‘If you hadn’t done what you did, Sophie would be studying at the University of London with you, instead of that teacher’s daughter.’
I blink away the threat of more tears. I know more than Wyvernmire does how a split-second decision can alter a life forever. How, somehow, it’s always those we love most that we end up hurting.
‘It’s okay,’ Wyvernmire says soothingly. ‘You did what you needed to do. To get a place at university. To work in Dragon Tongues. To guarantee yourself a high-paying job before thecensus of your graduation year.’ The Prime Minister’s voice is sweet now, almost maternal. ‘And look at you now. What will you do once you’ve cracked the dragon code? You could take a job at the Academy for Draconic Linguistics, of course, the youngest person ever to do so. But why stop there? Why not build a bigger, better loquisonus machine than Dr Seymour could even begin to envision? Why not spend a lifetime reading dragons’ minds?’
Wyvernmire leans forward. ‘You are like me, Vivien. You are like the Dragon Queen. Ruthlessly ambitious.’
I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.
‘But I don’t want to be,’ I croak.
‘You don’t have a choice. This is who you are,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘So own it.’
The light catches the talon-shaped brooch on the Prime Minister’s chest. Has she really stood face to face with Queen Ignacia? If she has, then she must know that the trinket she wears is a poor imitation of the talons of a Western Drake.
‘Is it true that you feed criminal children to the dragons?’ I say. ‘Is that what you’ve promised the Bulgarian dragons? People to eat?’
‘Politics always requires a forfeit of some sort,’ Wyvernmire says quietly. ‘And criminals choose to be criminals, do they not? Therefore they must accept the consequences of their actions.’
The familiar words drive my brain into dizziness.
‘You’re everything the rebels say you are,’ I spit. ‘All you see is what people can or cannotdo, instead of who theyare.’
‘And what of you, Vivien Featherswallow? Teacher’s pet, star pupil, always simpering and desperate to please. Yourwhole life has been built on what you can do. So much so that you have no idea who you are.’
I reel backwards as if I’ve been slapped and Wyvernmire’s mouth twists into a tight-lipped smile.
‘Now tell me about the dialects.’
I stand up and take a step backwards. The only dialect I can grasp some meaning of so far is the one used by Rhydderch and Muirgen.
‘I don’t understand any of them yet,’ I lie. ‘I need more time. If you could just give us all some more time—’
‘Five days,’ Wyvernmire interjects. She picks up her pen and turns her eyes back to her paper, suddenly bored of me. ‘That’s all I can give you. In the meantime, I must make a short trip to London. One dialect is all I’ll ask of you. Give me one, and you’ll have won your category.’
‘And what about the other recruits?’ I say. ‘If I give you a dialect, will you pardon them, too?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snaps. ‘The rules apply to all. Besides, any progress they make will only be a bonus now. It is the echolocation I need. Only echolocation might make me reconsider this alliance. So don’t leave it too long, Vivien.’ I watch as she begins to write in purple ink. ‘Bulgaria is only a short flight away.’
*
Christmas Eve creeps into the common room by way of a wonky tree, begrudgingly set up by one of the staff. I sink into an armchair, my head throbbing from another day learning Rhydderch and Muirgen’s dialect. The house is quiet, and I wonder how many of the Guardians have been allowed toreturn home to spend Christmas with their families.
Music is playing on the radio and the fire is piled high with logs, throwing off heat. Outside, snow is falling. Marquis is engrossed in a game of chess with Katherine, his sketchbook sticking out of his pocket. Everyone else is watching, or reading or talking quietly. Nobody is in a festive mood and Dodie’s absence fills the room. All I can think of is how there are now only three days left until the Bulgarian dragons get here, unless I tell Wyvernmire everything I know.
Atlas slides on to the sofa beside me. His notes have become more frequent since he was released from isolation the night of my meeting with Wyvernmire. Scraps of paper have appeared in between the pages of my library books, in the pocket of my jacket and even beneath my dinner plate. I find myself answering them with embarrassing enthusiasm, hesitating for hours over each word.
‘What do you usually do for Christmas with your family?’ Atlas asks me, reaching over to pull a pine needle from my hair.
I feel a twinge in my chest. Ursa will be spending Christmas with strangers. Will they even buy her a gift?
‘We eat and drink and play games,’ I say, forcing myself to sound cheerful. ‘Roast goose and Mama’s sauerkraut, sherry and charades. Just the six of us.’ I glance over at Marquis, who has just surrendered his king to Katherine. ‘And you?’
‘Midnight Mass with my mum on Christmas Eve,’ Atlas says. ‘Plum pudding, if we can get the plums. And carolling – me and my mum do it to raise money for the Third Class children’s hospital.’
‘Atlas King, you’re extraordinary.’
Surprise flickers in his eyes and he lets out a low laugh.
