A Language of Dragons

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ON THE EVENING OF THE ball, dusk falls earlier than it has since we arrived at Bletchley. It’s cold outside – too cold for snow – and, in the grounds around the manor house, frozen dragon tracks are entrenched deep in the dirt. A fire burns in the grate of the girls’ dormitory and we dress in its flickering orange light.

‘Which one of you has taken my hairbrush?’ Serena calls from the bathroom.

In the reflection of the mirror, I see Katherine pretend not to hear as she pulls the dragonbone brush through her unruly hair. Gravel crunches outside – cars have been arriving all afternoon. My dress fits me like a glove and the rose-coloured satin warms my complexion. The fireblod has entirely healed my arm and the sling is gone. Behind me, Dodie reaches up to coil my hair round a long pin.

‘You look beautiful,’ she says.

She’s dressed in a blue chiffon the colour of her eyes. Serena comes out of the bathroom, her hair freed of its twists and rising in thick dark waves above her head. She wraps a length of silk round her temples and the effect is a regality only she could achieve.

‘I wore something almost as lovely when I was a deb last year,’ she says, gazing at herself in the mirror.

‘What’s a deb?’ Katherine asks.

‘A debutante,’ says Dodie, reaching to untangle the brush from Katherine’s hair.

Beside them, Sophie is swathed in a deep green silk and I’m reminded of the dress she bought for her Examination Award Ceremony, the one she never got to wear.

‘Here,’ Dodie says, handing me a folded piece of cloth with a shy smile. ‘An early Christmas gift. I made one for each of us.’

It’s a cotton handkerchief, the edges embroidered with tiny red dragon tongues.

‘Dodie, it’s beautiful.’

I embrace her, finding myself enveloped in a sweet almond smell, and when I let go I notice her fingers are covered in bloody pinpricks.

‘Karim had to help me,’ she says, blushing.

I nod, stunned that she would go to such an effort out of kindness. The other girls descend on her, squealing their thank yous, and I sit down on my bed to fasten my shoes. The radio blares loudly from the common room down the hall.

‘ The rebel movement strikes again in an attack on London’s West End that has killed several Guardians of Peace,’ the nasal voice of the reporter says. ‘An estimated one hundred rebels descended on a conference at the Academy for Draconic Linguistics this afternoon in a raid that resulted in the theft of hundreds of language-related documents. There were no civilian casualties and several arrests were made. However, most of the perpetrators were seen escaping on dragonback—’

The voice is cut off and followed by a long crackling sound. I’m already halfway down the hallway by the time it springs back to life. Except the voice is different this time, deep and smooth.

‘ This is a message to the citizens of Britannia from the Human-Dragon Coalition. ’

Marquis and Gideon, both in suits, look up from their armchairs in shock.

‘ We have infiltrated this radio broadcast in an attempt to set the record straight. It has just been reported that the Coalition launched an attack on the Academy for Draconic Linguistics in London today. This is a lie. ’

I place both hands on the mantelpiece and stare at the radio.

‘Coalition members carried out a series of protests this afternoon outside the Academy in response to the new government guidelines concerning the study of dragon tongues. As of tomorrow, only First Class citizens who have undergone an intense government vetting process will be permitted to study dragon tongues. Citizens are hereby banned from speaking Dragonese in public spaces. This is an act of species segregation not seen in Britannia since the signing of the Peace Agreement and instatement of the Class System, which divided our society into an array of cruel and unnatural opposites: human versus dragon, native versus immigrant, rich versus poor.

‘ In retaliation, the Coalition seized a number of linguistic documents in order to ensure that access to dragon tongues cannot be further hoarded by the ruling class. The Coalition will continue to fight until Britannia is liberated from the tyranny of a leader who rules in the name of peace, yet commits injustice upon injustice against humans and dragons alike. We would like to remind our fellow countrymen that it was never our party’s intention to overthrow the system. After the Great War, we asked for a new general election, for reform to come from inside the government itself. We did not want a coup, but democracy! But that is a word our leadership no longer knows. Wyvernmire’s party continually blames the Coalition for the deaths caused by this war, but fails to take responsibility for its own part in this. People of Britannia, your Prime Minister is lying to you. Dragons of Britannia, your Queen is lying to you. Down with the Peace Agreement! Down with the Class System! Long live the Coalition! ’

The voice gives way to more crackles, then nothing.

‘Species segregation?’ I say slowly.

I’ve never heard the term before. I imagine the rebels swooping into London on dragonback and stealing documents from the Academy. Is the government really so afraid of rebellion that it would limit the study of dragon tongues in this way? Fear clutches at my heart. What will happen when I go home? Will the university refuse to re-enrol me because I’m not First Class?

‘She did that quietly, didn’t she?’ Marquis says grimly.

He’s referring to Wyvernmire – and he’s not wrong. The vetting process my family and I underwent after I applied to study dragon tongues was kept secret, and now Wyvernmire has sprung these further restrictions on the country without a word of warning. Banning the speaking of Dragonese? Why would the very woman who seemed so impressed by my knowledge of dragon tongues make such a law?

‘One of the most important steps in a coup is to gain control of the media,’ Gideon says, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Those rebels are just trying to make people believe they haven’t committed any crimes.’

‘So you don’t think Wyvernmire’s gatekeeping dragon tongues?’ I say hopefully.

Gideon shrugs. ‘The more the rebel humans and dragons can communicate, the better chance they have of winning the war. So maybe she is.’ He glances at me. ‘Like I said, I bet the rebel dragons don’t mind the humans learning their languages for now, if they’re going to wipe us all out when—’

‘Talking nonsense again, are you, Gideon?’

