Dance of Fire (3 page)

‘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 her. 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 language 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.

Curious, Justin raised an eyebrow. ‘Who is that?'

‘A girl from Iowa.'

‘She sounded . . . enthusiastic. And
loud
.'

‘She's young,' Vanessa said with a shrug. ‘She's probably really nervous –' she continued, when the girl in front of Vanessa spun round.

She was a lovely brunette with long lashes and a charming constellation of freckles beneath her left eye. Her hair was knotted into a loose braid. ‘I couldn't help overhearing that you were from New York,' she said. ‘I've only been there once, but I thought it was exceptionally beautiful. Especially in the autumn, with the colour of the leaves. It's not quite the same where I'm from in France.'

Vanessa thought of the canopy of trees over Central Park. She'd been gone only a day and yet a part of her yearned to be back in the city. ‘It
is
beautiful, isn't it?'

The girl nodded. ‘I am called Pauline Maillard.'

‘Pauline?' Vanessa said, recognising the name. ‘From the Paris Opera Ballet?'

Pauline smiled. ‘
Oui
. Have we met before?'

‘No, I – I'm sorry. It's just that I've heard of you,' Vanessa said in awe. Pauline was a rising star on the international competition circuit. ‘You toured with
The Sleeping Beauty
.
The
New York Times
called you “astonishing”.'

Pauline blushed. ‘Oh, one day you are famous and everyone loves you; the next day everyone hates you. I try just to focus on my art and not pay attention.'

‘That's probably why you're so good,' Vanessa replied. Not only was Pauline beautiful, but she seemed genuinely nice. Even though Vanessa knew the French girl was serious competition, she couldn't help but want to be her friend.