‘Hush, little bear,’ I whisper, kneeling down to murmur soothing words in Ursa’s ear.
Marquis gets to his feet and stares stubbornly out of the window. A few hours from now, Mama will have erased any trace of our accidental presence at the rebel protest. My clothes will appear in my wardrobe, pressed and pristine, and it will be as if I had never crossed paths with a silver baton or the body of a Third Class girl.
This is why.
The thought strikes me suddenly, steady and reassuring.
This is why I can count the few bad grades I’ve ever received in the line of white scars up my arm.
This is why I let Hugo Montecue slip his hands beneathmy dress in exchange for maths lessons last year.
This is why I betrayed my best friend.
To pass the Examination. To become a Draconic translator. To never, ever risk being demoted to Third Class.
Ursa hiccups, stroking the new pale blue ribbon threaded through her class pass.
‘Want to play a game?’ Marquis says, taking her by the hand.
I wait until they disappear into the parlour before picking my portfolio up off the floor. I wipe the blood from the cover, glad that Mama didn’t see it and make me dispose of it, and wander into the dining room where the table has already been set. This evening’s meal has been entirely orchestrated by Mama, as we’ve never had a maid or a cook. That would leave no money for tutors.
I place the portfolio on the seat of my chair – the dark marks on the cover will easily pass for water stains. It will be enough, won’t it, to make Rita Hollingsworth consider me for the apprenticeship? And, with my letters of recommendation and the professional, smiley demeanour I was taught at school, I’ll be as convincing as I was on the day of the Examination.Fruit ripe for the picking, Dad called me that day. I still don’t understand what he meant, but it’s how I see myself now.
I am a bright, ripe fruit: shiny on the surface, but rotten at the core.
*
The doorbell rings at seven o’clock, just as Mama is placing the last of the flowers in the vase on the table. Wisps of pale hair escape their pins, framing her face, and she gives me anencouraging smile. With my dark curls and freckled skin, I look nothing like her, and that comes as no surprise to me. She is wise, even-tempered, patient. I am fretful, hot-headed, selfish.
Dad plants a kiss on her cheek and pulls out two bottles of wine from behind his back with a flourish.
‘I thought we agreed on just one bottle?’ Mama says.
‘We did,’ Dad replies, ‘but, with such a distinguished guest gracing our table, I thought we might need more.’
Uncle Thomas growls from his seat. Dad started drinking during the wait for my Examination results and didn’t stop.
‘Give me those,’ Uncle Thomas says, taking the bottles of Merlot.
He opens them with a pop and sets them by the fire to breathe. Dad leans closer to Mama, points to her research on the mantelpiece and whispers, ‘Don’t lay all your cards on the table straight away.’
I know enough about Mama’s research to understand that tonight is important. I know that she believes that each dragon tongue contains dialects, branches of a language particular to a group or place. Showing the existence and cultural significance of these dialects, Mama says, will remind our society of just how similar dragons and humans are. But the Academy maintains that dragons are too solitary for their tongues to have spread and developed into anything more.
The dining room is bright and warm, the table set with Mama’s best pink china. Bookshelves and paintings line every wall, and Mina, our fluffy white cat, is asleep on the chaise longue. This is the room my parents stay up in withUncle Thomas, night after night. At first, I thought they were discussing work, but Uncle Thomas isn’t an anthropologist like Mama and Dad. It’s the rebellion they talk about – that and the threat of another war. I heard snatches of their conversation last night on my way to bed.
The penalty for acoup d’étatis death.
‘Doctor Hollingsworth,’ Mama exclaims. ‘Welcome to our home!’
We all turn to look at the small silver-haired woman being shown into the room. She has bronzed, weatherworn skin and crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes. She holds a long cigarette holder in one hand and a briefcase in the other. Her fingers glitter with rings and Ursa stares at them greedily.
‘Such a delight to be here,’ says Dr Hollingsworth, handing her coat to Marquis.
He raises an eyebrow at me and I glare back, urging him to be polite to the woman who potentially holds the key to my future.
‘Are you aware, Doctor and Doctor Featherswallow, of the rebel demonstration that took place this afternoon?’ Dr Hollingsworth says as Dad shows her to her seat. ‘What a violent disturbance to have outside your home.’
‘We were fortunate to have been able to stay safely indoors,’ Mama says quickly, shooting me a warning glance. ‘Doctor Hollingsworth, can I offer you a glass of wine?’