Atlas is leaning against the doorframe, wearing a red suit and black tie. The stubble on his jaw is darker, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him without the white collar. He winks at me, his eyes lingering on my dress. My hands reach up to smooth my hair before I can stop them.

‘It’s not nonsense,’ Gideon says angrily. ‘Why do you think Wyvernmire’s fighting them so hard? She’s protecting us from the bestial nature of dragons, from what happened in Bulgaria—’

‘What happened in Bulgaria was the revenge of hundreds of angry dragons, fuelled by the response to the colonisation of the wyvern community, the dragon fighting rings and the mass kidnapping of eggs and dragonlings.’

‘You’re saying the Bulgarian humans deserved to get murdered?’ Gideon says, his eyes narrowing.

My gaze flits to Atlas.

‘I’m saying,’ Atlas says pointedly, ‘that when you oppress a community for centuries you can’t exactly be surprised when it rises up against you.’

‘But we’re not oppressing any dragons,’ I say. ‘They agreed to the Peace Agreement. The Dragon Queen signed it herself. She—’

‘The Dragon Queen signed it,’ Atlas says, ‘but the thousands of dragons of Britannia did not. That’s the same as saying that Wyvernmire speaks for every individual in this country.’ He stares at me. ‘I don’t know about you, but I don’t remember giving my consent for this so-called Peace Agreement.’

Marquis gives me an uncomfortable glance and I realise they’re waiting for me to reply. I think of what Wyvernmire said when I met her at Highfall Prison, about entrusting the study of dragon tongues only to citizens the government knows to be loyal. My heart sinks. Of course the rebel report must be true. Wyvernmire said herself that she fears languages will allow the rebel dragons and humans to collaborate further. They’re probably what got my parents involved in the first place.

‘It must be part of her strategy,’ I say quickly. ‘And, once we’ve won the war, everything will go back to normal and people will be able to study and speak dragon tongues again.’

Atlas gives me a glance that resembles pity.

When the others join us, Owen escorts us through the dark hallways to a wing I haven’t been in before. Laughing voices ring along a corridor and we follow it to a door with light pouring out from beneath it. Owen pushes it open and the noise explodes.

The ballroom stretches out in front of us, a sea of glittering bodies gathered beneath crystal chandeliers. Moulded ceilings rise high above the marble fireplaces and a vast mirror reflects the scene of more people than I’ve laid eyes on in months. Women in beaded dresses gasp as a butler on a stepladder pours a rush of champagne into a pyramid of glasses, then ooh as it cascades down into the coupes below. There’s a huge Christmas tree decked with candles and beads, a small orchestra and a singer with a harp. Her voice fills every corner of the space, languid and dizzying. Heads turn as we edge into the room and I feel Marquis move closer to me.

Dr Seymour is walking towards us in a long red dress. She looks dazzling. The other category leaders join her in ushering us into the room, and Lumens whisks Atlas and Dodie away to meet a tall, important-looking man.

‘Don’t be shy,’ Dr Seymour says to Marquis and me. ‘All these people are desperate to meet you.’

I glance at my cousin, whose face mirrors my own confusion. Desperate to meet us ? I follow Dr Seymour, horribly aware of my every movement, and when I’m offered a glass of champagne I almost grab it from the tray, just to have something to do.

‘Who are all these people?’ I say to Dr Seymour, taking a sip of my drink.

I watch as Sophie and Serena are beckoned away by a group of smiling young men, and Karim is pulled into the twinkling light of the Christmas tree by an elderly woman who bears him like a trophy to her friends.

‘Supporters of the war effort,’ Dr Seymour says after some hesitation. ‘That man with the moustache, the one talking to Knott, is the German Secretary of Defence. Next to him, the woman in the silver silk, is our Minister for Education.’ Dr Seymour pauses. ‘And that woman there is the Chancellor of the Academy for Draconic Linguistics.’

I smother a gasp and look where Dr Seymour is pointing. Standing next to the baby grand piano, her silver hair coiffed into a neat bob and rings glittering on every finger, is Dr Hollingsworth. I lay a hand on Marquis’s arm as his face turns red.

‘You can’t,’ I say to him because I already know what he’s thinking.

That’s the woman who got our parents arrested. The woman who pretended to be their friend before sentencing them to death. Dr Seymour gives us both a confused look.

‘Do you know her?’ she says.

‘We’ve met her,’ I say grimly. ‘Dr Seymour, did you hear the—’

‘The radio interference?’ Dr Seymour lowers her voice as she nods. ‘If what the Coalition said is true, then that woman must be at the top of the order to ban dragon tongues.’

Part of me wants to march over there and ask her why she has gone against everything she worked so long to build. The learning of languages – and translation in particular – is about giving a voice to people, to species and countries who have yet to be heard by the world. To learn nothing but human tongues would be to turn in on ourselves, would be like erasing the dragons and their history.

Ravensloe walks past us, accompanied by a pasty-faced young man.

‘One doesn’t have much time to keep up with the news at Oxford, especially with mods being next term,’ the man drawls. ‘But that damn Coalition is the talk of the quad.’

‘You’ll know the ouroboros, of course?’ Ravensloe replies. ‘The Ancient Greek symbol depicting a dragon eating its own tail? If only those rebel dragons would do the same thing. If instead of fighting their neighbour’s tail, they turned round and bit their own, we should finally have peace.’

