‘I – I once told you the priesthood was how I was called to love. But I was wrong.’
He’s looking at me sheepishly, letting sand trail through his fingers.
‘God wouldn’t ask you to make a vow you don’t want to make, Atlas. The priesthood is—’
‘Isnotthe vow I’m talking about.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No.’
Atlas reaches to touch the swallow around my neck and I feel heat creep across my skin.
‘I joined the rebellion because my conscience urged me to, and I told myself it was fine to be breaking the law and shooting Guardians as long as I became a priest after,’ he says. ‘Surely, that was what God had led me to Father David for. But then you came along, Featherswallow. Every time I tried to clear my mind, to pray, you were there. Your smile, the smell of your hair, your infuriatingly stubborn personality. I begged God to letyoube his will for me, to change my vocation. But when I woke up on Eigg after Bletchley Park, you were already gone.
‘And then a letter came from Hollingsworth, detailing the orders for a secret mission and the Plan B that wouldensue if I failed.’ He grimaces. ‘It was cruel of her. She knew I wouldn’t tell you the truth about needing the wyvern Koinamens to win the war, because you’d refuse to ask it of them and then Plan B would be enacted. And she knew I wouldn’t tell Chumana about Plan B, because she would have killed Hollingsworth and the rebel movement would have fallen apart.’ He closes his eyes. ‘There was no way I was going to tellyouabout it, either, in case you turned round and bloody volunteered.’
When he opens his eyes, there’s a depth to them I’ve never seen.
‘I realised, as soon as I saw your name in her letter, and then again at the egg-choosing ceremony, that God had heard my prayer. That my calling was to something – someone – else.’
My heart flutters like a dracovol’s wings. ‘You told me mine was languages,’ I say before he can continue. ‘But you were wrong about that, too.’
‘You’re still a translator, Viv. Just because Cannair was—’
I shake my head. ‘It’s okay,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t think I want to be any more. Some things are only meant to form a small part of us and yet we let them become our entire identity.’
Atlas frowns.
‘Don’t you think?’ I say.
‘I think there are big vocations and small vocations,’ he says. ‘The type we’re meant to dedicate our lives to – like the priesthood for Father David, or fatherhood for Aodahn.’ He hesitates. ‘And the type that is only one piece of a larger puzzle, a job or a state of mind that is the means to a higherend. Maybe you thought translation was the former, when really, it’s the latter.’
I nod.
‘If we’re about to head into another war, then I don’t want to wait, Featherswallow.‘
I meet his gaze. ‘Wait for what?’
‘I don’t have a ring . . .’
I stop breathing.
‘Atlas—’ I begin.
‘You don’t have to answer me yet,’ he says quickly. ‘But I know what I want. And it’s not this, Viv.’ He gestures to the destruction around us. ‘It’s not the priesthood, either. My vocation is you. It’s been you ever since Bletchley Park.’
I want to say yes, want to fall into his arms and whisper it a hundred times into his ear. But I shake my head, my throat dry as I try to find the words.
‘I’m not ready to get married, Atlas,’ I say softly.
His face falls.
‘For years, I convinced myself that my languages were the most important part of me. And then I thought I was the face of the rebellion, thought I was going to win the war through translation. I was vain and naïve and selfish.’
Atlas stares at the sand. I take his hand and kiss it.
‘I don’t know myself,’ I say. ‘I need to figure out who Viv Featherswallow is, and that will take time. I need to learn to like myself, Atlas. For who I am, not what I can do.’
