I shrink into my seat.
Rebels are tax-avoiding sloths at best and violent anarchists at worst. I’ve read the newspaper articles about the acts of vandalism, the bombs in letterboxes, the attempted assassinations.
‘No, I don’t,’ is all I manage to say.
‘Forgive me,’ Wyvernmire says, pouring the tea into cups.‘I simply thought that, given who your parents are …’
‘You can’t prove anything about my parents,’ I say, instantly regretting it.
‘Unfortunately, you are correct,’ Wyvernmire replies. ‘The evidence my Guardians collected was destroyed in a fire that ravaged Ten Downing Street in the early hours of yesterday morning. But of course you know all about that.’
My stomach plummets. Any fierceness I was feeling before dissolves on the spot.
‘Nevertheless,’ Wyvernmire continues, ‘we have eyewitnesses more than happy to give evidence of your parents’ crimes. It’s ironic how even the most radical insurrectionists are willing to betray their comrades when their own necks are on the line.’
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. ‘My parents aren’t insurrectionists. And neither am I.’
Wyvernmire sets a teacup in front of me.
‘You released a criminal dragon from its prison at the University of London, somehow convincing it to set fire to my office in a gross act of arson. Or are you going to tell me that the destruction of the evidence linking your parents to the rebellion against my government was a mere coincidence?’
I stare at the ground, my face stinging with shame.
‘Do you know what we call an attack on a political building, Vivien?’
‘Terrorism,’ I whisper.
‘Clever girl.’
The reality of what I asked Chumana to do begins to sink in.
‘But what interests me is how you managed to persuade this dragon to do your bidding,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘Your actions have only further incriminated your parents, and yourself, in the process. And yet … I believe there is something more to you. You made quite an impression on Rita Hollingsworth.’
‘I never want to see that woman again,’ I say.
‘Top of your class twelve years running. Fluent in nine languages. The apple of your parents’ eye.’
Wyvernmire gestures to the Guardian to uncuff me. I rub my sore wrists and take a sip of the hot, sweet tea.
‘My dear girl,’ the Prime Minister says, ‘what on earth possessed you?’
The gentleness in her voice takes me by surprise. My tears mingle with the steam from the teacup. Two days ago, all I wanted was an apprenticeship in the Academy’s translation department, but now I’ll probably never go back to university.
‘My parents are good people, and I wanted to help them,’ I say slowly.
‘They made a choice that ripped your family apart,’ Wyvernmire says, her voice resuming its slow, austere quality. ‘They used their influential positions in society to aid the rebel movement. And they deliberately kept you in the dark, leading you to make a decision that has ruined any chance of you achieving your dream career and potentially orphaning yourselfandyour sister.’
I suck in a sharp breath. ‘This is all a mistake,’ I say, stumbling over the words. ‘My mother has worked for theAcademy; my uncle is part of the military—’
‘We’ve been watching your home for months,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘Ever since you applied to university. The people who come in and out of your house are known—’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Did you say ever since I applied to university?’
‘We don’t let just anyone read for a degree in Dragon Tongues, Vivien.’
‘You don’t?’
‘The last few decades have seen a substantial rise in rebellion and dissidence, most commonly found in those whose careers keep them in regular contact with … dragons.’ The Prime Minister closes her eyes as if that last word caused her physical pain. ‘We have found it wise to discourage the learning of dragon tongues, or at least to entrust it to those citizens we know to be loyal.’