Both of them dissolve into fits of loud laughter.

‘Marquis Featherswallow?’

We turn round. A man with long dark curls and a black cane is smiling at us.

‘You are working in Aviation, yes?’

The man has an accent identical to Mama’s.

‘I’m afraid I’m not allowed to talk about it—’ Marquis begins, but the man just laughs and beckons him closer.

‘I too am party to the Prime Minister’s secrets,’ he says with a wink. ‘Now, I am interested to know more about your work …’

Marquis gives me a helpless look as the man puts an arm round his shoulder and steers him towards the bar. I’m left alone with Dr Seymour and suddenly I remember every moment of our last conversation. My insistence on discussing the dracovol seems rude now, more humiliating without the heady excitement of progress that accompanied it.

‘Dr Seymour,’ I begin, ‘I’m sorry about—’

‘Ah, Dolores,’ says a voice. ‘How delightful to see you here.’

A man approaches us, a woman hanging off each arm.

‘I haven’t seen you since our university years. Let me introduce you to my wife, Iris, and my sister, Penelope.’

The women both have upturned noses and pale skin. I can’t guess which one is which.

‘How do you do,’ Dr Seymour says. ‘Vivien, this is Lord Rushby, the Earl of Fife. Rushby, this is one of my most talented recruits, Vivien Featherswallow.’

I give them all a polite nod and notice Gideon watching me from the next group over. As Dr Seymour continues to sing my praises, his ears slowly turn red. I take another gulp of champagne. My glass is almost empty.

Lord Rushby eyes me curiously. ‘Everyone is so interested in the work you do here at Bletchley, and yet it seems you are only at liberty to discuss it with a select few?’

He’s young and handsome and smooth.

‘A necessary precaution,’ I recite with a smile, ‘to protect the war effort.’

His head snaps towards the woman on his right. ‘Dolores and I studied in the Dragon Department at university, dearest. She was always a few marks ahead of me, a true teacher’s pet.’

Everyone laughs and I see something like amusement flicker in Dr Seymour’s eyes as Lord Rushby disregards her intelligence as mere favouritism.

‘Well, you have rather a good turnout,’ he says, clearly bored. ‘So many people crossing the country to be here in the spirit of … Christmas.’

His eyes glint as he gives me a sideways glance, as if he’s expecting me to grasp the hidden meaning behind his words. Why does it seem like every guest here knows exactly what’s happening at Bletchley Park?

‘To be honest,’ I say, because I know I should say something, ‘I’d forgotten all about Christmas.’

‘Of course you did,’ Rushby says good-naturedly, taking another glass of champagne from a tray and handing it to me. ‘You’ve been so busy . But one must keep one’s spirits up, even in the midst of a war. The presence of the German Secretary of Defence, and of that Bulgarian refugee—’

‘The last surviving member of the Bulgarian royal family!’ Penelope says.

‘—is, of course, mere coincidence.’

‘I heard,’ Iris whispers, ‘that the German Peace Agreement is on its last legs.’

I glance at Dr Seymour, but she wears an expression of perfect indifference. Violins sing from across the room and I take another sip of champagne. My body is starting to feel deliciously light and warm. I stare at the golden bubbles rising in the glass.

‘Isn’t it tedious,’ Iris says to Dr Seymour, ‘to have to watch all these people talk about the boring war and the way it affects their boring lives?’

‘Your husband will entertain us, I’m sure,’ Penelope says. She tugs on Rushby’s arm like a child. ‘Tell us one of your riveting stories.’

I withhold a sigh and notice that Dr Seymour’s attention is also drifting. She glances round the room, perhaps looking for someone – anyone – more interesting to talk to. I hope she spots them soon.

‘Here’s one,’ Rushby says. ‘The rebels have officially taken Eigg.’

Dr Seymour’s gaze snaps back towards our group.

‘Are you quite sure?’ she says. ‘I’ve heard no reports.’

‘It’s not something the government wants shouted from the rooftops, Dolores, dear,’ the earl says lazily. ‘But they’ve seized it with their dragon power, and the word is they’re aiming for Canna next.’

Eigg. Canna. The islands mentioned in Dr Seymour’s dracovol letter. If they’re government-owned, and they’re related to the echolocation research Ravensloe has Dr Seymour doing, then why doesn’t she know about this?

‘What would they want with Canna?’ Iris says. ‘It’s a ghastly place.’

‘Ghastly?’ I say when Dr Seymour doesn’t speak. ‘Why?’

‘For us perhaps, but not so much for the dragons.’ Lord Rushby laughs loudly and takes a fat cigar out of his pocket.

‘Oh dear, brother,’ Penelope says, twisting a curl round her finger. ‘I don’t think Vivien gets your meaning.’

‘You don’t?’ Rushby says, bemused. He glances at Dr Seymour. ‘I thought the knowledge was common in these circles.’

Dr Seymour shakes her head and Lord Rushby’s smile grows wider.

‘Canna is – for the dragons of Britannia – a silver platter of human flesh.’

I stare at him as my mind takes his words and tries to turn them into something that makes sense.

‘Now, now, dear, you’ll alarm the girl,’ says Iris.

Rushby ignores her and lights his cigar. ‘This is why it is such a mystery to me that there are dragons among the rebels. Those creatures have everything they could possibly need, and yet still they complain.’

Penelope tuts and shakes her head. I feel like a fool, but I don’t care. I have to ask.

‘Lord Rushby, what do you mean by human flesh?’

