‘Great. I think clothes can really help you to feel the part.’
‘I hope so. I need all the help I can get.’
He smiles. ‘Works for me. That and a lot of practice! Keep trying and you’ll get there.’
‘Thanks, Dafydd.’
Madge Little scurries in wearing a white lab coat over her nightie. ‘Are you both here for a fitting?’ She pulls on a huge pair of goggles.
‘No,’ says Dafydd. ‘You’re making my hologram, remember?’
‘Am I? Oh yes. With the Scarlet Slippers coming up, I don’t know if I’m coming or going. Give me a moment and I’ll reprogram the scannaray.’
The scannaray? Madge disappears behind a moving rail of sparkly costumes.
‘Going to be a mentor next year,’ says Dafydd. ‘My Swanphone’s already given them most of my data. One more scan and I’ll be done.’
I envy the lucky year seven who’s paired with Dafydd.
Ten minutes later, it’s my turn. I step into a little photobooth in my vest and tights. Madge tells me to close my eyes – apparently I’m about to be ‘scan-narayed’. There’s a humming sound and a bright flash which goes right through my eyelids. It’s very discombobulating.
‘All done,’ says Madge. ‘The 4D Printonic will produce your headdresses, tutus, masks, everything you need. They’ll be ready by teatime.’
Wow.
My Swanphone glows. ‘Mr Crump wishes to see you next.’
I ask who Mr Crump is and my Swanphone goes all mysterious. ‘Your mentor will take you to him.’
I sigh. I haven’t seen Filipp since I ran away and I wouldn’t mind if I never saw him again. When he appears, he’s wearing the same expression as Bab when she sucks on a sherbet lemon.
‘What do you want?’ I have to remind myself that he’s only a hologram.
‘Do you know where Mr Crump is?’
‘Of course. He’s where he always is. In the control room above the theatre.’
‘You mean that little room where all the sound and lighting stuff is?’
‘Yes. That little room. It’s this way.’
I grab my bag and follow Filipp up the stairs. Across the landing, muffled shouts escape the gym. Invisible lasers sweep the corridor.
Filipp’s see-through shoulders are slumpier than mine. I try to ignore the little twang inside me but it’s impossible not to feel sorry for someone who trips over their own feet every five minutes.
I decide to cheer him up.
‘Filipp, I saw your mum’s Scarlet Slipper in Madame’s trophy cabinet the other day.’
He hesitates, then carries on plodding. ‘That’s nothing. We have a trophy room at home.’
I picture Mum’s Scarlet Slipper on the mantlepiece. If she had a whole room of trophies, I think I’d burst with pride. I suppose that’s why Filipp always seems so – I search for the word – huppity.
‘By the time I leave Swan House, our trophy room will contain my Scarlet Slipper too.’ He trips outside a door I hadn’t noticed before and the twang turns into a pang. Poor Filipp Popov. I wonder what became of him.
The first thing I see in the control room is a console glinting with knobs and buttons. The second is a bank of computer screens. The third is a shock of bushy black hair and a pair of panda-rimmed eyes. Merv looks like he hasn’t slept for days. Then I catch a reflection of the ghost of a panda in the glass. Neither do I.
‘Hi, Merv. I thought Mr Crump would be here.’
Merv spins his chair to face me. ‘He is.’
I look up. Down. Under the console.
‘You’re looking at him.’
‘You’re Mr Crump?’ I throw down my bag and swivel a chair under the console. Stacked in the corner is a tower of sandwich boxes.
‘Did I say you could sit?’
I stand up and knock over a Star Trek thermos.
Merv twitches. ‘OK, sit down! Just don’t touch anything.’
The control room looks over the theatre. Onstage, Dafydd has joined Madame and Willow for a rehearsal. ‘Can they see me up here?’
‘No. All of the windows in Swan House are shatter-, bullet- and snoop-proof.’
Merv turns one of the dials on the console. The house lights dim. As the spotlight follows Willow and Dafydd, music floats up from the theatre. They’re so much better than me and Danny. For the hundredth time, I wonder why Ms Celia chose me to dance the principal roles.
‘Why did you need to see me, Merv?’
Merv roots around in his satchel and hands me a folder. ‘Ms Celia asked me to give you something – it’s Level RLB so don’t leave it lying around.’
‘RLB?’
