Something truly horrific has happened. The Western Drake is dead! Last night she returned to the nest foaming at the mouth and, despite my attempts to help her, she succumbed. Following this catastrophe, I did something reckless. I took her egg, as well as the contents of the nest, and brought it into my cave. I have built a small fire beneath the nest in an attempt to keep it hot.
14 June – Day 9
I rise every two hours during the night to stoke the fire. My cave is full of smoke. I know little about how hot the egg should be, or if the heat it receives should be constant or sporadic. The dragons who came to eat the body of the dead mother have left it untouched. I fear this means she was poisoned. I depart for the mainland in two days.
15 June – Day 10
No movement from the egg. Its surface has begun to crack. Today I walked three miles to observe the nest of the other Western Drake. The stones beneath her two eggs seem to be constantly smouldering. Itherefore dare to hope that I am doing things right. I found the courage to approach her and ask her – in English – if she might adopt the egg. ‘No,’ she replied, nodding towards her own two eggs. ‘I do not have enough flame for three.’
16 June – Day 11
The egg is dead. The shell has begun to disintegrate and smell. I leave for the mainland in the morning. What does a dragon egg need to survive and hatch, apart from heat? What was it about the mother’s presence that made her egg tremble in response? I am determined to make this the topic of my next research project.
ON THE EVENING OF THE ball, dusk falls earlier than it has since we arrived at Bletchley. It’s cold outside – too cold for snow – and, in the grounds around the manor house, frozen dragon tracks are entrenched deep in the dirt. A fire burns in the grate of the girls’ dormitory and we dress in its flickering orange light.
‘Which one of you has taken my hairbrush?’ Serena calls from the bathroom.
In the reflection of the mirror, I see Katherine pretend not to hear as she pulls the dragonbone brush through her unruly hair. Gravel crunches outside – cars have been arriving all afternoon. My dress fits me like a glove and the rose-coloured satin warms my complexion. The fireblod has entirely healed my arm and the sling is gone. Behind me, Dodie reaches up to coil my hair round a long pin.
‘You look beautiful,’ she says.
She’s dressed in a blue chiffon the colour of her eyes. Serena comes out of the bathroom, her hair freed of itstwists and rising in thick dark waves above her head. She wraps a length of silk round her temples and the effect is a regality only she could achieve.
‘I wore something almost as lovely when I was a deb last year,’ she says, gazing at herself in the mirror.
‘What’s a deb?’ Katherine asks.
‘A debutante,’ says Dodie, reaching to untangle the brush from Katherine’s hair.
Beside them, Sophie is swathed in a deep green silk and I’m reminded of the dress she bought for her Examination Award Ceremony, the one she never got to wear.
‘Here,’ Dodie says, handing me a folded piece of cloth with a shy smile. ‘An early Christmas gift. I made one for each of us.’
It’s a cotton handkerchief, the edges embroidered with tiny red dragon tongues.
‘Dodie, it’s beautiful.’
I embrace her, finding myself enveloped in a sweet almond smell, and when I let go I notice her fingers are covered in bloody pinpricks.
‘Karim had to help me,’ she says, blushing.
I nod, stunned that she would go to such an effort out of kindness. The other girls descend on her, squealing their thank yous, and I sit down on my bed to fasten my shoes. The radio blares loudly from the common room down the hall.
‘The rebel movement strikes again in an attack on London’s West End that has killed several Guardians of Peace,’ the nasal voice of the reporter says. ‘An estimatedone hundred rebels descended on a conference at the Academy for Draconic Linguistics this afternoon in a raid that resulted in the theft of hundreds of language-related documents. There were no civilian casualties and several arrests were made. However, most of the perpetrators were seen escaping on dragonback—’
The voice is cut off and followed by a long crackling sound. I’m already halfway down the hallway by the time it springs back to life. Except the voice is different this time, deep and smooth.
‘This is a message to the citizens of Britannia from the Human-Dragon Coalition.’
Marquis and Gideon, both in suits, look up from their armchairs in shock.
‘We have infiltrated this radio broadcast in an attempt to set the record straight. It has just been reported that the Coalition launched an attack on the Academy for Draconic Linguistics in London today. This is a lie.’
I place both hands on the mantelpiece and stare at the radio.
‘Coalition members carried out a series of protests this afternoon outside the Academy in response to the new government guidelines concerning the study of dragon tongues. As of tomorrow, only First Class citizens who have undergone an intense government vetting process will be permitted to study dragon tongues. Citizens are hereby banned from speaking Dragonese in public spaces. This is an act of species segregation not seen in Britannia since the signing of the Peace Agreement and instatement of the ClassSystem, which divided our society into an array of cruel and unnatural opposites: human versus dragon, native versus immigrant, rich versus poor.
‘In retaliation, the Coalition seized a number of linguistic documents in order to ensure that access to dragon tongues cannot be further hoarded by the ruling class. The Coalition will continue to fight until Britannia is liberated from the tyranny of a leader who rules in the name of peace, yet commits injustice upon injustice against humans and dragons alike. We would like to remind our fellow countrymen that it was never our party’s intention to overthrow the system. After the Great War, we asked for a new general election, for reform to come from inside the government itself. We did not want a coup, but democracy! But that is a word our leadership no longer knows. Wyvernmire’s party continually blames the Coalition for the deaths caused by this war, but fails to take responsibility for its own part in this. People of Britannia, your Prime Minister is lying to you. Dragons of Britannia, your Queen is lying to you. Down with the Peace Agreement! Down with the Class System! Long live the Coalition!’
