Dance of Fire Read Free Page B

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.
    â€˜You need to hurry,’ Enzo said, looking at his watch. ‘I drove fast, but you’re still quite late.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 –’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜â€“ and I am Palmer Carmichael, master choreographer of the Royal Court Ballet Company.’ The man paused, and the room filled with thunderous applause.
    â€˜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,