Chapter Twelve #3
“My legs got cramped on the plane. And in the cab. And I'm
bored to death with Prokofiev.” She broke into a broad smile.
“Hello.”
Laurie
caught her in mid-air. He squeezed her, unable to speak: he'd
missed her, this little scrap of his own flesh, and her scent and
her weight reminded him of all the childhood years when she'd been
everything to him, his responsibility and sole friend. He handed
her over to Sasha when she held out her arms, and stood back. She
and Sash had been instant allies, co-conspirators in the case of
the secret prince. Sasha's foreign courtliness had suited her
old-fashioned little soul down to the ground. There were few keener
pleasures in life for Laurie than to see them together.
Laurie’s
two birds, fair game to be hit with one stone. He folded his arms
across his chest, glanced nervously behind him. What the hell was
the kid doing here? He hadn't thought about her, hadn't factored
her into his new contingency plans because she'd already been safe
on the far side of the Atlantic. He watched Sasha set her down and
offer her a deep, graceful bow. “I'm honoured, my lady.” She
dropped him a curtsey in return, all the way down, her skirts
spreading wide on the turf. Sasha made an absurd mime of wincing as
he straightened up, putting a hand to his back. “There's a little
more of you than the last time we met, Your Ladyship.”
“All muscle and height,” she informed him tartly. “I only get
an apple for lunch. Every other day.”
Laurie
looked her over. She was thin, but he thought it was only her own
well exercised build. She seemed to be glowing with health. “Should
I intervene?” he asked, smiling uneasily. He'd handed her over into
the care of the London Youth Ballet and thought no more about her,
not in terms of health. “Are you getting anorexia, or any other in
a range of dance-related illnesses?”
She
snorted. “Due to the pressure on my fragile pre-teen nerves? Fat
chance. The dragon won't allow artistic temperaments. She says
they're a nuisance and a bore.”
Laurie,
who'd met his share and had to live with his own, couldn't help but
agree. “Who is the dragon? Clara, what are you doing here? I
thought you were in New Orleans, touring the southern
states.”
“I was. But—”
The
north door swung wide, making Sasha and Clara jump and Laurie go
still in the heart-stopping new way that stripped a fresh layer off
his sanity each time. A small, elegant woman stepped into the
light. Her hair was scraped into a bun at the back of her neck, and
she walked with a burned-out dancer's weary, graceful air. She was
buttoned up to the chin in a jacket more suited to a military
funeral than a housekeeper's wedding. Her dark eyes burned
unfathomably. “I am the dragon,” she announced, coming to attention
on the step. “Elena Dracinsky, Miss Fitzroy's escort, appointed by
the LYB. Miss Fitzroy eats three nutritionally balanced meals per
day. Miss Fitzroy is on a special leave of seventy two hours only
to attend this wedding, because—”
“Because I wanted to surprise Mrs G. And I wouldn't be
stopped.” Clara beamed, and the woman's stern mask twitched
unwillingly in response.
“And she wouldn't be stopped. This is day two. Day one was for
flying, and tomorrow the same. We leave from Heathrow at
dawn.”
Good. Laurie managed not to say it. A
brief, surprise visit was fine, and he could breathe easier for
knowing this dragon was at his sister's side. “Pleased to meet you.
I'm Laurie Fitzroy, Clara's brother, and this is my partner, Sasha
Petrica.”
She accorded both of them a businesslike nod. “I have heard
much about both of you. A tedious amount, if I may say so. Miss
Fitzroy will kindly refrain from sneaking off all alone to dance
Gangnam style in churchyards. This develops the wrong muscles. And
barefoot! This undoes all our work on pointe. Put your shoes on, please,
Miss Fitzroy. I hear voices from inside.”
She
turned smartly away. Clara, pink with repressed laughter, pushed
one hand into Laurie's and the other into Sasha's, and proceeded
between them into the church. In the doorway she stopped. “Wait a
sec,” she whispered. “Laurie, you've got ivy in your
hair.”
“I'm the lord of the greenwood. It's okay.”
“No, there's a leaf, just...” She let go his hand to brush it
away. “Oh, and there's a tiny grass stain just here, and... Sasha,
your shirt is out at the back, just here.” Suddenly her eyes went
wide. She clapped her hands to her mouth in scandalised joy. “Oh,
my God. You did not. In a churchyard. You didn't!”
Laurie
steered her firmly up the aisle towards the group of new arrivals.
He shot Sasha an appalled glance over her head. “You're right. We
didn't—nothing you need know about for the next twenty years or so,
anyway. Pull yourself together. There's the bride.”
To
Laurie's relief, her focus shifted. “Gibson,” she yelled, making
the church echo and Dracinsky wince in disapproval. “Gibson!
Gibson! Charlie!”
