‘That’s exactly why the rebels should surrender!’ I say. ‘Alltheyhave are deluded insurgents, a mysterious voice on the radio and a few dragons who somehow think they’re victims of injustice—’ I put up my hand as Atlas opens his mouth to argue. ‘Don’t talk to me about dragon fighting rings,’ I say shrilly. ‘They’re banned in Britanniathanks tothe Peace Agreement.’
‘But dragons are still suffering,’ Atlas says. ‘Industrialisation is pushing them from the landandfrom the skies, their hoards are being taxed and looted and they’re not even considered members of society any more. People either hate dragons, or they’re afraid of them. But before the Peace Agreement the dragons livedamongus. They were academics, politicians, landowners. Now, dragons only work as manual labourers or as punishment for their crimes.’
I slow beneath a tapestry of a wyvern being pulled from the sky by rope-wrangling men below.
‘Britannia – and that means Wyvernmire – is the only place in Europe to have continuously held an alliance with its dragons,’ I say. ‘We’ve always listened to them, negotiated with them … That’s why our Peace Agreement is so famous in the first place. Of course the Prime Minister wants to uphold that, because she wants the best for us—’
‘Northern Irelandandthe Irish Free State both have their own Peace Agreements,’ Atlas says. ‘There’s a reason they don’t want ours.’
I blink and he sighs again.
‘When I was little, my cousins lived in one of East Anglia’s steel-making quarters,’ he says.
I lean against the wall and he comes to a stop beside me, careful not to step on the hem of my dress.
‘They all spoke Harpentesa before they spoke English, just from being around all the dragons who worked in the foundries. Their first language was a dragon tongue, but now they’ll have to resort to English to talk with the dragons.’
I’ve never met a Third Class person who could speak dragon tongue.
A few weeks ago, I would have thought nothing of dragon tongues being banned among the Third Class because they can’t study them at university anyway. Yet Atlas’s Third Class cousins could speak Harpentesa before I even knew what it was. And it’s only now, when the study of dragon tongues is being banned for the Second Class, for people like me, that I care.
‘I travelled once, with the lord I worked for,’ Atlas says. ‘We had special post-Travel Ban permission. We went to a horse show in France, just outside Paris. Our guide was a dragon. He taught me some Drageoir, showed me how to light a fire with a piece of flint and a spark. When we went for breakfast and coffee, he sat on the roof of aboulangerieand ordered a bowl of cognac. And no one batted an eyelid. Tell me that’s not a better world to live in. A world where humans and dragons live together and—’
A door swings open down the hall and a Guardian steps out. My heart stops.
It’s Ralph.
He’s holding his helmet under one arm and I notice a cut across the bridge of his nose. He turns in the opposite direction to us and walks back towards the ballroom. We both stare as his footsteps echo through the hall and he turns a corner. I edge towards the nearest door and feel for the handle. I twist it, grab Atlas by the back of his jacket and pull him inside.
‘I bet he’s furious he wasn’t invited to the ball,’ Atlas smirks as I close the door as quietly as I can.
We’re standing at the bottom of a narrow staircase. I follow Atlas up it into another hallway, with tall windows covered in blackout curtains. Lines of white statues stand on slabs of stone on either side and miniature marble dragon heads stare out from the windowsills. I’m still thinking of the cognac-drinking dragon.
‘Say, Featherswallow?’ he says.
I peer at a statue of two amorous dragons, their bodies entwined. ‘Hmm?’
‘I got your last note … and I left my reply.’
He looks at me through his eyelashes and I feel my body warm.
‘I’ll be sure to read it, then.’
‘In the meantime, can I give you something else?’
The solemn look on his face makes me grin.
‘What sort of something?’ I tease.
He opens his palm. A tiny wooden swallow sits at the centre of it, hanging from a plaited ribbon. Two metal clasps are attached at either end. I suddenly remember him whittling a piece of wood in the common room.
‘I … did you make this?’
Atlas nods. ‘May I?’
I turn round, lifting my hair, as Atlas fastens the ribbon round my neck. The swallow sits at the same level as my class pass used to, except it’s so small it drops between my breasts, hidden from view.
‘To remind you ofwhoyou are,’ Atlas whispers in my ear.
