Thank God for dragon tongues, Featherswallow. Thank God for you.
I inhale a deep, shaky breath and put the note in my pocket. Then I turn round. Wyvernmire is staring at me, her jaw set in a hard line.
‘Come with me now,’ she says. ‘This is the last death you’ll have to—’
‘Not the last,’ I say calmly. I look at Ralph and the hatred consumes me. ‘I’ll make sure you don’t leave Bletchley Park alive, you son of a bitch. I’ll make sure you—’
Flames stream from the clouds, setting the vegetable garden and Ralph’s coat alight. He drops to the ground, a tortured scream bursting from his throat. Chumana swoops on to the grass, positioning herself between me and Wyvernmire. Guardians shoot aimlessly, swarming roundtheir Prime Minister and herding her towards the courtyard, where a helicopter is landing. Ralph, who has managed to douse the fire, limps after her. I crouch behind Chumana to avoid the bullets.
Kill him, I urge her silently as I watch Ralph escape.
But as the Guardians fall back, Chumana’s head turns towards the fields. A car is hurtling past the lake. It drives through a bush, black smoke streaming from its exhaust pipe, and straight into the garden. I fall back on my elbows next to Atlas, wondering how Wyvernmire could have called for more reinforcements so quickly—
The back door of the car opens and a face stares out.
Rita Hollingsworth.
‘Get in,’ she tells me sharply. ‘Before I’m seen.’
I shake my head, casting a glance at the Bulgarian dragon that has appeared in the sky above. Chumana has seen it, too.
‘Go with her, human girl!’ she snarls.
I don’t dare refuse, scrambling across the back seat of the car as the engine roars. I cast a look out of the window as it reverses towards the lake. Chumana is battling the Bulgarian dragon from the ground, her scales glowing pink in the sunrise. And behind her lies Atlas’s body. I sink backwards, unable to breathe, and finally lose control. And suddenly Hollingsworth is holding me, engulfing me in perfume, her fur coat sticking to my tear-stained cheeks.
‘He’s all alone,’ I sob. ‘I left him all alone.’
As the car veers through Bletchley, past trucks full of injured rebels and dazed townspeople, the sun hits the windscreen. It shines on to my face, warm and taunting. Atlaswon’t see the sun again. He died before it rose. I lean my head into the shoulder of the stranger beside me and think of all the ways I have known him.
Atlas King.
Rebel, priest-in-training, defender of dragons.
The only boy I have ever loved.
And as I close my eyes I see his soul, seeking God as it slips among the burning Bletchley trees.
THE CAR ROLLS TO A stop outside a small farm, its yard dotted with chickens and guarded by a barking dog. The driver steps out and lights a cigarette without a word, and I suddenly realise who I’m with. The Chancellor of the Academy for Draconic Linguistics.
The woman responsible for my parents’ arrest.
I lean back against the door, wiping my eyes, and stare at her. She’s wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a string of pearls. Her hair is like silver gossamer, a perfect cloud round her head.
‘What are we doing here?’
‘Waiting for that plane.’ She glances out of the window. ‘Chumana said it would be here.’
‘Chumana is a rebel,’ I spit. ‘Why would she tell you anything?’
I wonder if she’s still alive, if Muirgen and the other Bletchley dragons survived.
‘The Academy for Draconic Linguistics is full of rebels,’ Hollingsworth says calmly.
‘How do you know?’
Hollingsworth spins one of the rings on her fingers.
‘Because I am one of them.’