‘Canna is where they send the criminal youths,’ Rushby says. He puffs on the cigar. ‘With the law stating that minors cannot be executed, and the overcrowding due to the influx of immigrants from Bulgaria after the Massacre, the government needed to put them somewhere .’

The noise around me dulls as I concentrate on Rushby’s voice.

‘So, instead of filling up the prisons, our former Prime Minister found a better way to deal with crime.’

‘Lawbreakers below the age of eighteen are sent to Canna as food for the dragons,’ Penelope says. She lets out an outraged gasp. ‘Isn’t it gory ?’

‘It worked for a time,’ Rushby says, unbothered by my stunned silence. ‘But now the buggers are finding ways to survive.’ He snorts. ‘Just imagine: children as young as seven getting the best of dragons.’

‘Predators fooled by prey,’ Iris says with a sigh.

‘But … but how is that allowed?’ I say.

‘It’s in the Peace Agreement, darling!’ Penelope says. ‘A clause added to appease the dragons for having to share their skies with our planes.’

I set my glass down as the room swims in front of me. The protest in Fitzrovia flashes through my mind, the blood on my portfolio, the dead girl’s face. My stomach churns. I can almost hear the protestors’ voices screaming above the quiver of the violins.

The Peace Agreement is corrupt!

‘Now look, you’ve frightened her,’ Iris says.

Dr Seymour reaches a hand out to me, but I take a step backwards, bumping into someone. Lips press against my ear.

‘Let’s get some air, shall we?’ Atlas says.

He steers me across the room and out into the hallway, closing the door on the noise behind us. My voice explodes into the silence of the corridor.

‘An island full of children!’ I say. ‘Sent to be food for dragons. The Earl of Fife just told me about it. And he was laughing!’

Owen, guarding the door, turns away as if he can’t hear us.

‘The whole point of the Peace Agreement is that humans and dragons can’t kill each other,’ I say, pacing the floor.

My cheeks are on fire and I feel like I might be sick if I stand still.

‘But if there’s a clause, it means Wyvernmire knows about it. That she condones it! And Dr Seymour …’ I whip round to stare at the closed ballroom door. ‘ She must know, too.’

Atlas is watching me, his hands in his pockets.

I choke on my words. ‘Did you know?’

‘Yes,’ he says quietly. ‘But only because I’ve heard the rumours. The clause isn’t included in the version of the Peace Agreement available to the public – it’s only written in the government’s copies.’

‘It’s there in black and white, is it?’ I say furiously. ‘Dragons are allowed to eat human children in exchange for sharing the sky?’

Atlas shakes his head. ‘I think it says something along the lines of: At the discretion of the government, extraordinary hunting rights will be granted to the dragons of Britannia on the Isle of Canna only .’

‘Extraordinary hunting rights,’ I scoff. ‘Now that’s a code if ever I heard one.’

He smothers a smile.

‘It’s not funny!’ I say. ‘Atlas, this means that the rebels are right on one thing …’ My head spins. ‘The Peace Agreement is corrupt. I thought dragons were good—’

‘It’s not all dragons,’ Atlas says. ‘The Coalition wants true peace between the species, not this self-serving fake agreement invented by the elite.’

He’s been radicalised, I realise. His mind filled with the rebels’ lies.

‘It’s not peace the rebels want,’ I say. ‘It’s lawlessness.’

‘Come on,’ Atlas says, glancing at Owen. ‘Let’s go somewhere more private.’

I nod and follow him down the hall. My head aches and the champagne has left a dry tang in my mouth. What would have happened to me after I set Chumana free if Wyvernmire hadn’t offered me a job at Bletchley? Would I have been sent to Canna like a pig to slaughter? We wander through the unexplored wing whose walls are lined with old portraits and tapestries.

‘Look at the Class System,’ I say, determined to prove him wrong. ‘It might seem strict, but its opportunity for promotion allows for the self-improvement of the British people. Except the rebels aren’t interested in that. Instead, they’ve declared war and they’re killing innocent people.’

Atlas sighs. ‘The Coalition didn’t have a choice. Wyvernmire has been spreading propaganda about them for years, and just look who she has on her side. The German Minister for Defence – a right-wing nationalist – the last Prince of Bulgaria – proudly pro-dragon rings – and some old English lords who would rather kill criminal kids than rewrite the Peace Agreement.’

‘That’s exactly why the rebels should surrender!’ I say. ‘All they have are deluded insurgents, a mysterious voice on the radio and a few dragons who somehow think they’re victims of injustice—’ I put up my hand as Atlas opens his mouth to argue. ‘Don’t talk to me about dragon fighting rings,’ I say shrilly. ‘They’re banned in Britannia thanks to the Peace Agreement.’

‘But dragons are still suffering,’ Atlas says. ‘Industrialisation is pushing them from the land and from the skies, their hoards are being taxed and looted and they’re not even considered members of society any more. People either hate dragons, or they’re afraid of them. But before the Peace Agreement the dragons lived among us. They were academics, politicians, landowners. Now, dragons only work as manual labourers or as punishment for their crimes.’

I slow beneath a tapestry of a wyvern being pulled from the sky by rope-wrangling men below.

‘Britannia – and that means Wyvernmire – is the only place in Europe to have continuously held an alliance with its dragons,’ I say. ‘We’ve always listened to them, negotiated with them … That’s why our Peace Agreement is so famous in the first place. Of course the Prime Minister wants to uphold that, because she wants the best for us—’

‘Northern Ireland and the Irish Free State both have their own Peace Agreements,’ Atlas says. ‘There’s a reason they don’t want ours.’