‘Read me. Learn me. Burn me. Actually, you might want to just give it back to me when you’ve finished. The last person to use the incinerator in the basement lost their eyebrows.’
I swivel in the chair. ‘What is it?’
‘Can you please keep still?’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s your mission.’
I stop swivelling.
Over the past couple of months, I’ve got used to switching from jetés to judo in less time than it takes to change my footwear, but I’m SO not ready for anything that could be described as a mission.
A photograph slips out of the folder. The girl in the picture has blonde plaits, rosy cheeks and ruby lips. ‘Is she the Casovan girl I’ve got to make friends with?’
‘Her name is Kristina Kovalchuk,’ says Merv. ‘Known in the trade as Kristina the Knife. She approached us a couple of months ago wanting to sell information. We think she wants to talk about your mum. That’s where you come in.’
‘Wait a sec. You knew my mum had been kidnapped AND DIDN’T TELL ME?’
‘There’s no need to shout. I only found out this morning.’
‘DID YOU KNOW MUM WAS O?’
‘Stop shouting! I had my suspicions, but until now, O’s identity has been top secret.’ Merv blinks. ‘Can I finish now?’
‘OK. Sorry about the shouting.’
‘Kristina will only speak to someone she trusts. You speak her language, plus you’re Eva’s daughter. She knows you won’t double-cross her.’
‘She looks quite nice.’
‘Don’t be fooled by her looks. They don’t call her Kristina the Knife for nothing. The file tells you everything you need to know. Remember, it’s FYEO.’
‘Uh?’
‘For Your Eyes Only. Read it ASAP – As Soon As Possible, then bring it back.’ Merv spins back to the console. ‘TAFN – That’s All For Now.’
I pause at the door. ‘Merv, did you get a chance to look at Mum’s programme?’
‘No. I’m very busy.’ Merv lowers his voice. ‘But that reminds me, before you decide to go sneaking into the woods again, you might want to turn off your Swanphone. You don’t know who’s watching.’
My face burns. ‘You haven’t told anyone, have you?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Thanks, Merv. Ooo, and I don’t suppose you saw anyone take Boris, did you?’
Merv’s fingers hover over his keyboard. ‘Who’s Boris?’
‘My hot-water bottle. Fat. Ginger. Looks like a cat?’
‘When?’
‘A couple of months ago.’
Merv looks at me sideways. ‘We’re having teething troubles with the new security system. There’s been a glitch with the cameras. But don’t tell anyone. It wasn’t my fault.’
‘I didn’t say it was. I just want to find Boris.’
‘Sorry. Can’t help. Just read the file and bring it back first thing. FYEO, remember?’
‘OK, but can’t I just read it here?’ I swing my arm and clip Merv’s sandwich-box tower. One by one they clatter onto the console.
‘No.’ Merv removes the one on his lap. ‘And Kydd – remind me never to ask you up here again.’
FYEO? Huh. That’s easier said than done in school full of spies.
Where am I suppose to go? The dance studios are busy. Bumble’s in
the dorm. Cook’s in the refectory. Topsy’s omming in the yoga studio. It’s too rainy to sit outside. Too late to trek to my boathouse. I peep in every room I’m allowed to peep in before heading back to the theatre.
The rehearsal has finished and the theatre is still and peaceful – like a sort of Sleeping Beauty. I walk down the aisle and climb the steps to the stage. There’s a stool in the wings so I sit myself down and pull Kristina Kovalchuk’s file from my bag.
I study her picture. She doesn’t look like a ‘crim’ to me.
According to the file, Kristina loves ballet, hates books and is allergic to bouncy castles. Her hobbies are knitting and knife-throwing.
There are more pictures in the folder. One’s of a dancing Kristina. One’s of a knife-throwing Kristina. The little boy handcuffed to the wall looks petrified.
I’m about to turn the page when the doors to the theatre swing open. I shuffle everything back inside the folder.
Footsteps pad along the aisle. The doors creak again and someone else comes in. I hold my breath. The theatre trembles as the Captain marches up to the stage steps.
‘As I was saying,’ says Madame, ‘ze theatre needs to be fully secure before ze Scarlet Slippers come to Swan House.’
‘Adaptations are underway,’ says the Captain. ‘The Crump boy has been tasked with upgrading the surveillance tech.’
