I don’t wait for a reply. I grab my coat and shrug it on as I walk back to the manor. I find a bathroom, splash my face with cold water and pull my collar down. My neck is a bluish-purple, with half-moon nail marks tracked across the skin. Will Gideon try to kill me again?
I wander through the corridors, walking in circles as last night’s events flash through my mind. What if I crack the code and win my category, but Marquis loses his? The thought fills me with dread. Is there no way to convince Wyvernmire to let us all go home, as long as we give her what she wants?
‘Featherswallow!’
I spin round. Atlas’s head is poking out from a doorway beneath the staircase.
‘Why aren’t you on shift?’ he hisses across the entrance hall.
‘I stepped out,’ I say. ‘The atmosphere in the glasshouse is … strained.’
‘I wonder why,’ he replies darkly.
He gestures to me and I glance around for any Guardians before crossing the hall and slipping through the door beside him. We’re standing at the top of a narrow staircase that leads down into a poorly lit basement.
‘Dodie and Dr Lumens are on a field trip,’ Atlas says. ‘He can only take us out separately now.’
The air is stiflingly hot and sweat beads down his forehead.
‘Look,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there last night when Gideon – when you—’
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference if you were.’ I smile. ‘Are you going to tell me what you were doing?’
He takes my hand and leads me down the stairs without a reply. The basement is huge, even bigger than the ballroom, and sectioned into different areas by the type of screens used for office cubicles. A metallic smell hits me, so strong I can almost taste it.
‘Gideon told Ravensloe that I have rebel leanings,’ I sayas I stare around at the mess of old books and scattered paperwork.
‘You? Rebel leanings?’ Atlas snorts. ‘You’re the biggest rule-follower I know.’
‘Says the boy who won’t even kiss a girl because of somerule.’
He falls silent and I bite my tongue. Why did I have to bring up that humiliating incident again?
‘What do you do down here?’ I ask. ‘And why is it so bloody warm?’
The different sections run all the way to the other side of the room. I walk down the aisle between them, peering round each screen. Some cubicles are filled with desks and books, others with glass cases full of artefacts – a fossil, a large yellow canine and something that looks suspiciously like dragon dung. One has a cabinet filled with row upon row of tiny wooden drawers, each with strange labels likeMarigold balm – use for burns.There’s a box next to it with several tiny wooden dragons poking out of the top. I recognise the craftsmanship immediately, my hand rising to touch the swallow beneath my shirt.
‘Where did you learn carpentry?’ I ask Atlas as he follows me down the aisle.
‘My dad taught me before he died.’
‘I’m sorry.’
I pick up a dragon and pretend to study it closely, in case he needs time to compose himself. But when I turn to face him again he’s looking at me intently.
‘You’re holding that little piece of wood in your handalmost as lovingly as you do all those books you read.’
‘I’m admiring a miniature masterpiece!’ I retort.
Atlas smiles. ‘So am I.’
The air is suddenly so hot I can barely breathe. I put the dragon down.
‘Don’t say things like that,’ I say bluntly. ‘Not if you can’t act on them.’
His eyes drop to the floor. ‘You’re right. Sorry.’
I keep walking. As I near the opposite side of the room, the metallic smell gets stronger.
