possible that Merv is dead. The Captain checks his pulse before prodding him in the back with a big hairy foot.
‘Get up, son. We’ve only just begun.’
Merv moans and rolls over. ‘When am I ever going to have to deliver a killer blow to the solar plexus? Martial arts are a waste of time if you’re never going to work in the field, and believe me, I am never going to work in the field. I’m genetically unsuited to physical combat. My skills are cerebral.’
The Captain pulls Merv to his feet. ‘Pass the practical part of this course or you’ll be out on your cerebrum. Don’t laugh, Spencer, Merv’s not the only one who’d better watch out. In the run up to the Scarlet Slippers, you will all be monitored continually. Right, before we move on, are there any questions?’
I wonder what ‘monitored continually’ means. Does it mean someone watches us all the time? Like, even when we’re on the loo?
I put my hand up and ask.
The Captain rumbles, ‘Anyone got any sensible questions?’
I put my hand up again. ‘I have, but it’s not sensible at all. Actually, it’s the maddest thing I ever heard. Miss Topping said there were lasers in the school. She said they’d cut you in half if you didn’t have clearance.’ I laugh. Ha-ha-ha. ‘There aren’t really, are there? Lasers? That cut people in half?’
The Captain looks at me like I’m the mad one for asking.
Lottie whispers in my ear, ‘They say there was this double agent once. Disguised herself as Ms Celia. Paisley scarf. Oxford bags. Engine grease under her nails. Dead ringer, she was, even the eyes. They say the lasers went clean fru’ her. Had to bring in the specialists to clean her up.’
‘Anyone else got any questions?’ says the Captain. ‘What now, Kydd?’
‘Uhh, just one more.’ I think it might be important. ‘What’s clearance?’
It’s raining when the Captain gathers us in the courtyard. A group of bedraggled sixth years carries a stretcher away from the assault course. I overhear one boy say, ‘It’s not called the Dance of Death for nothing.’
Willow’s chatting with a small boy who must think I’m a mentor, because he keeps trying to walk through me.
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