‘No one!’ I say into the black visor. ‘I was—’
A siren whirrs – the attack alarm. Any minute now the street will fill with people running to the bomb shelters we used back in the first war. The Guardian pushes me against the wall. Familiar screeches sound in the air.
A Bulgarian patrol is descending.
The archway above us shakes, dust falling on to our heads, and a leg the width of a tree trunk appears in the entrance. The black talons are encrusted with blood and dirt. Slowly, the Western Drake lowers her head until her face is level with us.
I don’t have time to think. I just speak.
‘I tried to save your child,’ I tell her in Wyrmerian. ‘Please, warn my friend that I’m being arrested. She’s a rebel Bolgorith living in the sugar house on Sweet Street. She’ll tell my boss that—’
The Guardian rams his hands over my mouth so hard that I taste blood between my teeth. The ground vibrates as several dragons land and the Western Drake lets out a hiss. Her eye winks once. Then her giant legs move out of view and I hear the whoosh of wings as she launches into the air with a warning cry.
‘What did you say to her?’ the Guardian shouts.
I twist in his grip and bite down on to his hand until he screams.
‘The Bolgoriths will kill her anyway,’ he spits. ‘And her deformed offspring.’
He kicks my legs out from under me and pain radiates through my spine as he cuffs my hands. He pushes me out on to the street, which is teeming with fire engines and Bulgariandragons. The park on Grosvenor Square is on fire, the trees awash with flames that send a greenish smoke spiralling into the air. Opposite, hoses are being used to douse the Academy in water, to prevent it catching alight. My stomach drops. What have I done? One look at my class pass and the Guardian will have Hollingsworth arrested for harbouring a rebel niece. And if he finds out who I really am, it won’t take long to work out that Hollingsworth is with the Coalition, too. Dread fills me as a motorcar slows beside us, clanging noisily as it drives over a drain cover. The Guardian leans inwards to speak to the driver, his hand still tight on my arm. My fingers reach for my class pass beneath my jumper and tug until the delicate chain breaks. Then I toss the whole thing down the drain.
The Guardian wrenches the car door open and pushes me into the back seat.
‘Identification?’ he says, holding out his hand.
‘I have none,’ I say brazenly. ‘I’m a rebel, remember?’
He doesn’t move, and with his visor covering his face it’s impossible to tell what he’s going to do next. Then he slams the door shut. ‘Croydon Airfield,’ he orders.
The car drives through the familiar streets, then past Claridge House. I blink back tears as I stare up at the window of Hollingsworth’s office. She must be wondering where I am. A pair of dragons fly behind distant clouds as we drive further out of London. Soon, the car slows. The driver shows a badge and two sets of military gates open for us.
The airfield is small but full of planes. I see them up close as we cruise past and realise I’ve seen planes like these before. They’re identical to the one we used to escape BletchleyPark, the plane Marquis, Serena and Karim built under Mr Knott’s supervision. And I’m willing to bet they all breathe fire. Marquis would be devastated if he knew.
The car comes to a stop in front of a giant warehouse, patrolled by Guardians and several species of dragons: I spot Western Drakes and a whole group of Ddraig Gochs among the Bulgarian Bolgoriths. These must be the few British dragons that have chosen Wyvernmire over Ignacia, and over the rebels. We step out into the damp air. All I can think of is Chumana, who will expect me home this evening.
More shiny new planes fill the open warehouse on the other side of the airfield, and towering over them are two Bulgarian dragons. The first is low in rank, judging by its lack of jewels. The second is black with a diamond the size of my fist melted into his left shoulder. I feel a pang as I recognise him.
General Goranov.
What is he doing here? I hide my trembling hands in my coat pockets. There is nothing of Chumana’s begrudging gentleness in these dragons. Behind them is a plane that is bigger than the others and maintenance workers climb up and down its steps, preparing for something.
The Guardian who drove me here lifts his visor. ‘Go on, then. Tell them who you work for.’
I blink. ‘Tell who?’
He nods his head in the direction of the dragons and I gape at him. If General Goranov sees me, he’ll recognise me from Bletchley Park. The Guardian’s hand flutters over his gun. Behind us, the gates slam closed.
‘But they’ll kill me,’ I say hoarsely.
The Guardian stares at me, unblinking. I steel myself as I discard my torn satchel and turn towards the dragons. It’s time to be impressive again. Impress the Bulgarian dragons, or die. I begin the walk across the airfield. Goranov’s dark eyes narrow as I approach.
‘Vivien Featherswallow, captured?’ he growls, his accent hard and biting. ‘How?’
‘I was writing pamphlets,’ I reply shakily. ‘About Britannia’s dragon tongues.’
‘Wyvernmire’s little translator. You were part of her feeble attempt at winning the war against her own people. And yet here you are, working to undermine her.’
I force myself to breathe. With my class pass gone, the Guardians won’t be able to connect me to Hollingsworth. She and the rebel movement are safe, for now. But I’m not.
