She lets go of my sleeve and smiles. And the word from my dream and all its translations come hurtling back to me.
Mengkhenyass.
Serpent.
Enemy.
Imposter.
NOW THAT I REMEMBER THE WORD in one dragon language, I recall it in others, too. The translations roll off my tongue as I run, head spinning, towards the dining room.
Faitour. Slangrieger. Izmamnees.
Two Guardians of Peace stand in the foyer, shards of glass from the smashed front door scattered at their feet. The light of the lamps reflects off their visors, which hide their eyes. I skid to a halt as Dad bursts from the dining room.
‘How dare you enter my house—’
More of them come marching through the front door, the glass crunching beneath their heavy boots. They seize Dad by the arms.
‘Let go of him!’
I move towards my father, but Uncle Thomas gets there faster. He throws himself between Dad and the Guardians and I hear a sickening crunch as his foot meets someone’s knee. He twists one of the Guardians in his grip and slams him to the ground.
‘Vivien!’
Mama calls from the doorway. I reach her side at the same time as another Guardian, this one pointing a gun. Ursa is screaming, struggling in Marquis’s grip as she tries to run towards Dad. Marquis flings his free arm in front of Mama and me and stares into the Guardian’s helmet.
‘Don’t hurt them!’ he says. ‘Please.’
I am frozen to the spot, staring at the barrel of the gun now pressed against Marquis’s shoulder. Ursa buries her face into the back of Mama’s skirt as the Guardian lowers his weapon.
‘Helina Featherswallow, John Featherswallow, Thomas Featherswallow,’ he says, ‘you are under arrest on suspicion of civil disobedience.’
Civil disobedience?
There are at least ten Guardians standing in the foyer. Dad and Uncle Thomas are pressed to the ground, their hands cuffed behind their backs. I stare at Mama. She is crying silent tears, her hands stroking the top of Ursa’s head. Why isn’t she explaining that there’s been a terrible mistake?
‘Tell them, Mama,’ I plead. ‘Tell them they have the wrong house.’
Mama’s blue eyes are electric. ‘Take your sister and cousin and get out of London,’ she tells me in Bulgarian. Someone binds her wrists together in front of her. ‘Get as far away as you can.’
My heart plummets.
‘Mama!’ Ursa is stumbling after Mama as two Guardians push her towards the front door, searching her pockets. Out on the street, a line of sleek black motorcars are waiting.Curtains twitch in the windows of the neighbouring houses. The sky is as dark as dragonsmoke.
‘Dad, please tell me what’s happening!’
I barely notice Marquis clinging to Uncle Thomas’s shoulder, shouting at him as the Guardians drag him by the arms. I’m too busy watching my own father being pushed into one of the cars. I get as close as they’ll let me.
‘Dad?’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
He swallows loudly and I reach out to touch his face. He leans forward, his eyes red-rimmed. He smells of wine, but the look he gives me is stone-cold sober.
‘People shouldn’t fear their prime ministers, Vivien,’ he says. ‘Prime ministers should fear their people.’
They push him into the seat and slam the door closed. I stumble backwards, blood rushing in my ears. The cobbled pavement of Fitzroy Square swims in front of me. Somewhere far away, I can hear the banging of fists against glass. A high-pitched cry pierces the air.
‘Come on, dear, let go now.’
