Dance of Fire

by Yelena Black

  ‘Watch where you’re going!’ an older woman yelled as she cut across the walkway, nearly knocking Vanessa to the ground.

  ‘Careful,’ Justin said, catching Vanessa’s shoulder. ‘You OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Glued to her phone, her mother hadn’t even turned round.

  Justin gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, and Vanessa felt her stomach flutter. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Forty-five minutes and one stamp on her passport later, ­Vanessa was through customs. Her ears were full of English accents – everyone sounded like Russell Brand or the old dowager on Downton Abbey, which was weirdly comforting.

  ‘You may not know this about me, Justin, but I abhor being late,’ Vanessa’s mother said. ‘That and Chinese food. Neither are good for you, you know.’

  Justin stifled a laugh, but Vanessa just shook her head. She already knew her mother was crazy.

  Their overnight flight was supposed to have arrived just before 8 a.m., but now it was nearly ten. Vanessa could see the weak morning sun hiding behind grey clouds, and she shivered as the three of them stepped outside into the cold December air.

  Vanessa turned on her cellphone while they waited. A few text messages came in at once. The first was from her friend TJ: Be safe. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

  There was one from Steffie that said, Say hi to Justin for me, and one from Blaine: Kiss Justin for me. Blaine was spending the holiday at Steffie’s house in Cincinnati, while TJ was in Manhattan, trying to convince her parents to let her fly to London and spend Christmas with Vanessa and her family. All of them were hurting – missing their friend Elly, who’d gone missing in September and was probably dead, murdered by Josef or Zep. Vanessa shivered, remembering dancing with Zep, kissing him, how crazy she’d been about him, while all the time he was working with Josef to raise a demon. What a creep.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ Justin said.

  Vanessa stuffed her phone into the pocket of her jeans. ‘Not really.’ She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, and she turned away.

  ‘Come on, let’s hail a cab,’ Vanessa’s mother said, but then Vanessa spotted their last name – adler – on a cardboard sign.

  She immediately recognised the man holding the sign: Enzo. He was a member of the Lyric Elite, an organisation of dancers who fought those who would use the power of their art for evil. An organisation that she hoped would help her find her sister. Enzo had shown up at NYBA too late to help with the demon, but he had got her and Justin invited to the competition as a first step towards working with the Lyric Elite.

  Vanessa guessed he was twenty-one at the very most, with black hair that parted in the middle and tumbled down on either side of his forehead, framing his angular face. Enzo had dark eyes, olive-coloured skin and an ultrawhite smile. On first glance he didn’t look like much, but when he walked towards them she saw he had the posture of a dancer, precise yet ­graceful, his muscular frame suddenly appearing weightless.

  ‘Oh!’ Vanessa’s mother said, stopping short when she ­recognised her last name. ‘Why, Justin – did you hire us a taxi?’

  But Enzo cut off Justin’s response. ‘Mrs Adler,’ he said, stepping forward.

  ‘Yes?’ her mother said.

  ‘I’m from the Royal Court Ballet Company.’

  Vanessa’s mother’s eyes flashed with understanding. Instinc­tively she brushed her fingers over her hair. ‘Why, yes, of course you are.’

  Enzo grabbed her mother’s silver Tumi bag and began to roll it towards the street. ‘Please come with me. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it just in time for orientation.’

  He strolled over to a white BMW parked behind a row of taxis. He clicked open the trunk and heaved all their bags inside. As her mother slid into the backseat, he looked at ­Vanessa and Justin and said, ‘I’ll bring you up to speed later. But we have to hurry. If you don’t turn up on time, you’re in danger of being disqualified before you’ve even started.’

  Chapter Two

  Through the back windows, Vanessa watched the staggered rooftops roll past as they sped along the M4 towards the city centre. London looked so different from New York. The ­buildings here were shorter, the sky bigger, the clouds lower and greyer – as if they’d been hanging over the city for so long that they drooped with exhaustion. A thin, cold rain had begun to fall.

  ‘You’re lucky – your schedule has already been laid out for you,’ her mother said, flipping the pages of a small guidebook. ‘But I’ll have to find some way to occupy myself. There are almost too many things to do.’

