I blink. The boy in the white collar is talking to me, leaning across the table so close that I can see the stubble on his chin. His skin is as smooth as glass.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘I listened,’ the boy says pleasantly. ‘I’m Atlas. Atlas King.’
‘Nice to meet you, Atlas King,’ I say. ‘How is your wine?’
Atlas takes a sip from the glass in front of him and makes a face. ‘Corked. As to be expected from this place.’
I put my spoon down. ‘Corked?’
‘Tainted, spoiled, corrupted,’ Atlas says. He looks around. ‘Oh, come on now. You don’t really believe anything Ravensloe said about this being our chance at redemption, do you?’
I glance nervously at Owen. This is definitely the kind of talk that could get us demoted.
‘Yes, I do,’ I reply coldly. ‘What would he gain from not keeping his word?’
‘Let me guess,’ Atlas says with a knowing smile. ‘You’re First Class?’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Second.’
I can sense both Marquis and Sophie edging closer to the conversation.
Atlas leans back in his chair. ‘In any case, you’re not Third. Otherwise, you’d understand why I don’t trust him.’
Sophie lets out a quiet laugh and I blush. So heisThird Class. I knew it from the moment I heard him speak with a Bristolian accent, because the city of Bristol is mostly Third. I stare back at him. People get judged on their accents all the time, which is why I speak carefully, elongating my vowels and clipping my tone. I want people to make the right assumptions about me – in other words, the opposite of the kind I’ve already made about Atlas King.
‘So you’re suggesting that, even if we win this war, none of us will go free?’ says Marquis.
The recruits around us are standing up to leave and a maid appears, collecting our dirty bowls. Atlas smiles an infuriating smile and begins to gather the cutlery, doing the maid’s job for her. He hands her the spoons, causing her to turn red and give some sort of awkward curtsy, before turning back to face us.
‘That, my friends,’ he says, ‘depends entirely on who you mean bywe.’
I AWAKE TO THE LOW drone of a siren. It takes me a moment to realise that I’m not in my bed on Fitzroy Square but at Bletchley Park, surrounded by the soft snores of strangers. Or almost strangers. Sophie lights the lamp and nods me a begrudging greeting. We dress in silence, the weight of the task awaiting us suddenly heavier. Nerves flutter in my stomach as I plait my hair and straighten my brooch. What if we fail? Wyvernmire will have no choice but to implement the law. My family will be sentenced to death. I’ll be imprisoned. Ursa will grow up an orphan. Today is my sister’s third day waking up in Marylebone with Abel and Alice. Does she think I’ve left her behind?
That’s exactly what you did.
I follow the others out into the hall where Marquis is waiting, his face still soft with sleep.
‘All right?’ he says.
I nod, blinking back tears. I just need to focus. A helmeted Guardian is waiting for us in the entrance hall. He pushes abasket full of buttered rolls at Marquis.
‘Share these out, then report for duty.’
His voice sounds familiar, but I can’t picture where I’ve heard it before.
‘Those of you in the glasshouse, with me,’ he says. ‘The rest of you, with Guardians 629 and 311.’
I bite into my roll and watch as Atlas disappears through a door behind the staircase. He looks like so many of the boys I knew at school, all good grades and smiles. But last night he spoke in arrogant riddles and made it clear enough that he doesn’t care for rules. Obeying the rules is currently the only thing keeping us safe, so I decide to keep my distance from him from now on.
I follow the Guardian down the steps to the courtyard with Sophie and the two other recruits in our category – Katherine, the chess player, and Gideon, the polyglot. The sky is a bruised blue, bleeding lighter around the edges like a watercolour painting. We take a pathway round the side of the manor house into a garden with a perfectly mowed lawn. A flock of chickens peck at the weeds and cluck in alarm as we pass by.
We walk in silence, the December frost crunching beneath our feet, until Katherine trips and lets out a yelp. I look up. A huge, hulking figure emerges from the trees ahead. The dragon is a vibrant red, the colour of autumn. I stare at the black spikes on its face. Its chest glitters with ebony scales and the ridged peaks of its skull are like a crown atop its head. Beside me, Gideon has gone rigid, his hands balled into fists.
‘Good morning, Yndrir,’ the Guardian says.
The dragon nods his head as he walks by, so big that the leaves of the trees trail across his back. His long tail brushes against my boot and Gideon jumps backwards. Katherine clutches Sophie’s arm.
