‘Hear, hear!’ Rupert cried, jabbing his glass towards her. He thrust it forth with such force that a small wave of champagne splattered the crowd.
Mr Varma mopped the back of his neck with his handkerchief while the rest of the room glared in Rupert’s direction. Several partygoers muttered that he should jolly well pipe down.
Cordelia cleared her throat and took a deep breath. ‘But for now, let us celebrate all things good in the world. Christmas is a time to give thanks for our family and friends, our prosperity and opportunity to serve and protect our fellow man. Maxim, Kensington, would you come and join me, please?’
The twins hesitated for a few seconds before Mim gave them each a gentle nudge. Max reached for his sister’s hand and the pair walked into their grandmother’s open arms.
‘Fwee cheers for Kenthy and Math,’ a muffled voice declared.
Kensy and Max both laughed from where they were now standing, on either side of their grandmother. Mr Reffell was known for dressing in character to teach their lessons and tonight he had outdone himself. Although he wasn’t wearing a sweater, the man’s entire body was encased by a knitted snowman onesie.
‘Oh, Monty, you goose,’ Elva Trimm, the school dinner lady and poisons and explosives specialist called out, to great guffaws. Soon, a rousing chorus echoed around the room in celebration of the family reunion.
But there was something else brewing. Autumn had spied Mr MacGregor inching his way towards the back of the crowd, joining Mr Nutting and Miss Witherbee, who were doing the same thing. The three of them disappeared right in the middle of Dame Spencer’s speech.
Max had spotted them too. He raised an eyebrow at Autumn, who shrugged her shoulders. He also noticed several other adults speaking into their sleeves and casting odd looks across the room. Whatever was happening clearly couldn’t wait.
Cordelia, on the other hand, was either oblivious or intentionally ignoring what was going on. ‘Well, I think we should get the celebrations underway,’ she declared. ‘First, we’d better announce this year’s ugly sweater winner, before Mr Reffell faints from heat exhaustion. Then, my dear friends, it’s time to trim the tree!’
Autumn and Carlos had been right when they said that Christmas at Alexandria would be like nothing Kensy and Max had ever experienced. They were happy that Mr Reffell won the ugly sweater competition hands down – anyone who was prepared to suffer under that much itchy wool deserved it.
The guests who had disappeared earlier materialised once again and were enjoying the celebrations while Rupert had become the life of the party, seemingly forgiven for his previous indiscretions as he roamed through the crowd, smiling and laughing.
Decorating the tree was something to behold. A beautiful sleigh, chock-full of ornaments of every shape and size, was pulled into the room by Wellie and Mac. The pair wore little coats that made them look like miniature reindeer and had hoods with antlers too. The twins thought the whole thing impossible, really, as the sleigh was far too big and heavy for the two dogs. It had to have some sort of self-propulsion. Kensy immediately began to investigate, but was diverted back to the tree by Max when it was their turn to add baubles.
Music played in the background while guests scaled ladders to the higher boughs. The crowning star was put in place by Dante Moretti, who had been bestowed the honour by Dame Spencer for his outstanding work during the year. Strapped into a harness, the boy descended through a hole in the ceiling to delicately position the jewelled ornament on the very top of the tree. He then whizzed along an invisible zipline back to the floor.
Kensy loved seeing her teachers with their families. Mr MacGregor’s wife, Tippie, was fabulously glam with cascading blonde curls and a slash of red lipstick. She wore a miniskirt, long boots and a simple white sweater adorned with mistletoe around the scalloped neckline. The way the couple looked at one another like love-struck teenagers reminded Kensy of her parents.
Mr Nutting’s wife, Emily, was the epitome of calm and collected as she dealt with their five children under the age of seven. Nothing seemed to worry her – when the youngest spilt milk down her front, she dabbed the spot dry; when their twin boys decided to play frisbee with a plate, she intercepted it and sent them off on a treasure hunt. Kensy was equally impressed with Mr Nutting’s kid-wrangling skills. There hadn’t been a tear or tantrum all night, although the man did spend the majority of the time on the floor covered in children.
