THE SKY IS DARK AND FULL OF DRAGONS.
I hurry through the streets of London, my umbrella tilted at an angle not to shield my face from the rain but to hide it. There are almost as many Guardians of Peace on the ground as there are Bulgarian Bolgoriths in the sky. A small mound of rubble blocks my path, left over from one of last week’s attacks. It could have been caused by rebel bombsorby the army of Queen Ignacia, Britannia’s dragon queen. Both groups are locked in their own individual battles with the Prime Minister. But judging by a stone pillar knocked clean off its base by what could only be the swipe of a tail, I’d guess the latter.
As I reach the Tube station, the first rays of sunlight stretch up over the grey buildings, bringing the capital’s night curfew to an end.
Rebellion happens in the shadows, after all.
I climb on to the Underground train, my fake class pass hanging around my neck.
I sit opposite an elderly man in a singed coat. He peers at me from beneath bright posters plastered above the carriage seats. Two women in military dress link arms in front of two buildings – I recognise the white stone of 10 Downing Street and the red brick of the Academy for Draconic Linguistics. They are encircled by a string of words in a looping, feminine font.
Wyvernmire and Hollingsworth United In The Fight Against Rebels
I bury my face in yesterday’s copy of thePimlico Bulletin –a non-partisan newspaper – and am met with another slogan.
‘The Truth for Every Class,’ I mutter under my breath as I scan the headlines.
PM Allies Britannia to Bulgarians
Where is Queen Ignacia? Possible Sightings on Page 3
Western Drake Gutted on Kent Farm: Human Remains Retrieved From Its Second Stomach
I open to the first page and see a black-and-white photo of a familiar manor house.
BLETCHLEY PARK: A NATION’S SECRET?
A lump rises in my throat as I toss the paper to the ground. Memories surge: a gunshot, blood beneath my fingernails, a face crowned with dead leaves. My hand reaches for the wooden swallow around my neck. If Atlas were here now,he’d mock the Prime Minister for thinking she can manipulate Europe’s fiercest dragons to extend her empire. For thinking that Britannia would bow to dragons who had massacred their own human population. If Atlas were here, he’d be slipping into the public houses and coming out with new recruits to the rebel cause, using nothing but his courage and his crooked smile. But he’s not here.
Because he’s dead.
All I can do now is continue what he started at Bletchley Park and help win the war for the Human-Dragon Coalition. Only a skilled linguist can obtain the secret weapon the rebels need.
And if languages can honour Atlas’s memory, then I’ll learn a hundred tongues and more.
The sun has risen as I reach Claridge House, the home of Rita Hollingsworth. She lives in Mayfair, only a few streets away from the Academy for Draconic Linguistics, which she founded at the age of thirty-five. I insert my key in the lock of the servants’ door. A thick, spiked tail trails down the wall above me. It belongs to Clementius, the Western Drake on the roof, one of the few British dragons who hasn’t fled the encroaching Bulgarian presence in London and who is secretly Hollingsworth’s rebel guard.
I head straight for the stairs, counting the yellow diamonds on the patterned carpet as I climb several floors. Hollingsworth insists I travel between my home and hers before the morning rush hour. If anyone were to recognise me, my cover as her visiting niece could be blown. The walls feature portraits of her extended family – pretty cousins and ancient uncles stareout into the quiet house. I hear a scullery maid lighting the fires and a creak from the top floor. I imagine the Chancellor of the Academy for Draconic Linguistics rising from bed, her hair still in rollers.
The image is so ridiculous it makes me snort with laughter.
I open and close the office door softly. The room is vast, with high windows that overlook the street below. A large desk stands beneath a painting of a pair of Sand Dragons basking on a beach, the pearly moonlight captured in delicate brushstrokes. Beside it is an ornate mirror and for a moment I stare at my reflection. My thick hair is cut so short that it only just grazes my collarbone and dark shadows lurk beneath my eyes, making my skin even paler than usual. I tread across the maroon rugs towards the door in the corner, past the desk littered with empty cigarette boxes and books about Bulgarian dragons, one opened to an index page with the wordsblood, blue diamond, Bolgorith. Something catches my eye. A sketch in black pen, half-hidden beneath the Remington typewriter.
It’s me.
And beneath it, a title.
Vivien Featherswallow, Draconic Translator
My fingers linger over the paper, but I don’t touch it, my mind not quite believing it’s real. The depiction is different to the government’s Wanted posters of me, the ones Hollingsworth has collected and burned every day before they can be seen. My face is prettier, my eyes large and doe-like, whereas the Wanted posters depict me with a long, lank braid and a frown. Neither sketch is quite right, each telling a story that is not quite true.
‘For the Coalition newspapers,’ says a voice.
I spin around. Hollingsworth is standing in the doorway, wearing a blue silk dress and a belt embroidered with silver dragons. She looks me up and down like she has done every morning for the last three months, taking in my man’s mackintosh and donated leather brogues, as if she expected me to arrive with a limb missing or my hair aflame. My decision to find my own accommodation rather than live here with her is not one Hollingsworth understands.
‘Morning,’ I say, my face growing hot as I realise she probably thinks I was snooping around her desk. ‘I’m supposed to be undercover. What do you want rebel newspapers printing a sketch of me for?’
She gives me a thin-lipped smile. ‘A rebellion must have a face, must it not? People need to know they’re in good hands.’
