Chapter 2
ONE OF THE PERKS OF BEING Penelope Hollingsworth is that I can commandeer any of the Chancellor’s cars, which are driven by her most loyal Guardians.
They have no idea the woman they serve is secretly the leader of the Human-Dragon Coalition.
At nightfall I say goodbye to Dr Hollingsworth, but she barely looks up from her desk as she mutters to herself from inside a cloud of cigarette smoke.
The Guardian in the driving seat of the motorcar gives me a nod and a smile when I slide on to the back seat, the leather cold against my legs.
‘Out to dine, Miss Hollingsworth?’ he says as the engine roars to life.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Churton Street please, Johnstone.’
My heart flutters in my chest, but Johnstone doesn’t flinch at the fact that I’m out after curfew.
Clearly, the latest restrictions don’t apply to the First Class.
Hyacinth’s friend George lives in the top half of Pimlico – First Class and bordered by Belgravia and Westminster – while I live in the bottom half, closest to the Thames.
The car drives through the streets of London, past Hyde Park where Guardians and dragons are lifting some sort of statue from a lorry in the dusk.
I peer out of the window as an Irish Basilisk hoists the gleaming white stone on to his back and wonder if he’s working with the Guardians or for them.
The difference is crucial when you’re a dragon.
We pass by countless Underground stations and I think about how I could easily step on to a train and ride it all the way to Highfall Prison, where my parents and uncle are still being held.
But Hollingsworth has made me promise not to.
She says the only thing keeping my parents alive is Wyvernmire’s hope that I’ll go looking for them.
The Prime Minister’s lies about me have spread among her Guardians and politicians, and the general public might soon start believing them, too.
That the Human-Dragon Coalition is working with a young translator who is against Britannia and against peace, a translator who will use her Draconic tongues to help the dragons take over.
Thanks to Wyvernmire, I am London’s most wanted rebel.
I slip a small, square photograph out of my pocket. Ursa’s round, rosy face, framed by blonde pigtails, stares back at me. A gift from Dr Hollingsworth, stolen from the government’s files on my family. I’ve already kissed the glossiness of the paper away.
We come to a stop outside a house flanked by stone pillars.
I spot Hyacinth and her brother, Edward, outside.
I know Edward well enough now, although he was suspicious of me when Hy told him I was Dr Hollingsworth’s niece.
I don’t think he entirely believes it, but if that’s the case, then surely seeing me arrive in a Guardian car will convince him of my lie.
And lie I must, even though it bothers me to deceive them both.
If anyone were to find out that the Chancellor’s assistant was a rebel, the scandal would be huge and Hollingsworth’s true identity as the leader of the Coalition would be uncovered.
‘Thank you, Johnstone,’ I say. ‘No need to wait.’
‘Pen?’ Hyacinth sings. ‘Oh my goodness, you came!’
I force a smile and stop myself from pulling awkwardly at my skirt. It’s plain next to the pink satin dress Hyacinth is wearing.
‘Evening, Penelope,’ Edward says uncomfortably.
He’s wearing a gold watch and a pinstriped suit in an unflattering shade of yellow. His hair is the same pale blond as his sister’s and his eyes are too wide apart. A single paintbrush pokes out of his breast pocket.
‘He fancies himself a starving artist,’ Hyacinth joked to me a few days ago. ‘That’s why he dresses like the Third Class.’
I didn’t bother telling her that the Third Class don’t wear suits. I’ve snuck out to meet with Hyacinth before, but she doesn’t know I’ve been doing the same with her brother. She doesn’t know I’ve been meeting him after dark.
‘No roommate?’ she asks casually.
I hesitate. ‘No. She’s not really the party type.’
We ring the doorbell and a maid answers. There’s barely time to stuff our class passes into the pockets of our coats before they’re taken away.
‘Ready to meet some friends, Penelope?’ Hyacinth says. She taps my nose with her perfectly manicured finger. ‘You are going to be quite popular.’
The maid leads us through a quiet hallway lit with old gas lamps.
A grandfather clock stands tall and imposing on the panelled wall and the maid pushes open the door beside it.
Music erupts into the hallway as Hyacinth takes me by the hand and leads me inside.
Heads turn to look at us through clouds of cigarette smoke and modernity contrasts with the hallway we just came from: a chandelier gives out pretty, electric light and several girls are sprawled across the green velvet sofas, all bare arms and long legs.
‘Hyacinth, darling!’ one of them screeches.
Two young men, playing cards with roll-ups smoking in their mouths, look up at the sound of Hyacinth’s name.