Mrs G
turned with difficulty, hampered by yards of flowery tulle. Her
first marriage had been a brief, sad wartime one, and Laurie was
pleased that she'd thrown caution to the winds today. She caught
sight of Clara and dropped to her knees, silk dress and all.
“Clara! My girl!” Clara shot like an arrow into her outstretched
arms.
Laurie
and Sasha approached more sedately. The Dagenham relatives were
spilling in, dressed to the nines, proudly self-conscious in
rosebuds and new hats. Charlie emerged from the crowd. “Laurence,”
he said, coming up to shake his hand and then Sasha's. “Did you do
all this? All these extra flowers, and the little corsages in the
porch?”
“They're just a few things.”
“Well, Mrs G's thrilled about them. Is that Chelsea Boy Five
tuning up on the green?”
“I'm afraid so, yes.”
“You're a good, generous lad. Though she might want to marry
you instead when she finds out.”
Laurie
chuckled, blushing. “You'll have to stop calling her Mrs G, won’t
you, once she’s...”
He stopped. Christ, he couldn't remember. No—he didn't
know. Charlie had always
just been Charlie to him. The driver, the handyman—more of a father
to him than Sir William, for nineteen years. And Laurie didn't know
his name.
“She'll be a lovely Mrs Trent,” Sasha cut in smoothly, taking
his arm. “Come on, both of you. She's looking around for her
bridegroom. Laurie, you're meant to be ushering for Charlie's side,
and they're all here.”
Gratefully Laurie retreated. Charlie, who hadn't noticed the
lapse, grinned at Sasha with the evangelical fervour of a man who'd
found his path and wished to share it. “You're both grand lads,” he
declared. “And men can do it too now, can't they—this marriage
lark? You should. You and Laurence should get hitched. Then I can
buy roses for you. And get you back for the Chelsea Boy
Five.”
“Laurie's idea, not mine,” Sasha murmured, watching Laurie
greet the Trent relatives as if he'd spent his whole life doing
nothing but set wedding guests at their ease. His smile would have
eclipsed the sun. Mrs G, still clutching Clara, was gazing at him
with utter devotion. “Maybe one day, Charlie. You never
know.”
***
After the ceremony, Laurie met his sister again. She was back
in the churchyard, once more using her favourite headstone as a
barre. She was serious now, though. Laurie recognised the
inward-looking stillness of her face. First position through to
fifth. Repeat, repeat, with clockwork precision, a girl on a
musical box. Laurie knew enough to see that she was good. Gravity
was letting go of her. Her extensions were limber and light, and
the dragon had no need to worry about her pointe: as Laurie watched, she
suddenly sprang up onto her bare toes. The clockwork fell away from
her like a worn-out scaffold and she launched a passionate
arabesque.
Laurie
applauded softly. “Brava. That was beautiful.”
It took
her a moment to notice him. Laurie wasn't offended—it would have
taken her a moment to notice a nuclear strike, and her comedown,
her transformation, was desperately familiar to him. “Thank you,
kind sir,” she said, then hitched herself with childish awkwardness
onto the ivy-wreathed wall. “Come here and talk to me. Where's
Sasha?”
“Helping set up for breakfast in the marquee. Where's
Dracinsky?”
“Flirting.” Clara leaned forward and pointed through the arch
of the lych-gate. Sure enough, there was the dragon, her scales and
fangs in abeyance, chatting animatedly to one of Charlie's
brothers. “It's her one weakness. And don't go all aristocratic on
her, Laurie—she isn't neglecting me. She's a good escort. She’s
more than that—she guards me like some kind of soldier.”
Laurie
opened his mouth to protest, but decided against it. He had been
about to rip a strip off the poor woman for deserting her post, and
Clara could see through him like glass. “All right. Why are you out
here again?”
“I blame Jane Eyre. We were supposed to finish our run in New
Orleans, but Jane has the Americans transfixed.”
“The minx.”
“That's right. We got such packed houses that we've been
invited up to Seattle, then over to New York if we're good. If
Jane's good. So I have to practise.”
She was
pickled in Laurie's mind at age eight, a frail scrap lost in the
labyrinth of the Mayfair house, Sir William the minotaur
threatening darkness behind her. She had only just turned eleven
now. But she had travelled halfway round the world, survived for
months beyond the reach even of Laurie's dubious parenting. She had
danced in front of thousands on her own. And her pragmatism was
familiar to him too. “I see,” he said, coming to sit beside her on
the wall. “Are you all right, Jane Eyre? Are you a neglected child
star with no home affections or values?”
She snorted. “I wish. Last time I was home, Aunt Elise offered
me my own wing of the Languedoc chateau if I'd give up my tour and
go to live with her. Mrs G and Charlie are fitting up a room for me