I’m kneeling in the dark and almost fall sideways as the van pulls away.
‘Under arrest on what charge?’ I gasp.
My wet clothes cling to my skin and my hair smells of dragonsmoke. The van turns sharply and the Guardian catches me as I lurch forward.
‘Vivien Featherswallow, you are under arrest for breaking the Peace Agreement.’
YOU ARE UNDER ARREST FOR breaking the Peace Agreement.
The words play over and over in my mind as I lie on the bed in the prison cell. I sit up and swallow, my throat as dry as sandpaper. Why did I take the risk of going to watch Chumana burn Wyvernmire’s office? Why didn’t I just go straight home? The dawn light filters through the tiny cell window and a sudden pang clutches at my heart. Ursa will be waking up in a strange house with people she barely knows. Will she cry when she realises I’m gone? Will she think I’ve left her forever? What will the state do with the abandoned child of rebels?
The guilt crushes my chest, forcing my breath out in short, painful sobs. I thought I’d never do anything worse than what I did to Sophie back in the summer. But now the stain of despair left by that one decision – the stain that always manages to seep into every good thing – has grown bigger. It’s like I can’t stop making mistakes that hurt the people I love.
I close my eyes and welcome the guilt, more painful than the stinging welts left by the birch rod or the humiliation of being discarded by Hugo Montecue after I gained the courage to push his hands away. I force myself to feel every drop of it.
Don’t make mistakes if you’re not prepared to live with the consequences,Mama has always told me.
This pain is the consequence of my actions.
I dwell on it all day, my eyes fixed on the patch of sky through the window. I wait as long as I can bear before I’m forced to use the chamberpot in the corner, and as I crouch over it I hear a loud boom that reverberates through the whole building. Outside, people scream. I drift in and out of sleep as the white clouds are replaced by stars. When I wake again, the sun is high in the sky, and a bolt slides loudly across the door.
Stay calm, I tell myself.They can’t prove anything.
‘Stand up!’ orders the voice through the Guardian helmet.
I stand.
‘Arms out.’
‘I’ve been here for a whole dayandnight,’ I say as the Guardian searches me. ‘You still haven’t read any official charges against me.’
‘The Prime Minister’s office was the target of arson,’ the Guardian says. ‘You – and a dragon – were both seen at the scene of the crime.’
‘In that case, I think it was most likely the dragon that lit that fire, don’t you?’ I spit.
My insides twist like snakes. What’s wrong with me? If I’m going to get out of here, I need to show the shiny schoolgirl version of Viv Featherswallow – not this new, angry,breaking-into-buildings-with-her-rebel-father’s-penknife version.
‘Hands behind your back.’
The Guardian handcuffs me and pushes me towards the door. The corridor is full of cells identical to my own. Are my parents in one of them? Is Marquis? I’m pushed into a lift, shinier and more modern than the one in the library, and it jolts to a stop several floors up. We emerge on to a carpeted corridor that smells strongly of tea. Photographs of important-looking people line one wall and in the centre is a framed copy of the Peace Agreement – signed by the Dragon Queen Ignacia herself in her own blood. The former Prime Minister’s ink pen must have seemed embarrassingly pathetic in comparison.
I eye the tiny printed words, lines and lines of promises and clauses negotiated between humans and dragons. The same document that took pride of place in every classroom I’ve ever sat in. My only chance is to convince whoever runs the prison how much I agree with it.
The Guardian leads me into a small parlour lit by dull electric lamps. Ugly metal filing cabinets stand against the walls and on a table at the far end of the room is a model of what looks like a city in miniature, with paper dragons suspended above.
‘Sit,’ the Guardian says, steering me towards an armchair.
I sit. A teapot is steaming on a small table set for two,with a box of tea leaves beside it.
‘This is a mistake,’ I tell the Guardian, who has positioned himself by the door. ‘I support the Peace Agreement. It literally stops humans and dragons from killing each other, so why would I—’
A tall woman strides into the room and I bite my cheek so hard I taste blood. Prime Minister Wyvernmire wears a long dark coat and a brooch the shape of a dragon’s talon. A symbol of her commitment to the Peace Agreement and to the Dragon Queen. Her red hair is coiffed and set with hairspray so that it resembles a puffy halo round her head. Her face, pale as milk, contains several fine, powdered lines. She’s older than I imagined.
‘Good morning, Miss Featherswallow.’
Her voice sounds exactly the same as it does on the radio – severe and smooth. She takes a seat in the armchair opposite mine. I open my mouth, then close it again. I am meeting the Prime Minister of Britannia. In handcuffs.
‘Welcome to Highfall Prison, where the country’s most radical rebels are guarded with the highest security levels.’ Prime Minister Wyvernmire’s eyes narrow. ‘You should feel right at home.’