When the karaoke machine was wheeled out, Song and Sidney took to the stage and engaged in a serious contest. Song belted out a country version of ‘Here Comes Santa Claus’, which was swiftly followed up with his brother’s performance of ‘Winter Wonderland’ in the tradition of his idol, Elvis Presley. The trouble was, singing wasn’t either man’s forte. Mr Reffell, still in costume and euphoric from having won the competition, had the crowd in stitches when he called out loudly, ‘Whoth thrangling the cat?’
Later in the evening, the Christmas tunes gave way to a more varied song sheet and that’s when things got interesting. Dame Spencer was the first to hit the dance floor, shimmying and shaking with the vigour of a woman half her age. Rupert asked Kensy to dance and swung the girl around like a rag doll. She couldn’t remember laughing so much in ages; when Mr MacGregor and Mr Rodriguez led the macarena, Kensy thought her sides were going to split – especially when they jumped in the wrong direction and sent each other flying across the room.
The grand finale was nothing short of spectacular. A well-known Michael Jackson tune began to thump from the speakers, summoning the teachers and parents to the floor for a Thriller-esque dance-off – the two sides acting more like a bunch of street gangs than responsible secret agents. When Alfie joined in, displaying far more rhythm than one might have expected, everyone else got up and soon it was parents versus children versus teachers versus the rest of the merry crowd. Mr O’Leary pulled some impressive moves out of the bag, while Shugs stood in the corner, citing a gammy knee.
When the clock struck eleven, Song clapped his hands and the music stopped. Dame Spencer thanked her guests for a wonderful evening. It was Christmas in less than an hour and the children had better be fast asleep before midnight, lest Santa bypass Alexandria. Mrs Nutting had already disappeared with three of their children, but her husband was busily trying to extricate the twins from under the Christmas tree.
‘But we want to see Santa,’ they complained.
Daphne Potts, the headmaster’s personal assistant, used her excellent negotiation skills to talk them out, saying she’d just had word from Santa himself that he was worried about two little boys who weren’t yet asleep. He couldn’t possibly make a stop if they weren’t tucked into their beds. The twins were off like a shot, with their father chasing after them to the back door. They were one of several families sleeping in the dorm rooms in the stables; the rest of the guests were spread across the house and cottages further afield. There was room enough for everyone.
‘Goodnight, Granny,’ Max said, once the last guest had traipsed off to bed, completely exhausted. He gave the woman a hug. Kensy did too.
‘Goodnight, my darlings,’ Cordelia said, sighing contentedly. ‘See you in the morning.’
The twins walked to the door, surprised to see the entire buffet table had been cleared and the room was absolutely pristine again. They hadn’t even noticed anyone packing up.
‘That was incredible,’ Max said.
‘It sure was. Granny’s amazing,’ Kensy fizzed. Her cheeks were red and she had long ago ditched her Christmas jumper after working up a sweat on the dance floor. ‘And I don’t care if you agree with me or not – Uncle Rupert is bags of fun.’
Max was about to say something when he stopped dead and stared at his watch, which was vibrating wildly. It was fortunate he never took off the timepiece because Kensy was always misplacing hers. After almost losing it for good earlier in the day, she’d left it on her bedside table this evening.
‘Hurry up, slowpoke, I want to get to bed
before –’ Kensy’s eyes lit up as she realised what had captured his attention. ‘I bet Fitz has found them and they’re on their way home! I knew he would!’
‘We need to write this down,’ Max said, beginning to run. ‘Come on, the library’s closest.’
The pair scampered across the entrance foyer and along the hallway. Fortunately, the entire place was empty. Max and Kensy burst into the room and raced to the writing desk, where a lone brass lamp shone a dull glow. Max pulled open the drawer, snatched up a pencil and notepad then waited for the series of judders to begin again. He scribbled the Morse code dashes and dots, checking twice that he’d recorded it correctly.
‘Well, what does it say?’ Kensy whispered, peering over his shoulder.
Max tore the paper from the pad and held it up:
Happy Christmas, darlings. We love you. Ciao for now. Mum and Dad.
