Hollingsworth has appeared silently in the doorway, her eyes on the journal.
‘Clawtail had a history of campaigning for the recognition of Celtic languages such as Scots, Scottish Gaelic and Norn, and he began doing the same for dragon tongues,’ she continues. ‘He sent his written recordings of Cannair to several universities by dracovol, thinking the wyvern protection would keep him and his family safe, but the government decided that his highlighting of individual heritages was intended to create division and therefore a threat to British unity. They executed him for treason on Canna just as the corrupt Peace Agreement was signed.’
I nod, trying to ignore the creeping feeling of annoyance. She’s already told me all this. Clawtail was the first person ever to study dragon tongues. He was an anomaly.
‘You, with your uncanny ability to learn languages at an impressive speed, can learn Cannair. That’s why you are theface of the rebellion, Vivien. Because you will be the one to go to the wyverns and request an alliance. They are our only hope of winning this war.’
You’ve already told me that, too, I glower silently. And yet here I am, still in London, still ignorant as to why these wyverns are so important.
I cannot send you to the wyverns until the wyverns have been found, Hollingsworth tells me every time I ask why I can’t go to Cannanow.
I can’t wait to be there, to rally the wyverns to the cause and to see Wyvernmire’s face as the rebels bring her and her Bulgarian Bolgoriths down. She’s the reason for the suffering of the Third Class, for the segregation of humans and dragons, for this war that has already killed hundreds.
She’s the reason Atlas is dead.
Hollingsworth hands me a sheet of paper.
It’s my latest translation for the Academy – I do a few each day just in case a wartime inspector ever asks to see Penelope Hollingsworth’s work. It’s a statement in Drageoir sent over from France, condemning Wyvernmire’s alliance with the Bulgarian dragons. Hollingsworth has taken a red pen to it, scratching out and underlining words.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ I say.
‘Your translation is too literal, Vivien.’ She pats her silver, corkscrew coils. ‘You can hardly expect it to be approved.’
‘Too literal?’ I stare at her corrections.
The Dragons of the French Third Republic areincenseddisappointed by the British alliance with theimmoralcontroversial dragons of Bulgaria.
‘But . . . you’ve changed the meaning,’ I say. ‘You’ve mistranslated the statement.’
‘I have interpreted it differently to you, which is a translator’s right.’
I scan her face for a trace of humour, any indication that she might be testing me.
‘It’s a translator’sdutyto translate in context, to give the words the meaning intended by the source language, or at least get as close to it as we can,’ I tell her. ‘The Academy is obligated to translate and publish any communications that come in from foreign dragons.’
‘You forget the Academy is currently being run by Wyvernmire’s government,’ Hollingsworth says sharply. ‘Her definition of duty is not the same as yours.’
I throw the paper down. ‘So you’re going to let this pass?’
‘If I want to maintain my persona, I must,’ Hollingsworth replies.
She walks back to her desk and sits down, her eyes lingering on the sketch of me. ‘Language is a weapon, Vivien. Wyvernmire is using it and you will too, soon. In fact, it may be the last weapon the rebels have.’
‘When are you going to send me to Canna?’ I ask. ‘I’ve learned the wyvern tongue as best I can. Have the rebels found them yet?’
Hollingsworth takes a sip of her tea and grimaces.
‘Cold,’ she mutters.
She rifles through a stack of papers, ignoring my question. I feel my neck flush with anger. Has she forgotten what she told me when she brought me here?Your linguistic capabilitiesare the best chance the Coalition has.
I turn back to the journal. My years of studying, my languages, my translations have all been building up to this. To making contact with the Hebridean Wyverns and saving Britannia. Atlas believed that my languages are a way I’m called to love and Dad once told me that they would save me.
So what is Hollingsworth waiting for?
She expects me to work for the Coalition yet treats me like a child.
My eyes fall on Hyacinth’s note and I wonder if my black skirt and jumper would pass as party clothes.