  Lucky? Vanessa didn’t feel lucky. She closed her eyes and saw again her dream of Justin, his mouth a pit of flame. She felt a tickle of heat in her chest. ‘You could always go shopping.’

  ‘Of course, dear – that’s what I’m talking about. Harrods will take at least a day, but then there’s Harvey Nichols, and Liberty, and – oh, it’s too much for just one week.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s way more tiring than winning an international dance competition,’ Vanessa mumbled. Though her mother shopped so much it almost seemed competitive.

  Nearly half an hour later, the city skyline was replaced by a vast patch of countryside, a huge city park so quiet and idyllic that it looked like a painting. richmond park, a sign read. Vanessa pressed her face to the window as a flock of blackbirds swooped over the landscape towards a distant steely lake.

  The white peaked roof of a building was just visible past the trees. ‘Welcome to the White Lodge,’ Enzo said, steering the car down a dirt carriage path. ‘Once upon a time, royalty stayed here at weekends, but these days it’s the home of the Royal Court Ballet.’

  The lodge looked like something fit for a king or queen. The front was taken up by four immense white pillars framing tall glass windows, and two staircases swept down from either side of a marble balcony to meet in a flight of broad stone steps. It was like an ivory mansion carved out of ice – in the middle of a city park.

  Vanessa opened the car door and stepped out into the drizzly air.

  Justin came up behind her, his arm brushing hers. ‘What do you think?’ he whispered, handing Vanessa her suitcase. ‘Pretty impressive, eh?’

  At the wintry sight, Vanessa couldn’t help but think of the white figures that had been frozen into the wall in the basement dance studio in New York – the silhouettes of dancers who had died while in thrall to Josef and his attempts to raise a demon. Now Josef was dead, and the demon was – where? What did it want? Dread rose in her.

  ‘You need to hurry,’ Enzo said, looking at his watch. ‘I drove fast, but you’re still quite late.’

  ‘Listen to the man,’ her mother said, shooing them away. ‘You don’t want to make a bad impression.’

  Justin reached back and took Vanessa’s hand, and she felt a jolt of electricity at his touch. Together, they took the stairs two at a time, and were breathless by the time they reached the entrance. Behind them, she could hear her mother following at a more leisurely pace. The doors creaked as Vanessa pushed them open.

  Inside, the yellow glow of a chandelier welcomed them. The grand foyer was polished and clean, with the sweet aroma of a museum. The walls were decorated with portraits of ballerinas and dancers frozen in time, their arms extended, their legs spread in jetés or tangled beneath tutus in a breathtaking array of colours – violet, sage, salmon pink and blueberry as well as white. Some of the pictures were from productions Vanessa knew – Swan Lake, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, or Don Quixote – but others left only an impression of unbearable grace.

  ‘Wow,’ she breathed, her voice quiet, as though this really were a museum.

  They made their way through the foyer, which was lined with head shots – more distinguished alumni probably. But then Vanessa noticed a familiar face among the photographs. Margaret? No, she realised, it was Pauline something, a promising young French dancer she’d heard about.

  ‘These are the competitors,’ Justin said from behind h
er. The portraits filled the entire hallway, their eyes staring back at the empty corridor, eerie, lifeless.

  Vanessa realised she didn’t see her own portrait or Justin’s among them. Was it because they’d registered at the last ­minute?

  A woman in her mid-twenties came down the hall towards them, her heels clicking against the tiles. ‘You must be Ms Adler,’ she said, surveying Vanessa’s sneakers and jeans with the slightest hint of distaste. ‘And Mr Cooke. We’ve been expecting you. I’m Jennifer, the dorm manager.’

  Vanessa nodded. ‘Sorry we’re –’

  ‘Late?’ The woman pointed them down the hallway towards a theatre. ‘Orientation has already begun. Leave your bags with me, and I’ll make sure they get to your rooms.’

  Vanessa and Justin gently pulled open the heavy doors of the theatre, and together they slipped into the darkness.

  The auditorium was dim, the only light from spots focused on the stage. A man stood in front of a velvet curtain, his face pale in the white light. He was tall, lean and bald, with sharp black eyes. Vanessa and Justin tiptoed down the aisle and took two plush red seats in the rear.