‘In the classrooms too?’
‘Aye. Every inch of the school will have eyes and ears. Korolev won’t be able to promenade without us knowing about it.’
The door opens again. ‘Blanche – a word, if I may?’ It’s Ms Celia.
‘Of course. We were just discussing ze work to ze theatre – do you have something to add?’
‘No. I completely trust Garth’s expertise,’ says Ms Celia.
‘Thank you, Celia. Actually, now that we’re all here, there’s something I’d like to say.’ The Captain lowers his voice. ‘It’s about the mole.’
‘What about the mole?’ says Madame.
‘I still have doubts.’
‘Doubts? You still think we are mistaken? Zat is ridicule!’
The Captain tugs on his beard. ‘The whole thing’s bliddy daft, if you ask us. We’ve jumped to too many conclusions.’
Ms Celia glances at Madame. ‘I understand why you might have concerns, Garth, but Blanche agrees that all the evidence points in one direction. There’s no turning back now.’
The Captain heaves a sigh and three pairs of footsteps leave the theatre.
I wait until the doors have clunked shut and breathe out.
A mole? In Swan House? I don’t suppose they mean a small, velvety creature who lives underground.
But that’s Ms Celia’s problem. I slide Kristina the Knife’s file into my bag. I think I’ve got quite enough to worry about.
18
The Birthday Surprise
I tug my duvet over my ears but it’s no good, I can’t go back to sleep. There’s a voice in my head, a velvety voice conjuring up cupcakes and candles.
Happy birthday, sweetheart. Close your eyes and make a wish . . .
I can’t believe I’m a teenager.
Thirteen. And Mum’s not here.
And nor is Bab.
And nor is Boris.
And when I tried to tell Lottie about the mole yesterday, she’d disappeared too.
It’s my birthday, and I’M ALL ALONE . . .
I sob into my pillow then wipe my cheeks on the sheet. Feeling sorry for myself isn’t going to get Mum back, is it?
There’s a muffled rat-tat-tat on the door. I glance across the dorm; Willow is making snuffly hamster noises and Bumble is snoring louder than the nine fifteen to Paddington.
‘It’s us,’ whispers a voice outside.
‘Open up, Kydd,’ says another voice. ‘It’s brrrruddy freezing out here.’
I yelp as the wind catches the door. Clouds race across the blue-black sky – a wisp of lilac sits on the rooftops.
Lottie and Spencer are both stamping their feet to keep warm.
‘What are you doing? It’s still night-time.’
Spencer yawns. ‘Shorty woke me up at stupid o’clock. You’d think it was someone’s birthday or something.’
Lottie grins. ‘Happy birfday, Milly! Come on, we’ve got somefink to show you.’
‘You have? What is it?’
‘You’ll have to wait and see! Get dressed. Quick!’
I pull on my clothes, grab the compact and close the door as quietly as I can. Behind the stables, the treetops are dancing wildly against the sky.
‘Turn off your Swanphones,’ I say. ‘We can use the light from the doobrie.’
Spencer jogs ahead with the little gold compact. Lottie waits for me to pull my beret over my ears, then we follow the wavering light into the woods.
Once we’re out of earshot, I raise my voice over all the moaning and creaking and tell them about Kristina the Knife and the conversation I overheard in the theatre.
‘Are you sure they said mole?’ says Spencer.
‘Yes, and they know who it is.’
‘So, who is it?’ asks Lottie.
‘They didn’t say a name.’
‘Could be anyone, couldn’t it?’ Spencer shines the compact at the fork in the path. ‘It could be one of us . . .’
I think back to the W in Mum’s programme. Is that what Mum was trying to tell me? Could Willow be the mole?
‘Merv might know somefink?’ says Lottie.
‘I saw him shuffling up the stairs yesterday. He was doing this . . .’ Spencer does a swivelly thing with his eyes. ‘Looked very suspicious. Maybe the Merv has turned?’
Lottie snorts. ‘You don’t really fink Merv’s a mole?’
Spencer shrugs. ‘It’s always the people you don’t suspect. And how well do we really know Merv?’
‘It can’t be Merv,’ I say. ‘He’s got a Star Trek thermos.’
‘Well, he’s hiding something,’ says Spencer. ‘The question is, what? Careful, Kydd. Brambles.’
