Cover and title page illustrations: by.bm Under the direction of Romain Lizé, President, Magnificat Editor, Magnificat: Isabelle Galmiche Editors, Ignatius: Vivian Dudro, Gail Gavin Proofreader: Kathleen Hollenbeck Cover Designer: Magali Meunier Layout: Text’Oh Production: Thierry Dubus, Audrey Bord
This book is dedicated to skating parents everywhere, who brave the freezing cold, the early starts, and the continuous assaults on their bank accounts (mostly) without complaining.
In time of test, family is best. —Burmese Proverb
9 1 It was a dark and stormy night. All right, that’s a trite opening line, but it was a dark and stormy night. It was dark (because it was nighttime), and there was a thunderstorm raging outside the house like something out of the Apocalypse. It was not a bad way to start the year when you consider what happened later. My family had no idea what 2020 would bring as we relaxed in our cozy sitting room on the evening of the first day of the year. My two brothers, three sisters, and I were playing epic rounds of Uno in a circle on the floor. The only interruptions were Bernie, our Saint Bernard (also known as His Holiness), going bananas at every thunderclap and Dad occasionally stoking the fire. We do have this thing called central heating in our big, old—and some say haunted—house, but Mum likes using the fireplace for atmosphere. She says the flickering flames give her plenty of inspiration for the murder mysteries she writes. Thinking about the horrors she produces for a living, I sometimes wonder whether maybe we shouldn’t be lighting up the fireplace after all. Well, there we all were, safe and warm before our own hearth as we neared the end of the Christmas holidays. We
10 had hosted our New Year’s Eve party the night before, and we were enjoying that quiet time (or what passes for quiet in this house) when all the family members are together and there is not much to do. Let me introduce you to my family, just in case you missed our previous adventure in My Family and Other Skaters, which left off on Christmas Day. My name is Rosaria, and I’m eleven, soon to be twelve. I have an older brother, Hugo, who makes little models out of Plasticine in the shed at the bottom of the garden. He is completely obsessed with stop-motion animation and has his own YouTube channel. I shouldn’t laugh, really, because—between our last adventure and this one—he received a letter to say that he was a runner-up in the British Youth Film Company’s Film of the Month for his animation Ticket to Mars. Hugo’s hobbies may be a bit alternative, but he is good at them. After me there’s Xavier, who for his age is a bit small in stature but big of heart. He wants to join the Special Air Service when he grows up. (If you’ve never heard of the SAS, it is composed of elite soldiers in the British Army who are parachuted into the most dangerous places on earth.) Evangelina, or Evi as we call her, is the mathematical genius of the family. The youngest are the twins, Milly and Tilly, who are little people. I mean not that they are physically small, although they are, but that they have dwarfism, a condition that makes them unusually small in size. I should mention Dad, since fathers tend to be forgotten in stories. He has a seriously boring job, which he makes up for by being a part-time inventor. He is always making things for the house—bits of furniture and contraptions that sometimes work and sometimes don’t. Dad is wonderful, even if
11 I don’t say so as much as I should. He’s the one fixed point in our madcap family, the bloke with the toolbox when a bunk bed collapses or the chickens need a new house, the still small voice that says during a family argument, “I’m not awfully sure about this.” In a world where fathers are a bit in short supply, I’m glad we’ve got Dad. Besides Bernie the Saint Bernard, we have a pet alpaca called Paddington (Paddy to his friends). We also have a flock of chickens we raise for food. We name them after the dishes they are likely to become when they stop laying eggs so that we do not think of them as pets and become attached to them. At the end of last year, we collected a few extra family members. Hugo’s skating partner, Giuliana, became part of the clan when her parents decided to move back to Italy because of Brexit; the company her father was working for was having problems because England was leaving the European Union. Dad’s old army friend, Uncle Harry (not really our uncle), began staying with us after I found him shivering in a doorway at Best Burgers. On Christmas morning, Hugo and I brought him to our house on a sledge (sled, for you Americans). Uncle Harry is Xavier’s hero. Uncle Harry won the Victoria Cross during the Falklands War with Argentina in 1982, and since Xavier fancies being a soldier himself one day, he hangs on Uncle Harry’s every word. I don’t believe Xavier will ever join the army—he would be bored after he had marched a hundred meters—but I can see his attraction because Uncle Harry’s stories are amazing. On this evening, like so many others, Xavier sat beside Uncle Harry and listened spellbound to some tale involving surviving in the jungle . . . or
12 the desert . . . or the Arctic. To be honest, all war zones sound the same to me—dangerous, inhospitable, uncomfortable, and generally the sort of places regular people avoid at all costs. Xavier tells a pretty good story himself when he’s in the mood, though his tales tend to involve knights dying heroic deaths defending hapless villagers from fire-breathing dragons. “I’m sure that story’s already been done,” I tried to tell him once. “Well, I’m updating it then,” answered Xavier, without missing a beat. Next thing I knew, the knight was fighting with a light saber, and the villagers were queuing up to take selfies next to the ample carcass of the slain fire-breather. Whatever. When Xavier is a famous writer, I’ll probably regret not taking him more seriously. So, let me say it now: Xavier tells a good story. When he’s a best-selling author, you heard about it here first. By nine o’clock, I was starting to doze off in my chair. I have to wake up at four fifteen every morning to train at the ice rink, and I’m not used to late nights; but no one likes to be the first to leave a party, especially with a storm howling outside like something out of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Hound of the Baskervilles. I could sleep here, I thought. I was so very comfortable. My eyelids drooped. Somewhere nearby, Mum was excitedly discussing plans for the year. “It’s going to be a marvelous year!” she said. “I can feel it in my bones! Wonderful things are going to happen!” I wish I had been more awake and thought to record that last comment on my phone. Mum would have gone down in history like the poor bloke who said that electric
13 lightbulbs would never take off or the man who predicted that no family would ever want to buy a computer. But no one could have guessed what was coming. It was January 1, 2020. We had enjoyed a perfect family Christmas, Giuliana was flying into Heathrow Airport the next day (after spending the holidays with her parents), and all I could think about was the upcoming figure skating competition. These were happy days . . .
