‘Will you let me dress?’ I say to Marquis before he can mention Sophie’s name.
He nods, gathering his belongings, and leaves the room. I let the tears come, hot and inevitable, as I pin up the front of my hair. Then I blink them away angrily. What I did to Sophie is unforgivable, but it’s too late to change things. I made my choice – an ugly, necessary one – and now I have to live with the consequences. My sorrow is nothing compared to what Sophie must feel.
A few moments later, there’s a knock. I open the door and Marquis offers me his arm.
‘To the bookbinder?’ he says with a cheerful grin.
He’s wearing a camel trench coat and his dark hair is styled to perfection. I loop my arm through his and my anxiety subsides. The day stretches ahead, bringing us closer to the moment I’ll impress Rita Hollingsworth with my portfolio. I feel a rush of anticipation. If tonight goes as planned, I’ll be one step closer to becoming Vivien Featherswallow, Draconic Translator.
Fitzrovia hums with activity and I grip Marquis tightlyas he sashays between the street-sellers peddling sweet treats and boxes full of trinkets. Many of them turn to greet him. Marquis, whose effortless charm and wit has brought us all sorts of privileges since we were children, is loved by everyone. A group of bearded men are inspecting a collection of antique books, holding up eyeglasses to admire the gilded edges. The familiar Bulgarian language sounds sweetly in my ears and a row of painted religious icons stare out at me from one of the stalls.
‘Rebel Dragons Detained in Durham!’ shouts a newspaper vendor. ‘Is the Peace Agreement in Peril?’
Marquis turns to read the headlines and I snort.
‘In peril? It’s been in place for over fifty years. As if a few rebels are going to bring it down.’
The Peace Agreement between Prime Minister Wyvernmire and the British Dragon Queen allows humans and dragons to coexist harmoniously. Without that and the Class System, we’d still have overcrowding, homelessnessandthe hunting of humans and dragons. I don’t understand the sudden backlash against it.
‘I heard a delicious rumour yesterday,’ Marquis says as we cross the street into Marylebone.
I step over a deep fissure in the pavement, the impact of a dragon’s tail left over from the war.
‘Hugo Montecue’s current girlfriend said her brother-in-law saw a dragonanda plane in the sky at the same time, flyingside by side.’
‘That’s a lie. Dragons and planes have their own designated routes to avoid collision,’ I recite, opening the door to thebookbinder’s. A bell rings shrilly inside.
‘Well,’ Marquis begins, ‘maybe the rebels are finally getting their way. Maybe they’re closer to overturning the Peace Agreement than we think.’
I scoff. ‘If your friends believe the government is letting the rebels take to the skies, then they’re bigger skrits than I thought.’
‘You’re just jealous because Hugo Montecue has a new girl.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ I say, scowling. ‘The boy was my ticket to passing mathematics, that’s all. He was a good teacher.’
Marquis smirks. ‘I bet he was.’
I rummage in my purse for the coins to pay the bookbinder, my cheeks growing warm. My romances – even the insincere ones – must stay as secret as my cousin’s.
‘You’re one to talk,’ I mutter quietly. ‘You have as many boyfriends as you do silk scarves.’
The bookbinder hands me the portfolio and I murmur a word of thanks. Beneath the expensive leather cover lie my best translations, and I feel a shiver of pride.
Every act of translation requires sacrifice – it is this harsh truth that made me fall in love. There exists no direct correlation between the words of one language and another, and no translation can be entirely faithful to its original. So, while a person can more or less bridge the gap between languages using words, there is always some deeper meaning left unsaid, a secret invisible to those who only have one language with which to navigate the world.
A translator, on the other hand, is a creature that flies with several pairs of wings.
I slip the portfolio under one arm and follow Marquis out of the shop and towards home, passing the University of London on the way. We have been students there for two months already, me having skipped my final year at school to attend early. I love it so much that weekends have become a bore. I’m still jealous that Marquis was permitted to take rooms there, on account of him being male, but I know some universities don’t allow women to attend at all.
You must see the silver lining of the situation, Uncle Thomas told me.
And I do. The University of London, with its sun-kissed campus, spired buildings and giant library, is everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
Dreams … I think about the Draconic word from this morning.
Mengkhenyass.
It’s Komodonese, a dragon tongue not much spoken in Britannia except by the traders travelling to Singapore. Its English translation is on the tip of my tongue, but still I can’t remember.