Spencer holds back a prickly branch and I duck under his arm. ‘I wish I could get Filipp to talk,’ I say. ‘He knows everything about the school.’
‘He finks he knows everyfink,’ says Lottie. ‘And he don’t half drone on—’
‘Whoa.’ Spencer stops dead. ‘Look!’ He holds out his hand. The little gold compact is vibrating. ‘Shhh, listen!’ Something is whirring inside.
Spencer’s eyes widen as the compact flips in his hand. Four metal arms unfold from the case, each with a tiny propeller. ‘Li, what did you say just now?’
We watch in amazement as the compact hovers above Spencer’s outstretched palm.
‘Uhh, we were talking about Filipp,’ I say.
‘Yeah – I said he don’t half go on.’
Spencer grins. ‘No you didn’t! You said “drone on”! The doobrie’s a drone! Well done, Li. You just voice-activated it!’
Wow.
‘Drone – to the lake!’ orders Spencer. The compact shoots off and we all run after it. Mist swirls around our feet as it hangs at the water’s edge. Squiggles of light shimmy on the surface.
Spencer shakes his head. ‘Who would have thought it? Madge Little’s a genius.’
‘Can we forget about Madge for a minute,’ says Lottie. ‘Close your eyes, Milly . . .’ She guides me up the slippery bank. ‘. . . OK. You can open them now! HAPPY BIRFDAY!’
The boathouse is twinkling with fairy lights.
Spencer grins at my mouth making wow shapes. ‘What is it with girls and fairy lights?’
‘I love it! Thanks, both of you.’ ‘It was all Shorty’s idea. Nothing to do with me,’ says Spencer.
‘Go on, Milly, look inside.’
I gaze up at the lights glowing from the rafters. Bobbing between them are dozens of balloons.
Spencer heaves a bag from his shoulder and dumps some parcels on the rug. ‘Topsy gave us your post. These are all for you, birthday girl.’
�
�But you got to open our presents first.’ Lottie passes me a huge bag of sweets. ‘Lucky Candy – my dad brought them back from Singapore. Sorry, there wasn’t much point in wrappin’ them up, seein’ as Spencer’d already EATEN HALF OF THEM.’ She punches Spencer on the arm.
‘Ouch! Blame Cook. I can’t help it if I’m always starving. Anyway, I’ve more than made up for it.’
Spencer delves into his backpack and pulls out a paper take-out bag. A smell that makes my taste buds tingle fills the boathouse.
He dishes out burgers, chips and milkshakes. ‘It’s amazing what money and influence can buy.’
No one speaks for some time. Spencer eats without chewing and Lottie throws herself down on the rug. ‘Does anyone else feel like chuckin’ up? I ate that way too fast.’
Spencer looks at her like she’s just asked him if he sings opera – or if he could live without his phone. ‘I’m thirteen. I’m a boy. I can eat fast food until it comes out of my nose.’
I lick my fingers. ‘I feel sick too, but in a good way.’
‘You’re both lightweightsh,’ says Spencer with his mouth full. ‘Anyway, Kydd, thish ish your proper preshent. My mother choshe it. She’sh good at preshentsh.’
‘It’s from Merv too,’ says Lottie.
Spencer chokes on a chip. ‘Merv’s contribution was nine measly pence and a Star Trek sticker. Anyway, Kydd, go on, open it.’
I rip off the glittery paper and hold up an engraved silver box. I open it slowly and music tinkles out. A ballerina twirls inside. It’s one of the best presents I’ve ever had.
‘It’s got a key so it’s one hundred per cent Bumble and Perkins-proof,’ says Spencer. ‘I wanted to get you a proper safe, like my father’s. But I was overruled.’
‘It’s perfect! It’s all perfect!’
Spencer unwraps one of Lottie’s sweets. ‘So, what else have you got?’
I read out Bab’s card first.
‘Happy thirteenth birthday, darling. Have the most wonderful day. Don’t mind miserable old Madame, now you’re a teenager you can break the rules and have fun!
Much love, your Babushka.
PS. I hope you like my gift. I look forward to seeing you wearing it soon.
PPS. Alejandro says feliz cumpleaños!’
I show Lottie the silver charm. A small but perfect ballerina. My eyes are impossibly watery. ‘It’s just like the one Mum lost,’ I explain.
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