  ‘– and I am Palmer Carmichael, master choreographer of the Royal Court Ballet Company.’ The man paused, and the room filled with thunderous applause.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ Justin whispered. ‘Have you?’

  Vanessa shook her head. Seated slightly behind Carmichael on the stage were two middle-aged women, both tall and lithe and beautiful. They must be former ballerinas, she thought, perhaps judges in the competition, though she and Justin had apparently missed their introductions.

  ‘It is an honour to be here in a room with so much talent,’ Carmichael continued after the applause had died down. ‘I truly wish we could accept all of you, for it is thanks to the efforts of young, passionate dancers like you that the Royal Court Ballet Company exists at all. It was nearly a century and a half ago that the company was founded . . .’

  Justin leaned in and whispered, ‘Everyone’s so quiet.’ A shiver ran up Vanessa’s skin at the feel of his breath on her ear.

  She inched her hand closer to his on the armrest, the darkness giving her confidence. ‘I don’t mind it,’ she said, her voice hushed.

  Justin narrowed his eyes. ‘Neither do I. You know, if it weren’t for Carmichael, it would almost feel like we’re alone.’

  ‘After what happened in New York, I’m not exactly the ­safest person to be alone with,’ Vanessa said.

  ‘Who said I wanted safe?’

  Vanessa smiled.

  The seats around them were filled with dozens of dancers their age, the reflected glow from the stage lights warming their faces.

  ‘This is the thirtieth anniversary of the Royal Court competition, and our first time holding the auditions during the winter holidays,’ Carmichael said, sweeping his arms wide. ‘It is cause for celebration!’ He clapped and stepped back into the shadows.

  A single note filled the air, the pure tone of a violin. Two dancers appeared from the wings – a woman and a man, both young. They wore gold-embroidered coats over white leotards and tights, and as the music swelled, the man took up position behind the ballerina with his right hand on her hip. They raised their left arms in a delicate arch, their hands turned, their fingers lightly spread.

  ‘Don Quixote,’ Justin whispered. ‘The pas de deux.’

  And then it began. The dancers skipped lightly across the stage, his movements the perfect shadow of hers. He raised her into the air before gently setting her on her feet, and she made two quick, precise turns. And then back again, the woman performing elegant, perfect leg raises and swift, exuberant ­fouettés.

  By the climax, as the man spun through one barrel turn after another, Vanessa had forgotten to breathe. They were perfectly graceful, seeming to expend no effort at all. This is true beauty, she thought.

  The applause that greeted the end of the performance was deafening. All the students and coaches rose as the dancers clasped hands and bowed.

  Then they melted soundlessly into the wings as Palmer Carmichael strode to centre stage again. ‘Thanks to our two scholarship winners from last season.’ He raised his arms, quiet­ing the audience. ‘The Royal Court was founded on the belief that real dancers are made, not born. We have designed this competition to find such talent when it is at its ripest, and pluck it and mould it before it rots.’

  He looked delighted at the prospect, Vanessa thought. Something about Palmer was familiar, and it wasn’t just that he was a choreographer. It had to do with the crooked curl of his lip, the shadow his brow cast over his face, the lilt in his voice – as if he were holding on to a secret. And his charisma, she realised. He had an animal magnetism that drew every eye in the room.

  ‘Doesn’t he remind you of Josef?’ Vanessa whispered.

  ‘A little, but so what?’ Justin said. ‘He’s a choreographer. They’re all like that.’

  ‘There are ninety-six of you seated here today,’ Palmer continued, gesturing towards the audience. ‘In one week, there will be only two. The competition will last seven days, beginning now, and consists of three rounds, each separated by a day of rest and preparation. The first round, on Monday, is a traditional solo. Wednesday’s round is a partnered dance. And the third round, next Friday, is a contemporary solo. We three judges will observe each of your performances and make our decisions by the end of each competition day. Sixty-four students will be eliminated in the first round.’

  A murmur rose from the seats. Two-thirds of the dancers would be cut after day one?

