Dance of Fire (12 page)

When he saw Margaret posing with the Royal Court Company, the colour drained from his face. He whistled softly. ‘It's really her,' he said.

He was right, and yet he wasn't, Vanessa realised. Something about her looked different, changed. Though Margaret looked the same as she had when Vanessa had last seen her, the mysterious glimmer in her eye was new.

What had happened to her sister?

On the walk back, they tried to piece Margaret's story together.

Three years ago, Josef had recruited her for the lead role in the New York Ballet Academy production of
The Firebird
– including
La Danse du Feu
, a strange and unearthly dance that
would call forth a demon, the same role he'd cast Vanessa in last fall. But, before the performance, Margaret had disappeared, leaving the school without telling anyone.

As far as Vanessa knew, Josef hadn't raised a demon through
Margaret – but somehow this demon knew her sister. How was that possible?

Sometime afterwards, Margaret must have got to ­London and joined the Royal Court Company. Had she won the same competition Vanessa was competing in now? If so, why hadn't she and Justin heard about it? Had Margaret been recruited by the Lyric Elite? Wouldn't Enzo have mentioned it if she had?

‘There must be other ways into the Royal Court that we don't know about,' Justin said. They were strolling down a ­narrow pavement on a quiet picturesque street lined with brick townhouses. It all felt faraway and strange to Vanessa, like a movie set. She wished intensely that she were behind the doors of one of those houses, doing something simple like watching TV, instead of out here in the cold worrying about demons and cut-throat dance competitions. Maybe that's why Margaret disappeared – maybe she too had longed for a more ordinary life.

‘I don't see how she could have joined the Royal Court without anyone recognising her,' Vanessa said.

‘People weren't looking at the Royal Court,' Justin said. ‘A student in New York disappeared, and a dancer joined a company in London. No one would think to connect the two. Besides, maybe she changed her name.'

Vanessa shivered and crossed her arms. Justin was right, she thought. ‘But why join the Royal Court?' she said. ‘Why not just disappear some other way?'

‘We keep thinking of her as this weak girl, running for her life,' Justin suggested. ‘But that isn't the Margaret I remember.'

‘Me neither,' Vanessa agreed. ‘The Margaret I know would never stop dancing – no matter what.' They paused in the amber glow cast by a lamp post. ‘Maybe she was seeking the dark ­faction, just like we are.'

Justin was silent, and Vanessa felt she might have finally hit upon the truth.

The curtain swung shut.

A girl ran off the stage in tears, shoving past Vanessa as she headed towards the dressing rooms.

‘Another one bites the dust,' a raven-haired Canadian girl said with a snicker.

But Vanessa only turned back to her stretching. They were just a few hours into the competition, and she had already seen eight contestants leave the stage crying that morning.

Vanessa leaned down and pulled into a deep hamstring stretch. All around the backstage area, dancers cluttered the floor, their bodies so close they were practically sprawled on top of one another. They kneaded their pointe shoes into submission and stuffed them with lamb's wool. The air was thick with the smell of talcum powder, hairspray, perfume and sweat, and, underlying it all, the sweet, earthy scent of rosin.

The male dancers leaned against the walls and spilled out into the hallway. They gently pulled their necks to the left and right, shook out their limbs and arched their backs in long, low stretches.

Hushed whispers hung in the room, punctuated only by the snap of a leotard strap and the soft clink of bobby pins falling to the floor.

From beyond the curtains, one of the judges called the next name.

The other dancers quietly watched a slender girl from Spain slip off her cardigan and walk towards the stage, nervously patting her bun before stepping through the curtain.

Vanessa wrapped each of her toes in new bandages, covering the red, swollen skin with white gauze. Music drifted in from the speakers on either side of the stage, and the Spanish dancer took her position. Vanessa moved to where she could watch the girl's solo as she laced the ribbons of her shoes up her ankle.