I blink and he sighs again.

‘When I was little, my cousins lived in one of East Anglia’s steel-making quarters,’ he says.

I lean against the wall and he comes to a stop beside me, careful not to step on the hem of my dress.

‘They all spoke Harpentesa before they spoke English, just from being around all the dragons who worked in the foundries. Their first language was a dragon tongue, but now they’ll have to resort to English to talk with the dragons.’

I’ve never met a Third Class person who could speak dragon tongue.

A few weeks ago, I would have thought nothing of dragon tongues being banned among the Third Class because they can’t study them at university anyway. Yet Atlas’s Third Class cousins could speak Harpentesa before I even knew what it was. And it’s only now, when the study of dragon tongues is being banned for the Second Class, for people like me, that I care.

‘I travelled once, with the lord I worked for,’ Atlas says. ‘We had special post-Travel Ban permission. We went to a horse show in France, just outside Paris. Our guide was a dragon. He taught me some Drageoir, showed me how to light a fire with a piece of flint and a spark. When we went for breakfast and coffee, he sat on the roof of a boulangerie and ordered a bowl of cognac. And no one batted an eyelid. Tell me that’s not a better world to live in. A world where humans and dragons live together and—’

A door swings open down the hall and a Guardian steps out. My heart stops.

It’s Ralph.

He’s holding his helmet under one arm and I notice a cut across the bridge of his nose. He turns in the opposite direction to us and walks back towards the ballroom. We both stare as his footsteps echo through the hall and he turns a corner. I edge towards the nearest door and feel for the handle. I twist it, grab Atlas by the back of his jacket and pull him inside.

‘I bet he’s furious he wasn’t invited to the ball,’ Atlas smirks as I close the door as quietly as I can.

We’re standing at the bottom of a narrow staircase. I follow Atlas up it into another hallway, with tall windows covered in blackout curtains. Lines of white statues stand on slabs of stone on either side and miniature marble dragon heads stare out from the windowsills. I’m still thinking of the cognac-drinking dragon.

‘Say, Featherswallow?’ he says.

I peer at a statue of two amorous dragons, their bodies entwined. ‘Hmm?’

‘I got your last note … and I left my reply.’

He looks at me through his eyelashes and I feel my body warm.

‘I’ll be sure to read it, then.’

‘In the meantime, can I give you something else?’

The solemn look on his face makes me grin.

‘What sort of something?’ I tease.

He opens his palm. A tiny wooden swallow sits at the centre of it, hanging from a plaited ribbon. Two metal clasps are attached at either end. I suddenly remember him whittling a piece of wood in the common room.

‘I … did you make this?’

Atlas nods. ‘May I?’

I turn round, lifting my hair, as Atlas fastens the ribbon round my neck. The swallow sits at the same level as my class pass used to, except it’s so small it drops between my breasts, hidden from view.

‘To remind you of who you are,’ Atlas whispers in my ear.

Swallows were originally dragons who could speak every language in the world. But it weighed on them, being able to empathise with the stories of so many .

I don’t know what to say. The gesture is so mind-bogglingly sweet that I feel my face growing red and – to my horror – my eyes well with tears.

I suck in a breath. ‘Atlas, I—’

‘Race you to that giant egg up there.’

I peer through the gloom of the badly lit hall, grateful for the interjection. At the end is a tall silver egg.

‘You’ve been here before, haven’t you?’ I say.

Atlas shrugs. ‘Wyvernmire’s office is nearby, and I like to see what she gets up to.’

Then, without warning, he tears off down the hall. Laughter bubbles up inside me as I watch him run. I want to follow him, but my silver heels are dangerously high.

Oh, to hell with the shoes .

I run after him as fast as I dare. As he stretches out his arm to touch the egg, I catch him by the back of his jacket and he jerks backwards, tripping over my foot. I lose my balance and we both fall to the ground, breathless, noses pressed up to the silver feet of the egg.

‘You cheat!’ he wheezes, rubbing his knee.

I sit up, see the laughter in his eyes and cackle as I fall back down. The ceiling spins above me and suddenly I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe.

‘You got a head start,’ I splutter.

My pin has come loose and I pull it out so that my hair falls down over my shoulders. Atlas rolls over to look at me, propping his head up on his elbow.

‘You know what I think?’ he says, his mouth twitching.

‘What?’

‘I think this is the first time I’ve seen you laugh.’

‘And I think this is the first time I’ve seen you lose,’ I say with a smug smile.

He snorts. ‘I didn’t lose. I would have got there first if you hadn’t resorted to sabotage.’

‘I’m faster than you,’ I reply. ‘You knew that dragon egg was there before we walked through the door, so really the only cheat here is you.’

There’s a piece of wool from his suit caught in his stubble. I pull it away and his eyes linger on my fingers, then on the ribbon round my neck.

‘Why have you always wanted to be a Draconic Translator?’ he says.

The question is sudden, but I can tell he’s been wanting to ask it for a while.

‘My mother speaks to me in Bulgarian,’ I say. ‘And I think, once you’ve learned two languages, you want to know them all.’ I stare up at the ceiling again, trying to ignore how his face is only a few inches from mine. ‘Dragon tongues – and dragons – have always fascinated me. I started preparing for university when I was twelve.’

‘I heard the universities are becoming stricter on who they let in. You must have worked really hard.’

I nod again. ‘We studied constantly.’

‘We?’