  ‘Twenty students will be eliminated in round two.’ More loud whispers. ‘And then, of the remaining twelve, two students will be offered a two-year scholarship position. We will announce the winners on the seventh and final day of the competition, followed by a press event.’

  He gazed over the faces in the audience, as if he could already tell who would be cut. ‘Many of you are used to being the very best. But here, you are surrounded by stars,’ Car­michael said. ‘We are looking for the sun and the moon. ­Nothing less. You will have the rest of today and tomorrow to prepare for the first round. I suggest you use that time well.’

  Vanessa peered at the dancers around them. Beside each group sat at least one older person. They were coaches, Vanessa realised, as she watched some of them translating Palmer’s speech for their students. But she and Justin weren’t there with anyone from NYBA. ‘Do we have a coach?’

  ‘Maybe Enzo?’ he said, shrugging. ‘Or someone else from the . . .’ He mouthed, ‘Lyric Elite.’

  ‘Over the next seven days, you will be working with dancers from all over the world who share your passion for the art of ballet,’ Palmer said. ‘I hope that even those of you who are not chosen will take away from this the unique experience of ­having performed among the best the world has to offer.’

  Vanessa snorted. No one sitting in that theatre would be comforted by ‘having performed among the best’. It was be the best or nothing at all.

  ‘Shh,’ Justin whispered, leaning towards her. Vanessa could feel him linger for a moment, his arm brushing against hers before he turned his attention back to the stage.

  Palmer began naming previous winners, famous dancers who had begun their careers in the exact seats the students now occupied. Vanessa gazed around the room at her competitors.

  A cluster of nine dancers and three coaches were sitting close to the front, wearing matching athletic jackets with block letters printed on the back in the Cyrillic alphabet – Russians, most likely. Beside that group was another team, all in expensive, well-cut uniforms bearing a school name that included the word Académie – clearly French. The Royal School of Ballet team sat near the back, the Union Jack emblazoned on their shirts. And then there were a few dozen smaller groups, each with a school coach, of just two or three dancers; some of the dancers looked vaguely Eastern European, others from further afield – maybe Asia or Africa. She overheard an occasional hushed comment in a langu
age she didn’t recognise.

  ‘Do you see anyone else from New York?’ Vanessa whispered.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Justin said, scanning the audience. ‘We’re the only ones. And I’m one of the few guys.’ Of the ninety-six dancers sitting in the room, only about a third of them were male.

  Vanessa felt a strange sensation: someone was staring at her.

  She half imagined she’d spin and glimpse Zep standing in the shadows beneath the balcony, his metallic eyes roaming over her body, but when she turned she saw only a line of ­spectators – some older people who were probably parents or coaches, and a few people taking pictures, who might be with the press: a punk girl with dyed-black hair, a blonde woman in a garish pantsuit, a young man in a porkpie hat. Where was her mother? She had to be here somewhere.

  And then a doe-eyed girl across the aisle blinked and said, ‘Sorry!’ her voice high-pitched and buoyant. ‘I don’t mean to stare!’

  ‘You’re American,’ Vanessa said, relieved.

  ‘I’m from the Midwest Grasslands School of Ballet.’ The girl’s face lit up. ‘You may have heard of it. It’s in Iowa.’

  ‘Sure,’ Vanessa lied. A dance academy in Iowa? The girl must be an amazing dancer to have been scouted from a nothing school like that.

  ‘I’m Maisie,’ the girl said, blushing furiously. ‘Maisie Teller.’ She had light brown hair and a round, rosy face that looked so young Vanessa could barely believe she was old enough for high school, let alone a competition like this one.

  ‘I’m Vanessa Adler,’ she replied. ‘And this is Justin Cooke. We’re from the New York Ballet Academy.’

  ‘Wow!’ Maisie said a little too loudly. A handful of dancers turned and scowled. Maisie lowered her voice. ‘I’ve never been to New York but I’ve seen pictures. You’re so lucky!’

  ‘Maisie!’ hissed her coach, a severe-looking white-haired man. ‘Be quiet!’

  ‘Sorry!’ Maisie said. And then to Vanessa she whispered, ‘This is already the best day of my entire life.’ She turned her attention back to Palmer Carmichael.