Kensy turned to her brother and hugged him tightly. ‘But why can’t they come home?’ She brushed at the tears rolling down her cheeks.
A light snapped on in the far corner of the room, startling them both. Kensy’s breath caught in her throat as she and Max spun around. She quickly wiped her eyes. Sitting in the armchair, with a copy of the Beacon spread across his lap, was their uncle.
Rupert folded the newspaper and grinned at the twins. ‘Good news?’ he asked. ‘I mean, after what happened at the racetrack, it would be nice to have a positive spin on the day – pardon the pun.’
Max shifted uncomfortably. ‘Um, we just wanted to write Granny a thank-you note.’ He tucked the piece of paper with the decoded message into his back pocket.
‘Really?’ Rupert cocked his head to one side. ‘My hearing must be playing up. I could have sworn I heard you say –’
A clock on the mantlepiece chimed the half-hour.
‘Oh goodness, is that the time?’ Kensy yawned loudly and stretched her arms above her head while Max stood frozen to the spot beside her. ‘Wow, all that dancing must’ve taken it out of me. Uncle Rupert, you really know how to party. I might even need an icepack after all those backflips. Well, less talking and more doing, as they say. We’d better get to bed or Santa will whiz right overhead. Come on, Max,’ she said, tugging on her brother’s sleeve. ‘Goodnight!’
The twins were both conscious of Rupert’s unwavering gaze.
‘Sleep tight, kids,’ he said, taking up his newspaper. ‘Close the door on your way out.’
Kensy pulled it shut behind them and looked at her brother. Without a word passing between them, they broke into a run and wound their way upstairs, not stopping to catch their breaths until they’d reached Max’s bedroom door.
‘Do you think he heard what we said?’ Max panted. He hoped not. There was still something about Uncle Rupert that didn’t sit easily with him despite his sister’s enthusiasm.
Kensy shook her head. ‘Who knows? And what does it matter if he did? I wish we could tell Granny.’
‘Well, we can’t,’ Max said.
Meanwhile, downstairs in the library, Rupert Spencer picked up a pencil and coloured in the notepad with the deftest of touches. His eyebrows jumped up in surprise when he held it under the desk lamp. ‘So you’re alive, after all, big brother,’ he muttered, and sat down, deep in thought.
The boy climbed out the window and onto the red tiled roof. The twinkling lights of the giant Christmas tree in the piazza shone from below, illuminating his fine features. He could see tourists swarming with their cameras. In the furthest corner, protestors kept vigil with their placards, warming themselves by the firelight of their makeshift furnaces while the carabinieri watched on. He had been annoyed to see a picture of himself with his mother on the front page of one of the newspapers just that morning. If the reports were true, his mother was fast becoming the most despised person in the country. The tree, with its million euros’ worth of crystal decorations, was the most magnificent Rome had ever seen – and was now the cause of even greater civil unrest.
Nico adjusted the daypack on his back, then took a deep breath and ran, his feet feather-light across the rooftop. All those months of training with the parkour team were about to pay off and soon he would be celebrating Christmas with his grandfather, whether his mother approved or not. Why should she care, anyway? She had her new husband and the job she’d always wanted.
‘Stop!’
Nico froze. He could see a guard in the piazza pointing up at him. Some of the tourists had turned to look too. He couldn’t go back now. He wouldn’t. Nico spun around. He needed a run-up or there was no way he would make it to the other side. It comforted him to know that only Fabrizio was fit enough to follow him.
Nico filled his lungs and began to sprint just as the door to the rooftop flew open. He charged towards the edge of the roof and, with his arms spinning like a windmill, leapt into the abyss. He was flying through the air when, with a stab of dread, he realised he’d miscalculated.
Nico slammed into the stone wall but managed to grab hold of an iron railing. As his body swung like a pendulum, Nico resisted the urge to look down. With a grunt, he hauled himself over the balcony railing, then somersaulted up onto the roof. He lay there for a second, his heart thumping in his chest. That had been much too close for comfort.