‘Sophie and I.’

‘Sophie told me she failed her Examination,’ he says. ‘So did I.’

I already know that. If Atlas had passed, he would have been promoted to Second Class.

‘They didn’t give us any time to study,’ Atlas says. ‘We just arrived at school one day and they sprang the Examination on us.’

‘What?’ I say. ‘Why?’

Atlas shrugs. ‘We never had enough teachers to go around and they had to do it on a day when they could get enough examiners in, so they had no time to let us know.’ He frowns and lays his head down beside mine. ‘Or so they said.’

‘Well then, it’s no wonder you failed,’ I say angrily.

I think of the months of studying I did, how my desk was piled high with textbooks. I complained at the time, but at least I had the chance to prepare myself.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I’d probably have failed anyway. I’m not like you, Featherswallow.’

‘Like me?’

‘You know … academic.’

I roll my eyes and laugh. ‘If only I could see myself the way you see me. “Empathetic, academic—”’

‘Unbelievably beautiful?’ Atlas says innocently.

I keep my eyes on the ceiling as I feel my cheeks blush. How much champagne has he had? I want to look at him, but I suddenly feel slightly terrified.

Atlas clears his throat. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘That was—’

‘No!’ I say, a little too loudly. I turn on to my side to face him. ‘That was … fine.’

We’re so close I can count the tiny moles beneath his eye. His breath tickles my cheek and his lips are parting as if he’s about to whisper something. His hand finds my hip as he leans over me. I feel his warmth through my dress. Our faces draw closer and his mouth is above mine …

Atlas sits up. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I can’t.’

My heart races as I fight the urge to pull him back down. A dark expression crosses his face. He looks confused, angry even.

‘What’s wrong?’ I whisper.

I sit up. Why didn’t he kiss me?

‘It’s not that I don’t want to,’ he says.

I try to smile, but my mouth just twists into an awful, pained grin.

‘But my … vocation,’ he says awkwardly.

His what?

‘To the priesthood.’

Oh.

‘Priests don’t … they’re not supposed to …’

‘It’s fine,’ I say, my face burning. ‘I know.’

How could I have been so stupid? Priests are celibate – everyone knows that.

‘I always forget,’ I say, ‘that you’re a priest.’

‘In training,’ he says.

This time, the correction doesn’t make me smile.

‘So you can’t even … kiss?’

I can’t believe I’m asking this. How desperate I must sound. I wish I could take the words back.

‘Not if this is truly what I’m called to,’ Atlas says.

I stare at the dragon egg behind him. We could be kissing beneath it, but instead it’s witnessing the most humiliating moment of my existence.

‘And you truly believe that God’s telling you to be a priest and to never fall in love?’ I blurt without thinking.

‘Of course he wants me to fall in love,’ Atlas says. ‘Just not in that way. We all love in different ways, I’d say. For some, it might be another person. Or it could be teaching, or healing, or art or –’ he nods at me – ‘languages. But for me it’s the priesthood.’

I love languages, but I’ve never thought of them as being a way to love. They’re practical, quantifiable, translatable. Everything love is not.

‘But how can you be sure?’ I say. ‘That this is what you’re called to?’

He brushes his hand through his hair and hesitates.

‘I … I don’t know,’ he says quietly.

I stand up, wishing I’d never asked the question. ‘We should go back. Before they notice we’re missing.’

Atlas nods. He gives me a long, sad look and suddenly I want to be as far away from him as possible. I jump as a loud thump sounds behind me. One of the heavy blackout curtains has fallen away from the window.

‘We should put it back up,’ I say. The hallway is gloomy, but the lights of the gas lamps could still be seen from the sky. ‘Help me.’

I climb up on to the windowsill and Atlas holds the curtain up towards me. I find the clip that held it up and reattach it. What if this happens somewhere else in the house? What if the rebels fly over and spot—

I pause. In the courtyard below is a tiny orange light. Someone is out there smoking.

‘Have you done it?’ Atlas asks.

I press my face up against the window. We’re only one storey high and the moonlight is bright. I can make out the shape of a woman wrapped in a fur coat, silver glittering on her fingers as she smokes.

Dr Hollingsworth.

The sight of her fills me with anger. Smoking was the excuse she made to go and rifle through Mama and Dad’s study until she found evidence that could incriminate them.

Evidence that I ensured was burned.

I bet you weren’t expecting that, were you, you old hag?

‘What are you doing?’ Atlas says from behind me.

My mind rushes back to that awful night when we sat eating our pierogi, oblivious to the fact that life as we knew it was about to come to an end.

Dr Featherswallow, if dragons spoke in regional dialects, surely we would have heard them.

And what had Mama said?

The dialects may not be regional. They could be—

Hollingsworth hadn’t let her finish her sentence. I watch the smoke rise up above her head. Mama had been desperate to explain her theory about dragon dialects. So desperate that she had sent her research to the Academy several times, with no response. Hollingsworth must have read that research herself. She knew exactly what Mama was trying to prove, but the government already suspected her of being a rebel. And if the Academy and Wyvernmire were planning to restrict the learning of dragon tongues, then of course they weren’t going to publish Mama’s work.

But if Hollingsworth has a copy of Mama’s research, I could ask her to let me see it. Mama’s study of dragon dialects might help me with my own theory that echolocation contains dialects, too.

Mama could help me crack the code.

I attach the last curtain clip and step backwards. The heel of my shoe meets with thin air and I flail, falling off the windowsill and into Atlas. He grasps me round the waist as the back of my head almost hits his nose and sets me down. We stand there for a moment, his arms wrapped round me, my back against his chest.

