‘So you can’t even … kiss?’
I can’t believe I’m asking this. How desperate I must sound. I wish I could take the words back.
‘Not if this is truly what I’m called to,’ Atlas says.
I stare at the dragon egg behind him. We could be kissing beneath it, but instead it’s witnessing the most humiliating moment of my existence.
‘And you truly believe that God’s telling you to be a priest and to never fall in love?’ I blurt without thinking.
‘Of course he wants me to fall in love,’ Atlas says. ‘Just not in that way. We all love in different ways, I’d say. For some, it might be another person. Or it could be teaching, or healing, or art or –’ he nods at me – ‘languages. But for me it’s the priesthood.’
I love languages, but I’ve never thought of them as being awayto love. They’re practical, quantifiable, translatable. Everything love is not.
‘But how can you be sure?’ I say. ‘That this is what you’re called to?’
He brushes his hand through his hair and hesitates.
‘I … I don’t know,’ he says quietly.
I stand up, wishing I’d never asked the question. ‘We should go back. Before they notice we’re missing.’
Atlas nods. He gives me a long, sad look and suddenly I want to be as far away from him as possible. I jump as a loud thump sounds behind me. One of the heavy blackoutcurtains has fallen away from the window.
‘We should put it back up,’ I say. The hallway is gloomy, but the lights of the gas lamps could still be seen from the sky. ‘Help me.’
I climb up on to the windowsill and Atlas holds the curtain up towards me. I find the clip that held it up and reattach it. What if this happens somewhere else in the house? What if the rebels fly over and spot—
I pause. In the courtyard below is a tiny orange light. Someone is out there smoking.
‘Have you done it?’ Atlas asks.
I press my face up against the window. We’re only one storey high and the moonlight is bright. I can make out the shape of a woman wrapped in a fur coat, silver glittering on her fingers as she smokes.
Dr Hollingsworth.
The sight of her fills me with anger. Smoking was the excuse she made to go and rifle through Mama and Dad’s study until she found evidence that could incriminate them.
Evidence that I ensured was burned.
I bet you weren’t expecting that, were you, you old hag?
‘What are you doing?’ Atlas says from behind me.
My mind rushes back to that awful night when we sat eating our pierogi, oblivious to the fact that life as we knew it was about to come to an end.
Dr Featherswallow, if dragons spoke in regional dialects, surely we would have heard them.
And what had Mama said?
The dialects may not be regional. They could be—
Hollingsworth hadn’t let her finish her sentence. I watch the smoke rise up above her head. Mama had been desperate to explain her theory about dragon dialects. So desperate that she had sent her research to the Academy several times, with no response. Hollingsworth must have read that research herself. She knew exactly what Mama was trying to prove, but the government already suspected her of being a rebel. And if the Academy and Wyvernmire were planning to restrict the learning of dragon tongues, then of course they weren’t going to publish Mama’s work.
But if Hollingsworth has a copy of Mama’s research, I could ask her to let me see it. Mama’s study of dragon dialects might help me with my own theory that echolocation contains dialects, too.
Mama could help me crack the code.
I attach the last curtain clip and step backwards. The heel of my shoe meets with thin air and I flail, falling off the windowsill and into Atlas. He grasps me round the waist as the back of my head almost hits his nose and sets me down. We stand there for a moment, his arms wrapped round me, my back against his chest.