Before I know it she’s kissing the girls and they are kissing me, pressing their sticky lips to my cheek and asking my name, their skin carrying the warm scent of champagne and expensive perfume.
I’d never spent much time with the First Class before I met Dr Hollingsworth and Hyacinth – unless sharing a dorm with Serena at Bletchley counts – but now I find myself surrounded by them.
I catch Edward’s gaze and he rolls his eyes.
His sister evidently insisted on his presence tonight, too.
‘Penelope is a colleague of mine,’ Hyacinth says.
‘Oh, another secretary,’ one of the girls giggles.
‘Niece to the Chancellor of the Academy for Draconic Linguistics, actually,’ Hyacinth replies, her seductive gaze suddenly cold.
The girl sinks back down into her seat and I offer her an apologetic smile.
Hyacinth, I know, only has a job because she wants one.
As a First Class heiress to her father’s successful printing business, her future is that of the wife to an equally wealthy First Class man.
But for now, at least, she seems to like pretending otherwise.
A boy with tousled hair strides towards us and Hyacinth allows him to kiss her cheek, too. I feel myself blush – I had no idea so much physical contact was normal among the First Class. The boy offers me his hand and I shake it.
‘George Beecham,’ he says with a warm smile.
‘Penelope Hollingsworth,’ I say, my mouth dry.
What if he’s seen the Wanted posters of me?
‘I hope you don’t mind me coming along with Hyacinth,’ I add quickly.
He gives me a bemused look. ‘Not at all.’
Other boys abandon their drinks and games to greet us, all dressed smartly with slicked back hair and accents that are surely the product of a lifetime of elocution lessons.
They’re handsome, all of them, but not in the same way Atlas was.
Not one of them even comes close. Hyacinth lets out a small sigh and suddenly a dozen cigarette cases are conjured from pockets and offered to her.
She takes her time, lingering over each, and then chooses one from a brown case with a silver clasp.
Its owner smiles smugly and I raise an eyebrow.
‘You’re scandalous,’ I whisper in Hyacinth’s ear.
She grins. George puts a glass of champagne in my hand and I nod in awkward thanks. Can he tell I’m not one of them? What sort of small talk do the First Class make?
‘Are you at university?’ I ask him.
Of course he is. All First Class men study something while waiting to take over their fathers’ estates.
‘I’m reading Law,’ he says wryly. ‘And you?’
One of the girls shrieks with laughter, spilling half of her champagne on to the arm of the boy pulling her down on to the sofa.
Think before you speak, Viv.
‘I assist the Chancellor with the writing of the Babel Decree articles,’ I say.
It’s not true, but it sounds impressive. And here in this big house with all these First Class people, I suddenly feel the need to impress. That’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? Impress your parents or be punished. Impress your teachers or be demoted.
George lets out a low whistle. ‘Hy says you’re Hollingsworth’s niece?’
I nod.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Oxford,’ I reply, another lie slipping from my mouth.
He nods thoughtfully. ‘Can I ask you something?’
I swallow.
‘If your aunt is the Chancellor of the Academy for Draconic Linguistics, which exists for the learning and preservation of dragon tongues, then why is she writing the Babel Decree at all?’
I blink, then scan his face for a hint of emotion that might tell me where his First Class loyalties lie. He gives me a gentle smile.
‘I don’t mean anything by it. It’s just that she founded the Academy to facilitate human relations with dragons. So why would she ban us from speaking their tongues, when it’s the very thing she has devoted her life to?’
‘She hasn’t banned them,’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘The Prime Minister has. My aunt—’
Be careful.
‘My aunt is simply following instructions.’
‘Of course,’ George says good-naturedly. ‘Makes you wonder what Wyvernmire is thinking.’
I feel myself warm to him. I take a sip of champagne and the bubbles pop in my mouth.
‘Ever met her?’ he asks. ‘The PM, I mean.’
I take another sip. ‘A few times. She doesn’t understand the importance of dragon tongues. She doesn’t even speak any.’
George’s eyes light up. ‘Do you?’
‘A few,’ I say with a shrug.
He grins. ‘So you really are Hollingsworth’s niece.’
The champagne has created a pleasant glow that suffuses my whole body and I suddenly feel braver, more convincing. I’m an undercover rebel having a conversation at a First Class party and nobody has looked at me twice. Except George. I glance up at him through my eyelashes.
‘Of course I am,’ I say sweetly. ‘Do you speak any languages?’
‘Some French. My favourite word is dépaysement.’
‘What does it mean?’ Hyacinth asks, appearing at my shoulder.