She was a lovely dancer. Her frame had a lightness to it that made her look almost ethereal. And yet, as she continued, she seemed a little too stiff, too controlled. She glided across the floor in a cabriole
,
then lifted herself
en pointe
, shuddering with the effort, and raised one leg into the air.

Vanessa coiled her hair into a tight chignon and pinned it to the back of her head. The girl's leg wasn't steady or straight enough, she thought.

Svetya sat a few feet away, sipping a can of Diet Coke. She must have seen the mistakes too, for she turned to Vanessa and faked a yawn.

But Vanessa ignored her roommate and focused on the dancer. She made a mental note of every mistake the girl made, reminding herself that she couldn't afford any errors. Now that she knew her sister had joined the Royal Court, every step Vanessa took on that stage could bring her one step closer to Margaret.

Vanessa had to be great. No, not great –
excellent
.

But dancing here wasn't like her classes at NYBA, or the minor dance contests she'd entered back home. Just being in the same room as the judges unsettled Vanessa.

From backstage, she could just make out the three judges sitting in the front row, the stage lights reflecting off their faces. She studied them through the gap in the curtains.

Palmer Carmichael sat in the centre of the row, his mouth pursed in a severe frown as he watched the Spanish dancer. He squinted at her through horn-rimmed glasses, grimacing every time her foot thumped against the floor too heavily. He turned to Apollinaria, sitting next to him, and muttered something in her ear.

But Apollinaria Marie, a retired principal ballerina whom Vanessa's mother had described as ‘as brilliant a dancer as she is a terrible person', waved him away and leaned back. Even in the dim lighting, her skin seemed to glow.

Becky Darlington, the third judge, sat on the other side of Palmer, her posture prim and upright. She was the only source of warmth in the room, eagerly watching each competitor, ­jotting down notes on her clipboard.

Any one of them could be in league with the ­necrodancers.

Beyond the curtains, the music stopped.

‘Thank you,' Becky said, averting her eyes as the Spanish dancer walked offstage. Looking down at her clipboard, she read out the next name on the list.

‘Vanessa Adler.'

Vanessa stood and glanced at Justin, who was warming up beside her.

‘Show 'em what you can do,' he said with a smile.

Vanessa smiled back. She paused for a moment behind the curtain and took a deep breath, then stepped out into the spotlight.

At centre stage, Vanessa closed her eyes and remembered ­Margaret's long-ago performance.

Then she straightened her back, raised her arms in front of her and lifted her chin to the light. The opening bars of Tchaikovsky's
The Sleeping Beauty
suite floated through the speakers, and on cue, she began to dance.

With each step, she tried to channel Margaret. When she extended her leg behind her in a low arabesque, she imagined her sister, the light playing off her pale cheekbones as she slowly lowered her toe and slid it around her body in a
rond de jambe
. With every
jeté
she tried to mimic Margaret's lightness of step.

But something was off.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Apollinaria yawn. Palmer frowned, tapping his fingers on his clipboard, then leaned over and whispered something in Apollinaria's ear. She nodded and began to examine her fingernails.

Suddenly she realised what she was missing: herself.

She wasn't like Margaret and never could be. Vanessa was fiery and bold, her body demanding the attention of the audience in a way that Margaret's slight frame never could. Her sister had been a superb, world-class dancer, but Vanessa could never be that by trying to mimic her. Vanessa had to let loose and be the dancer only she could be.

Go big or go home.

The music slowed until she was tiptoeing, adagio, across the floor. She felt the hard wood scrape against the soles of her shoes. As the sound of a harp trembled through the room, Vanessa arched her neck, like a princess waking up from the deepest slumber. Languidly stretching her arms, she thrust herself upright and into a
grand pirouette
.

She felt herself awaken as she twirled, could sense the judges' attention snap back to her, though she didn't dare look at them. Her mother was somewhere in the audience, and ­Vanessa knew she was silently cheering her on.