Over the din of car horns and traffic, Fabrizio called out his name. Nico propped up on his elbows, laughing at the sight of the man shaking his fist. ‘Codardo!’ Nico shouted.
With a wave goodbye, the boy jumped to his feet and fled across the rooftops of Rome. It wouldn’t be long until they raised the alert. He could already hear the wail of sirens.
Nico felt as if his chest was about to explode as he leapt from building to building. He was making good progress, when a searchlight forced him to reassess his route. The helicopters had taken to the air faster than he’d anticipated. He would soon have to drop down into the shadows of the street, which was much more time-consuming. Nico came to another break in the rooflines and launched into the air. But as he landed, the tiles disintegrated like chalk beneath his feet. He could feel himself falling down, down, down and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He hit the floor below with a sickening thud.
‘Mamma mia!’ the woman exclaimed as she heard the ruckus from above. She charged up the narrow staircase to the top of the vast townhouse. ‘Giovanni, come quickly!’ she screeched.
There was a snort and grumbling from the bedroom below. ‘What is it?’ he called, unhappy to have been woken.
‘Just get up here!’ she ordered. ‘Now!’
Giovanni did as he was bid and shuffled into the room, rubbing his eyes. The disused space with its peeling paint was filled with cast-off furniture piled high around the walls and a narrow single bed in the corner. Lying in the middle of the floor, which was peppered with shards of broken tiles, was a child. Giovanni peered up at the gaping hole in the roof. ‘Since when do young boys fall from the sky?’
The woman knelt over the lad. A trickle of blood ran down the child’s temple, but he had a strong pulse and was breathing. She looked up at the man. ‘Perhaps he is a gift from God.’
The man gazed at the boy’s face. There was something familiar about it. He blinked again, then sped away only to return clutching a newspaper. ‘Do you know who this is?’ he said, thrusting it into the woman’s hands.
She stared at the front page then at the boy, before stepping back with her hand on her heart. ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways,’ she said, clasping her hands together. ‘Quickly, Giovanni, get up there and fix those tiles!’
Max rubbed his sleepy eyes and pushed himself up against the pillows. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was and that it was Christmas Day – the first he’d ever spent apart from his parents. Although he’d always cherish last night’s celebrations, Max would have given anything for his mum to be sitting on the edge of the bed and his dad goofing around in the background. Just to hear their voices would be the best gift ever.
With a sigh, Max slipped out of bed and
walked to the window. He pulled back the heavy drapes as Kensy barrelled through the door in her dressing-gown and slippers, carrying a large parcel. She dumped it onto the bed and crash-tackled him with a boisterous hug. ‘Happy Christmas, little brother.’
Max grinned. ‘Happy Christmas, big sister by thirty minutes,’ he said, smoothing his hair.
Kensy took a deep breath and stepped back, wiping her eyes. ‘Before you say anything, I’m not crying, okay? We know Mum and Dad are fine – fine enough to keep in contact, anyway – and I’ve been thinking about their message. They said “ciao”. Doesn’t that mean “bye” in Italian? Do you think they were hinting to their location? They could be in Italy, Max.’
He’d had the exact same thought, though he hadn’t planned on sharing it with his sister, knowing how prone she was to being hasty. ‘It would certainly be ironic if they were,’ Max conceded, ‘with us travelling to Rome tomorrow on the school History tour.’
‘We should get word to Fitz!’ Kensy exclaimed.
‘Steady on, Kens,’ Max cautioned. ‘We don’t know for certain that’s where they are – we’re only guessing.’ He fetched a beautifully wrapped gift from the desk and handed it to her. The paper was made from a white pearlescent stock and bordered by prancing reindeer with glittery red noses and flanks flecked with gold leaf. Song had helped the boy to source it from the Burlington Arcade, the man’s favourite stationery shop in London.
Beaming, Kensy grabbed the parcel with both hands. She held it to her ear and shook it vigorously, eliciting a grimace from her brother. ‘Wait, I got you something too,’ she said, and scooped up Max’s gift from where she’d abandoned it on the bed. ‘Sorry, I’m not very good at wrapping.’
Disappearing Act Page 8