‘Those shoes are more dangerous than dragonfire,’ he breathes into my hair.

I shrug him off. We walk back to the ballroom in silence and when Atlas tries to take my hand I pretend not to notice. I slip through the door and Marquis immediately locks eyes on me from across the room. When he sees my loose hair and Atlas appear in the doorway behind me, his mouth spreads into a smirk. I ignore him and scan the room. Hollingsworth has also returned and is talking to a small man by the drinks table. I make a beeline for her and Marquis’s smile falters.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ I say loudly.

The man looks at me in surprise and Hollingsworth turns round.

‘Vivien,’ she says, smiling. ‘How delightful to see you again.’

I glower at her.

‘Would you excuse me, Henry?’ she says to her friend.

The man bows his head and, with a curious glance in my direction, scurries away. Hollingsworth looks at me expectantly.

‘So?’ she says. ‘How have you been enjoying life at Bletchley?’

‘Do you mean how am I enjoying life since you got my parents arrested and ruined my future?’

Hollingsworth clicks her tongue and takes a sip of champagne, leaving a smattering of red lipstick on the rim of the glass.

‘We’ve already discussed this, Vivien. Your parents have no one to blame for their arrest but themselves. And, if I’m not mistaken, you ruined your own future by breaking your house arrest to free a criminal dragon. Am I wrong?’

I feel my cheeks warm. She’s not wrong. I could have stayed home with Ursa. Had I done that, I would simply be the unfortunate daughter of criminals. Not a criminal myself.

‘You were never interested in my mother’s work,’ I say. ‘When my university application flagged my parents as a potential threat, Wyvernmire sent you undercover to find out if they were rebels.’

‘Yes, I admit that is true,’ Hollingsworth says. ‘ But I also had my own intentions. Your mother is interesting, of course, but it was you who intrigued me. Universities send the applications they receive to study Dragonese to the Academy, and yours impressed me. I’ve yet to meet another person your age who speaks so many dragon tongues.’

I try to keep my expression hostile, but the shock shines through.

‘I fully intended to invite you to join my apprenticeship programme,’ Hollingsworth says. ‘But our Prime Minister had other ideas. She decided she was going to have you. I was sent to recruit you, not for myself, but for the DDAD.’

I glance around nervously. So Hollingsworth must have signed the Official Secrets Act, too.

‘So Wyvernmire was always going to offer me a job?’ I say, thinking of the day I met her in handcuffs. I lower my voice. ‘Even if I hadn’t freed that dragon?’

Hollingsworth nods. ‘The DDAD operated a cross-country, cross-class recruitment programme, but the university application process gave them some of the finest selections to choose from. They spotted you just like I did. Of course, if you hadn’t broken your house arrest, then you wouldn’t be a criminal like most of the recruits here, but Wyvernmire had plenty of offers up her sleeve to entice you.’

‘She has me working with … languages,’ I say hesitantly. There’s no way I can be sure about what exactly Hollingsworth knows.

‘Of course she has,’ she replies. ‘Language is as crucial to war as any weapon.’

‘Then how can you let her gatekeep them?’ I say suddenly. ‘You’re the Chancellor of the Academy for Draconic Linguistics – your job is to preserve and promote dragon tongues!’

She leans in closer to me, still gripping her now empty glass. ‘That Academy is government -funded, Vivien.’ Her eyes dart once round the room. ‘And government-controlled.’

I look at her as understanding dawns on me. How long exactly has the government been controlling the learning of dragon tongues?

‘Over the years our funding has become smaller and smaller, our access to new languages more restricted,’ Hollingsworth says quietly. ‘Two-thirds of our departments have been shut down.’

‘But why?’ I say. ‘War or no war, we still need to be able to communicate with the dragons. Dragon tongues are part of our society, part of our country’s heritage—’

‘Did you know that the Academy was the first institution to record the dragon tongues of Bulgaria in writing?’ Hollingsworth says. ‘We created their written form using the Latin alphabet, instead of Bulgaria’s natural Cyrillic. Do you know why?’ She peers at me closely and her voice becomes almost urgent. ‘Few people in Britannia’s government read Cyrillic, and one must be able to understand a language in order to manipulate it.’

Why would the British government want to manipulate Bulgaria’s dragon tongues?

‘To control languages, to control words, is to control what people know.’

Then Hollingsworth lets out a laugh, so fake that I almost recoil. But I understand what it means. Someone is watching us. I force a smile, try to act natural.

‘I need to read my mother’s research proposal,’ I say quickly. ‘The one on dragon dialects. It could help us bring an end to the war.’

Hollingsworth frowns and gives me a long, curious look. I can tell that she’s bursting to ask me more, but the Official Secrets Act binds us both.

‘You told me I have a bright future and to seize it,’ I say. ‘Well, that’s what I’m doing. Send me my mother’s research. Please.’

‘Excuse me.’

I spin round. Marquis is standing there, eyeing Hollingsworth coldly. She gives him a courteous nod, but then turns back to me, a hundred questions on her lips.

‘We’ve been summoned to a meeting,’ Marquis says. ‘Recruits only.’

Is he lying? I glance around at all the guests, who are being invited to take seats at the dining tables.

‘Now?’ I say.

‘Now,’ Marquis replies.

I nod goodbye to Hollingsworth and follow Marquis.

‘Why the hell are you talking to her?’ he says.