15 2 I came in from my early training session to find the house in its usual state of controlled chaos. Mum was clearing away the empty cups and plates from the unofficial Skating Mums’ Rest, with the assistance of a moaning Xavier and a slightly more cheerful Evi. Mum makes hot drinks and home-baked goodies for the parents of ice skaters so that they don’t freeze at the rink next door during their kids’ practice sessions and lessons. They drop their children off and then pop over to our house. Technically, the refreshments are free, so she’s not running an illegal business. People just happen to drop coins into an enormous piggy bank as they leave, an untaxable token of appreciation for the good food, warm room, and cozy armchairs. Starting this very morning, Mum began providing full English breakfasts for discerning customers (the one or two dads who brought their children to practice), and the kitchen smelled of bacon fat and fried bread. “Do you want a second breakfast?” Mum asked me. “There’s a couple of eggs left.” “That would be perfect,” I said, stifling a yawn. “Has anyone taken care of Paddy this morning?” Normally, I love
16 going to the stable myself to make sure Paddy has been fed and watered; but the pretty snow that had fallen over Christmas had melted into mounds of grey slush, and I couldn’t face putting on my wellies (that’s shorthand for Wellington boots) and sloshing through the garden. “I’ll go! I’ll go!” promised Xavier, dashing to the door to put on his boots and coat. I knew perfectly well he was just trying to get out of loading the dishwasher, but for once, I was grateful. I sat at the kitchen table and poured out the last of the Darjeeling from the teapot. The Christmas pudding tea cozy appeared to have lost one of its knitted holly leaves, but I was too tired to mention it. I heard the happy sizzle of oil hitting the frying pan and the tap of eggs being broken. “How was the ice this morning?” asked Mum. “Busy?” “Not very. A lot of people are still on holiday.” “I’ll need you and Hugo to make up Giuliana’s bed later. Dad’s picking her up from the airport at four.” I smiled. Giuliana is not just Hugo’s skating partner; she’s an amazing friend. The family doesn’t feel complete without her. “Where’s Hugo,” I asked, “or is that a silly question?” “Silly question. He’s animating.” As soon as I had eaten fried eggs, leftover sausages, and slices of fried bread, I put on my coat and boots to go in search of Hugo. He has his very own shed—sorry, studio— built by Dad in the garden, and he spends hours in there working on his animations. When I looked in through the window, I could see Hugo standing over the set he had built for a film inspired by Charlie Chaplin. It was the hallway of an early twentieth-century house, complete with a blackand-white tiled floor and a wooden staircase. Hugo was
17 painstakingly animating a Plasticine figure tumbling head over heels down the stairs—filming one centimeter of change at a time. To be honest, it’s like watching paint dry. I’ve no idea how he has the patience. Hugo was so absorbed that I decided to see how Xavier was getting on with Paddy. I’m not sure what Xavier’s idea of looking after Paddy is, but when I tiptoed into the shed so as not to disturb either of them, I found Paddy sprawled lazily in his straw, with Xavier curled up next to him, leaning back against Paddy’s woolly body as though the alpaca were a live sofa. Xavier was chatting away to Paddy, having a man-to-man conversation about the difficulties of being a boy skater. I was fairly sure I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but it was irresistible. “I mean, it’s all right if you’re from Russia,” said Xavier, proffering a handful of feed, which Paddy gobbled up greedily. “And probably even from Canada. Everyone skates there, and it is practically macho to be a figure skater. Over here, I’m surrounded by girls in sparkly dresses. Can you imagine how awful that is?” I suddenly had a naughty idea, but I would have to wait until Xavier gave Paddy his next snack, or Paddy might hear me and give the game away. “Do you know, Paddy?” Xavier continued, his hands empty. “At the Christmas panto, there were eighty girls and eight boys. I know; I counted. And I had to be a bumblebee.” (“Panto,” by the way, is short for “pantomime.”) Good heavens, I thought, I can’t believe he’s still going on about being a bumblebee. They are practically an endangered species. We should have told him it was a stunt for Extinction Rebellion to make him really keen to wear that stripy costume.