And then she felt it – a tremor, so the walls seemed to quiver. A warping of the floor beneath her. A thickening of the air. She felt a hot breath fight its way up her throat, passing through her lips in a dry exhale.

Yes. Yes. Yes
, said the voice only she could hear, a voice like the hiss of dying embers.
You are here,
my love
, he said, sounding pleased.
And so am I. And so is your sister.

Her body felt hot, as if she was being pricked by a thousand pins. Margaret? Could she really be here, somewhere in the audience? Vanessa's limbs seemed to lead her, instead of the
other way around. She could actually feel the demon manipulating her like a puppet: it straightened her legs, made her arms reach out on either side, bent her spine into a soft curl.

Higher!
its voice whispered.
Faster!

She floated across the stage in a series of
tours
chaînés
, her toes barely touching the floor. Its heat fluttered within her, sending a whisper of fear through her mind. Why was it helping her? What did it want? But she quickly pushed those thoughts away. Everything felt right, her steps falling into place, her body graceful, almost weightless.

Margaret
, a voice in her mind seemed to whisper, as though Vanessa and her sister were one being.
Are you here?
Vanessa asked. She could feel Margaret answer, her essence inhabiting her as she lifted her arms, the heat of the demon kissing her skin like the warmth of her sister's touch. Vanessa raised herself on to her toes, her feet trembling, before she thrust herself into a
fouetté jeté
, turning once, twice, three times, her arms reaching upwards like the petals of a flower.

The room brightened, the lights beating down on her shoulders, until she could see nothing except a blaze of ­brilliant red that seemed to scorch the entire stage as she raised one leg for the grand finale. And she leaped in a final
jeté
, taking a deep breath and landing, softly, centre stage.

Slowly the room around her solidified until Vanessa could see again, but the audience was in shadow. Was Margaret out there somewhere?

Through the glare of the overhead lights, the faces of the
three judges seemed frozen. Vanessa waited, unsure what their silence meant. Even the dancers backstage had gone completely still. Had her performance been that bad?

Or that
good
?

Vanessa lowered herself in a graceful bow. Then she walked offstage, willing her hands not to tremble as she let a dry, hot breath escape her lips.

What just happened?

Backstage, Vanessa wiped the sweat from her forehead, still thinking about her performance. If Margaret was really in the theatre, certainly her mother would have spotted her. No, this was just the demon toying with her, trying to trick her into giving in, inviting him in for good.

But she would never do that.

Just then, Maisie ran to her side. ‘OMG!' she said, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘You're
so
good and pretty and ­perfect.'

‘Oh, um, thanks,' Vanessa stammered.

‘You're going to win – I just know it,' Maisie said, and then lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I'd do anything to be as ­talented as you.'

‘Oh, no – I'm just a . . . regular girl,' Vanessa said. Maisie gave her a confused look. Before Vanessa could say any­
thing else, another girl brushed past, knocking her shoulder
hard.

Ingrid. She wore a tight black leotard and was so impec­cably made up that she looked almost like a doll.

‘You think you're good,' Ingrid whispered, her voice high and sweet like candy, ‘but
good
won't keep you around in this competition.'

Vanessa felt anger stir within her. She narrowed her eyes. ‘If you want to win so badly, why don't you go out there and dance better than me?'

‘I'll do more than that,' Ingrid said, whispering in Vanessa's ear. ‘I'm going to destroy you. I'm going to wipe the stage with your broken body.
Nobody
is going to stop me. Mark my words,' she finished, and stomped away.

Fortunately Vanessa didn't have too much time to think about Ingrid, as her mother swooped in and gave Vanessa a suffocating hug. ‘Darling, you were glorious!'

‘Mom,' Vanessa managed to get out, ‘did you see anyone . . . familiar in the audience?'

Her mother loosened her grip and took a step back, staring at
Vanessa with pride. ‘I sat next to Rebecca, if that's what you mean.'

‘No,' Vanessa said, ‘I –'