A girl approaches and I recoil in disgust as she drops a pile of dead birds in front of us. ‘Jasper says you lot are to finish the plucking.’
‘Jasper can get lost,’ Marquis mutters.
Gideon pulls a small knife from his pocket and reaches for a bird.
‘Pigeon squabs,’ Atlas says as Gideon begins plucking the beautiful white feathers from the bird’s skin. ‘Full-grown they’re as tough as leather, but the squabs are fat and tender.’
My eyes meet his. ‘Atlas,’ I say. ‘Now would be a good time to tell me what the hell you’re doing here.’
Gideon lets out a snort.
‘And the rest of you, too,’ I say, looking at the others. ‘Why would the rebels send a few teenagers on such a crucial mission? Where’s your coordination team, your supplies, your weapons?’
‘We have guns,’ Serena says defensively. ‘And a radio.’
She gestures to a small radio sticking out of the pack next to her, as well as a transmitter on a wire.
‘How many Bolgoriths do you plan on killing with that?’ I say.
‘It’s for reporting back onyou,’ Serena replies coldly. ‘We’re rebelling via radio these days. Haven’t you heard ofBlighty Against Bolgoriths, the rebel radio programme? They do news reports, entertainment segments, that sort of thing. Hollingsworth thinks it’s good for morale. Some Oxford professor does a segment too, and then there’s me.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Reporting on every movement of the beloved Swallow.’
‘My movement?’
‘Only the superfluous stuff, in case the channel is intercepted. Today, the Swallow is stalking across the Hebridean hills,’ she says mockingly. ‘Today, the Swallow is wearing—’
‘All right, I get it,’ I snap.
‘We’ve been on Canna for three weeks,’ Atlas says. ‘We were briefed by the Coalition to venture further inland, but we’ve spent most of our time trying to survive.’
‘We’ve been taught what the wyverns’ tracks look like, where they’re likely to nest and how to stay alive while we find them, but there’s no sign of them so far,’ Serena says. ‘Please tell me you know more, Featherswallow.’
‘I had a journal,’ I say. ‘With information on the wyverns but . . . I left it in London.’
‘London,’ Marquis repeats, plucking a lighter from Atlas’s breast pocket. ‘What were you doing there?’
‘The Hebridean Wyverns speak a language called Cannair,’ I say, a lump forming in my throat as I think of all the research I left behind. ‘I’ve been learning to speak it. Hollingsworth thinks I can convince them to join the war.’
Marquis sucks the smoke through his teeth. ‘In London. Did you go home?’
Our gazes meet and I catch the longing in his eyes.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I lived in a safehouse.’
I glance at Atlas. His brown eyes are framed with thick lashes that sweep down on to his face.
I take a breath. ‘Why did you let me believe you were dead?’
Marquis shifts awkwardly.
‘We were told,’ Atlas says slowly, ‘that you were on a crucial mission. Hollingsworth gave strict orders for you not to be distracted.’
‘Iwas told your body had been sent back to your mother,’ I say.
The four of them stare at me with stricken faces.
All I can think of is Rita Hollingsworth’s lipsticked, lying mouth.
Philippa appears behind us, holding several deep-fried squabs on sticks. She hands one to me, slick with oil. Suddenly, I’m ravenous. I take a bite, burning my lips as my teeth pull at the succulent, savoury meat and my tongue bursts with flavour.