18 As Xavier scooped up some more feed and offered it to Paddy, I took my chance and crept inside the shed, ducking down behind Paddy’s head. “And have you seen my competition outfit?” Xavier asked Paddy. “It’s got sparkly things on it. I said I didn’t want any sparkly things! It’s got sparkly things, and the sleeves are all floaty like a Disney princess! What if my friends see me dressed like that? They’ll never trade Lego cards with me ever again!” I thought of the way the actors talk in The Mask of Zorro and growled, “I’ll trade the Lego cards with you, amigo.” Xavier’s reaction was greater than I could have ever hoped for. He did a massive double take before yelling like a thing possessed. I actually thought I would need to coax him down from the rafters, he seemed so determined to remove himself from Paddy’s unexpectedly articulate vicinity. Then he saw me. Or rather, he heard me laughing and then saw me sitting in the straw, rocking back and forth. “Why did you do that?” wailed Xavier. “I thought Paddy was talking to me!” I meant to answer, but Xavier looks so wonderful when he’s in a tizzy that I started laughing again. Next thing I knew, Paddy had swiveled his head around to look at me and sneezed into my hair. If you have never had an alpaca sneeze on you, you don’t need to know what that felt like. Next, Xavier was laughing, and Paddy was looking at me as though he had let me down somehow. He had, of course, but I didn’t blame him. I was absolutely sure Xavier had put him up to it; I just couldn’t see how. And I was not going to waste another moment thinking about it; I had more pressing problems, like the immediate need to wash my hair.
19 “I don’t know why you have to make such a fuss anyway,” I complained to Xavier later, sitting by the stove to dry my hair. I had soaked in the bath and smelled a bit better, thanks to the sweet orange bath oil I had gotten for Christmas and the rosehip and dandelion shampoo bar Mum had made for me. “You do realize it’s much easier for you, don’t you? Not as many boys as girls? Not as much competition!” Having sneaked out of the task of loading the dishwasher, Xavier was given the job of smearing some syrupy concoction onto rows and rows of uncooked pastry swirls. “I’d rather have more boys on the ice and more competition,” Xavier said. “Rubbish! Who wants more competition?” I demanded. “When I compete, I’m lucky if there are only twenty-four other skaters in my category. You’re unlucky if there are more than seven.” “I still have to work hard to get on the podium,” Xavier insisted. “They don’t just give you the trophy.” I was pretty sure that more of the syrup was ending up in Xavier’s mouth than on the cinnamon rolls, but I said nothing about that. Instead, I asked, “How many skaters are in your category for the open?” “How am I supposed to know? They haven’t published the categories yet.” “What do you bet that you’re the only one in your group?” “That’s silly; of course I won’t be.” That shut him up, though. At club competitions, there were barely more than three boys in the same category, and if Xavier happened to be especially lucky, he might well have the category—and the podium—to himself. Open competitions were busier, but not by much. I, on the other
20 hand—whatever the competition—would have to skate my socks off just to hang on to my dignity and would probably still not get on the podium. It is not fair. Mum came in, thanked Xavier, and slung the cinnamon rolls into the oven, offering him a freshly baked pastry as a reward. He took it greedily, dashing out of the room before he could be asked to do anything else. “Do you want one?” Mum asked me. I shook my head. “Did that shampoo bar work?” “Perfectly,” I said. “My hair feels really clean.” “I wonder if I could find a way to fit that into the sales pitch,” mused Mum, taking a couple of large tins out of the cupboard so that she could store the cooled cakes and pastries. “How’s this? ‘Wash away the worst an alpaca can snort at you!’ ” “That’s awful, Mum.” “What about ‘I’m gonna wash that alpaca right outta my hair’?” “No way.” “Maybe just ‘Wash that alpaca out of your hair’?” “Mum, how many people ever have to do that?” Mum shrugged, coming over to me and starting to plait my combed and (almost) dry hair. “I suppose that’s the beauty of it, really. No matter how nasty it felt as you staggered to the bathroom with all that . . . stuff . . . in your hair, it was a unique experience. You are one of the few people in this country who can honestly say, hand on heart, that you have been used by an alpaca as a pocket handkerchief.” “I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” I said bitterly, snatching the end of my plait from Mum so that I could loop a scrun-
21 chie around it. “Laugh or cry, darling, but—” Ping! went the timer. Mum opened the oven door to remove a tray of twisty things that would no doubt be covered in icing shortly. I slumped back into my beanbag and enjoyed the warmth of the stove. The kitchen was filled with the overpowering aromas of pastry baking and cinnamon-apple filling bubbling on the stove. There were worse places to be than this. I thought of Giuliana, getting on an airplane in faraway Italy, and smiled, thinking of how wonderful it would be to have her company at dinner tonight. I could feel myself dozing. The trouble with the early start is that late morning feels more like the middle of the afternoon. I offered sleep a token resistance and quickly gave in. I planned to get up soon and help Hugo prepare Giuliana’s room. But first, just a little nap . . .
© 2025 by Magnificat, New York • Ignatius Press, San Francisco All rights reserved ISBN Magnificat 978-1-63967-073-4 • ISBN Ignatius Press 978-1-62164-591-7 Ebook ISBN 978-1-63967-122-9
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