‘It’s all I can think about,’ I whimper. ‘I won’t be able to do anything until I know. Dr Seymour, please—’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she says, standing up.
‘I saw some dracovol mail in your cupboard,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘So you’ve been looking through my personal things?’
Dr Seymour’s cheeks flush an angry red.
‘I was looking for a pencil …’
‘Who have you mentioned this to?’
‘No one!’ I say. ‘I just want to send a message. I won’t even sign it. I’ll—’
‘No, Vivien!’ She glances over her shoulder and lowers her voice. ‘If you get caught, you’ll be demoted and I’ll be …’
She closes and opens her mouth as if the rest of the sentence might be too terrible to say out loud.
‘My sister is only five years old,’ I say. ‘Our parents are in prison. She doesn’t have anyone in the world except me.’
‘I’m sorry—’
‘I’ll never crack that code,’ I say, my eyes filling with tears again. ‘Not if she’s dead. Not if there’s no one to fight for.’
‘There’s a whole country to fight for,’ Dr Seymour says.
‘Please,’ I say. ‘I have to know.’
Dr Seymour glances at the door, then back at me. She sits down. ‘I’ll need something for it to scent,’ she says slowly. ‘My dracovol is only trained to fly to a few specific locations and, besides, I’m afraid that if your sister is in Central London then there’s no guarantee that her address exists any more.’
‘My coat,’ I say weakly. ‘In the wardrobe in my dorm.’
It smells of dragonsmoke, but it might still have the scent of home on it.
Ursa’s scent.
Dr Seymour nods. ‘You can’t tell anyone about this.’ Her eyes stare into mine as the nurse comes back into the room. ‘Especiallynot Ravensloe,’ she whispers.
I nod. ‘Thank you.’
My library books are delivered that afternoon and among them isThe Hebrides: Exploring Scotland’s Islands. I flip through to page 265 and a piece of paper falls out on to the bedcovers. I check the nurse isn’t looking before I unfold it, heart thumping.
Hello, Featherswallow. Ralph Wyvernmire’s irritating interruptions won’t bother us here. I want to get to know you. May I?
I smile and for a split second a weight lifts off my chest. Talking to this boy is a terrible idea and everything about him is infuriatingly puzzling. But I haven’t yet encountered a puzzle I can’t solve. He’s a liability … and so damn convincing. I scribble back a reply.
Hello, Atlas King. Since leaving me this message, you have attacked the Prime Minister’s nephew and got yourself sent toisolation. It was rather unpriestly of you, but I appreciate the sentiment so … consider the getting to know me commenced. Perhaps you might oblige me by answering this question: where, for the love of dragons, is the fun in whittling wood? Leave your reply in C. Amsterton’s novel, Searching for Swallows.
The nurse discharges me on Sunday afternoon, my arm wrapped in a fresh sling. I stop by the library and slot the book back into place, my reply tucked safely inside. Then I go straight to the common room where I’m greeted by a weak cheering that dies out almost as soon as it’s begun. Music is playing and, by the fire, Karim is embroidering a length of cloth. The atmosphere feels forced, as if we’re all avoiding the elephant in the room. I sit down, noting Atlas’s absence, and see a wicker picnic basket on the table.
‘Gideon made some progress in the glasshouse yesterday,’ Katherine sings.
I turn to Gideon, who is half hidden behind the open picnic-basket lid. ‘What sort of progress?’
‘Certain echolocation calls have different meanings depending on the dragon emitting them,’ Gideon says, closing the lid. ‘Echolocation is even more complex than we thought.’
Different ways of saying things ...like synonyms.
