‘Pen?’ he says, looking up at me, his face as pale as sand.
‘Edward,’ I whisper.
I drop down beside him and take his hands.
‘Bolgorith,’ he says shakily, looking down at his missing limb. ‘Beecham had to tourniquet it. I’m lucky it didn’t devour me whole.’
I look at George, who stares at me with glassy eyes.
‘What are you even doing here?’ I turn my head towards Hollingsworth. ‘Have you made a habit of sending untrained soldiers into battle?’
Her eyes narrow. ‘The rebellion accepts any willing volunteer. And we were desperate.’
‘You should have stayed in London, Ed,’ I say miserably. ‘Both of you.’
‘We had to fight for our country,’ George says. ‘Looks like we’re about to die for it.’
‘It was those bloody pamphlets of yours that made me join.’ Edward squeezes my hand. ‘Your name isn’t Pen, is it?’
The pamphlets. My tiny act of rebellion actually moved people to action. I blink back tears.
‘Hyacinth always thought there was more to you than you were letting on.’
A deafening roar comes from outside and horror settles in my stomach. This is it. The battle has barely begun, but we’ve already lost.
Why did we think we could win against Bulgarian Bolgoriths?
‘Where’s the Swallow?’ someone mutters. ‘I thought she was supposed to be leading us.’
Hollingsworth gestures towards me. ‘The Swallow is—’
‘Shut up,’ Atlas snaps at her. ‘Just shut up.’
The cave goes quiet and I see Marquis reel in shock. But Hollingsworth hasn’t so much as flinched. She takes a step forward and gestures to me again.
‘Here is your Swallow,’ she says, her voice steady. ‘For months, she has worked tirelessly to win this war. She has rebelled both in the shadows and in the light, operating undercover in London and on Canna with the Hebridean Wyverns. But heroism is not always met with the victory it deserves. You have heard of the Swallow’s bravery on the radio, seen it brought to life in the lines of her likeness that fill the rebel newspapers. And now you will witness it with your own eyes. For she has chosen to sacrifice herself for her beloved Britannia.’
Atlas’s hand clasps mine as my mouth turns dry. The sketches of me in Hollingsworth’s office, Serena’s radio reports . . . they were all for this. To turn me into a personality.
A martyr.
‘What’s she talking about, Viv?’ Marquis says.
‘The Bolgoriths have agreed to retreat, if they can take the Swallow with them,’ Hollingsworth says.
‘No!’ Marquis cries. He looks from her to me and then at Atlas, his eyes burning with rage. ‘Did you know?’
‘She will be honoured by the Regal Vasil, living a life ofluxury and security in exchange for her blood, which has the power to keep him alive.’
Horrified gasps fill the crowd. Ruth steps out in front of me.
‘You shan’t have her,’ she spits. ‘You and Wyvernmire, you shan’t have any of our kids. We ’ent yours to take.’
‘I am no Wyvernmire,’ Hollingsworth says coldly. ‘I have campaigned to reverse the Canna project for years.Iam the one who sent you those books through the smuggling caves, Ruth, along with the materials for my father’s grave. Canna’s children owe nothing to Britannia, I’ll give you that.’
Ruth scowls.
Hollingsworth’s eyes land on me and I wonder how it has come to this. Back in London, when we were studying the wyverns together, we really thought we were going to win. Her Plan B, despicable as it may be, makes sense. But I know she doesn’t want it any more than I do.
