“Ballet intrigue and a neglected manor in the wild Yorkshire moors take center stage in a tale of who am I and whodunit.” — Kirkus Reviews Clara Starling lives a life of dull rules, deadly routine, and flavorless meals under her cold uncle’s strict regime—until the day Uncle disappears, leaving Clara alone in his old mansion. When streetwise orphan Peter and his rescue cat arrive unexpectedly, the children seize the chance to live by their own rules. But when the pair’s wild romps through the halls of Braithwaite Manor reveal a single worn ballet slipper, they are hurled into a mystery that will lead to London’s glittering Royal Opera House and the unraveling of twisted Starling family secrets of poison, passion, and murder. Diabolical villains, plucky orphans, and glamorous ballet stars populate this absorbing adventure with a classic feel. Set in the 1970s, the story has its lighter moments, but it becomes more intense when events take a sinister turn. The lively cast of characters includes imaginative village children, a villainous exballerina, and a prince of Russian danseur. And while the ending may surprise some readers, it's sure to delight them as well. Eight full-page illustrations add to this mystery’s considerable appeal. —Booklist Ballet intrigue and a neglected manor in the wild Yorkshire moors take center stage in a tale of who am I and whodunit. . . . Events unfold quickly, with Rudolf Nureyev’s defection from the Kirov Ballet a key plot element. Rioux’s atmospheric, full-page, black-and-white artwork lends a nostalgic feel to the work. —Kirkus Reviews Judith Eagle ’s career thus far has included stints as a stylist, fashion editor, and features writer. She currently works as a librarian and library assistant. The Secret Starling is her first book. Judith Eagle lives in London. ONE Most people believe a little routine is a good thing. Babies thrive on a routine of milk, cuddle, sleep; milk, cuddle, sleep; milk, cuddle, sleep. Schools tend toward a shipshape routine of lining up, lessons, and play. A good routine, say certain people, gives you a sense of purpose and adds structure and order to the day.    But the routine that Clara had to follow at Braithwaite Manor would send those very people half mad. Day in, day out, it was always the same.    Get up, wash up (in the freezing bathroom, where icicles hung in winter), have breakfast alone in the drafty dining room. The dining room, as always, would be deadly quiet except for the solemn tick of the grandfather clock and Clara’s chewing noises, which seemed extraordinarily loud.    After breakfast came lessons, taught by a governess. The governesses changed almost on a monthly basis. “It’s like life ground to a halt in the nineteenth century!” the last one had cried, grabbing her bag and click-clacking furiously down the hall to the door.    Clara couldn’t agree more.    The house did, after all, look like something out of a Victorian gothic novel, crouching in the middle of the moors like an angry crow. A single dark turret rose up to stab the gloomy skies, and flinty little windows glittered meanly at anyone with the gumption to approach.    The governesses had strict orders from Clara’s uncle to teach her the most boring lessons known to man or woman. Clara knew full well they would have preferred to do fun projects, like making collages, putting on shows, and writing stories. But Uncle didn’t have a fun bone in his body and preferred the traditional approach: endless times tables, fiendishly hard spelling tests, and complicated grammatical exercises that made both Clara’s and the governesses’ brains hurt.    After lessons came lunch, and after lunch it was time for a walk in the scrubby grounds.    Perhaps if the sun ever shone, the garden might have held a bit more promise. After all, as certain grown-ups will tell you, there are endless games to be played in the great outdoors.    But at Braithwaite Manor, the sun rarely shone. Instead, the freezing wind whipped and whirled, and the rain spliced the air and grazed your face until it hurt.    So while the governesses swaddled themselves in fur coats found in the upstairs wardrobes and huddled on the bench reading old copies of Vogue , Clara hung around and kicked her heels on the half-frozen ground. She never felt like playing with the moldy old dirt and stones on her own.    After the walk came the dreariest part of all, the daily visit to Uncle. And here is the truth of it: Uncle was a cold man. Not a glimmer of warmth emanated from this sternest of beings. It is entirely possible that he had no real feelings at all. His eyes never twinkled. He rarely smiled. He didn’t hug, or laugh, or cry, or do any of the things that warmer-blooded humans do. As far as Clara could see, the only things he liked were rules and routine.    “Children should be seen and not heard” was his favorite saying. Clara was not to run in the house, but must always tiptoe quietly. He detested chatter,