I follow him out of the ballroom and see the other recruits queuing outside a door to the right of the hall.

‘What are we doing here?’ I ask, ignoring his question.

‘Wyvernmire wants to speak to us before making her grand entrance,’ Atlas says from the queue, rolling his eyes.

Beside him, Dodie fidgets nervously. ‘Do you think we’re in trouble?’

‘Of course not,’ Atlas replies, giving her a reassuring smile. ‘She’s probably wants an update on our progress, to give her something to boast about.’

We file into what seems to be an unused parlour. White sheets cover the furniture and above us a dusty chandelier flickers with pale yellow light. Prime Minister Wyvernmire is sitting on an uncovered armchair upholstered in red velvet. Both Ralph and Owen are standing behind her. I want to ask her where Ursa is, and why she took her when she promised she wouldn’t. But I can’t do that without admitting to the dracovol.

‘Good evening,’ she says, ‘I trust you are enjoying the celebrations?’

We all nod and murmur an agreement as we try to guess what might be about to happen. Two more Guardians enter the room behind us.

‘I wanted to greet you all personally before making my appearance at tonight’s Christmas Ball,’ she says. ‘We have a lot of distinguished guests this evening, but none are quite as important as you.’

Atlas lets out a loud cough.

‘You have had almost a month to settle into your roles at Bletchley Park,’ she continues. ‘And in that time the rebels have grown bolder. I am sure you were as disturbed as I was to learn about the recent attacks on civilians in the country’s capital.’

I think of the two very different radio reports on the conflict at the Academy. How did Wyvernmire react to the rebel radio infiltration?

‘I’m afraid I bring to you some even more unsettling news. It seems that the Scots feel more sympathetic towards the rebel groups than we previously suspected. While the British Army put up a good fight, many Scottish citizens have turned their coats, so to speak. As of tonight, the rebels occupy most of Scotland.’

Loud whispers fill the room. I stare at Marquis, who is standing close to Karim. A whole country under rebel control? How can the rebels be making so much progress when we seem to be making none at all? I’ve barely heard any reports of government victories – how can that be possible with an entire army at its disposition? I thought the rebel movement was supposed to be small.

‘My parents,’ Karim croaks. ‘They live in Aberdeenshire, and they’re loyal to the government, I swear—’

‘Not to worry, Karim,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘We extracted your parents from Scotland last week.’

I look at her in surprise.

‘Why?’ Karim says.

‘All of you have seen what the work within your respective categories entails. You understand how your particular skills are suited to the task given to you, and know what is required of you in order for my government to win the war.’ Wyvernmire smoothes her skirt. ‘However, it seems that many of you are failing to meet our expectations.’

Atlas takes my hand and I don’t pull away.

‘There has not been a single breakthrough, a single piece of information unearthed by you that has allowed us to make progress when it comes to fighting rebel dragons. And dragons, it appears, are the rebels’ strength.’

You’re wrong , I want to tell her. I’m on the very edge of a breakthrough . But I can’t divulge what I’ve learned about echolocation dialects yet, not until I’m certain that they’re regional. Giving Wyvernmire the wrong information could have consequences far worse than giving her nothing at all.

‘Therefore, as leader of the nation, I find myself duty-bound to speed things up.’

Ralph tightens his grip on his gun. He stares at me, his mouth twisting into a smirk. The sound of the music wafting out of the ballroom has suddenly increased in volume.

‘From tonight onwards, you are all taking part in a race,’ the Prime Minister says softly. ‘In each of the categories – Aviation, Zoology and Codebreaking – only the first person to achieve what is being asked of them will be pardoned. The rest of you – as well as any imprisoned or extracted family members you might have – will be punished in accordance with the severity of your crimes.’

I feel my forehead crease into a frown. The ground sways beneath me. The saxophones toll like frantic sirens, their brassy vibrations filling my head. Atlas’s hand drops from mine as he lunges towards Wyvernmire only to meet the barrel of Owen’s gun. They stare at each other, daring the other to move, as strangled sobs fill the room. Beside me, Dodie is hyperventilating.

‘From now on, you will no longer work in teams,’ Wyvernmire says above the noise. ‘You will continue to attend the same shifts, under the guidance of your category leaders, but you will each work alone.’

Marquis takes two steps forward and Ralph lifts his own weapon. Behind us, more Guardians come in through the door.

‘You can’t do this,’ Marquis snarls. ‘You said that if we came here and did the work that was asked of us, we and our families would be free.’

‘I said that you would be released if you did the work required to help me win the war.’ Wyvernmire stares into Marquis’s face, her nostrils flaring. ‘But I. Am. Losing.’

‘So only the one of us who cracks the dragon code will go free?’ Gideon is staring between me, Katherine and Sophie.

‘I’m glad you understand, Gideon,’ Wyvernmire replies.

No.

This can’t be happening. The Prime Minister stands for justice, for peace and prosperity. She wouldn’t do this to us.

This was my chance to save myself and Sophie. Through my tears, I see her staring at me, her face like stone. Only one of us will return to London.

Only one of us will get our life back.

Karim sinks to the floor, sobbing. What crime has he committed? What will happen to him and his parents if he doesn’t win his category? If he doesn’t compete against Serena, against Marquis ? I stare round at my friends and realise I don’t know what punished in accordance with the severity of your crimes means for them. I lock eyes with Marquis. He gives me a long, desperate look as he tries to keep Karim upright. I know what it means for my cousin if he loses. For myself if I end up getting sent to Canna. For our parents.

Death.