I shake my head. ‘Clawtail – he’s the author of a journalabout the wyverns – never wrote anything about tunnels.’
‘Cormac didn’t mention tunnels, either,’ Serena says.
‘Have you been to Canna House?’ Ruth asks.
I look up.
‘It’s hard to miss – the grandest house on the island. Ransacked a hundred times over, course, but none of the kids here are interested in what you’re looking for.’
‘We haven’t got time to be visiting old houses,’ Serena says through gritted teeth. She looks at me. ‘We should have found the wyverns weeks ago.’
‘They used to study dragons there,’ Ruth says. ‘I’ve seen sketches of wyverns.’
My heart leaps. If people used to study dragons in Canna House, then we might find information about where exactly the wyverns live. Ruth slips across to the far side of the room, to a small alcove.
‘Look,’ she says.
There’s a small hole in the wall, a perfect circle, intentionally made but inconspicuous. Cool air flows through and when I press my eye to it I see the wet beach we crossed to get here. Beyond it is Canna, glowing green beneath a brewing storm cloud.
‘Find the bay where the Guardian boats come in, then the flag with Wyvernmire’s crest,’ Ruth instructs.
I spot the famousWentangled in a wyvern’s tail.
‘Now look up. Do you see it?’
I do.
A tall house nestled between the trees, only a couple of miles from the coastline.
‘Thank you, Ruth.’
Ruth accompanies us back outside. A group of girls are sprawled out on the grass, their noses buried in some very tattered, watermarked books. Every so often one of them sneaks a look towards the boys, who are all watching the cave entrance as they smoke.
‘Jealous that you couldn’t come in?’ Serena smirks.
‘Not exactly,’ Marquis says.
Gideon puffs on his cigarette, his ears red, staring pointedly away from the shrieks coming from the beach below. I peer out at the distant tide. Slender, brown bodies are jumping around in the frothing waves, all delighted shrieks and whipping, wet hair.
‘Are they . . . naked?’ I ask.
‘As the day they were born,’ Atlas says.
His eyes don’t move from the cave.
The girls reach down into the water, then bring their arms over their heads like ballerinas, pulling up nets full of purple, oval-shaped shells.
‘Mussels,’ Ruth says. ‘They’re delic—’
Her eyes fill with horror as she stares at the horizon. Marquis jumps up, reaching for his gun. Down in the water, the girls begin to scream. I follow Ruth’s gaze, scanning the cloudy shoreline until I see it. A silvery shadow on the sea.
MY HEART STOPS.
‘Release the bait!’
The shout comes from further along the cliff line. I see several girls running towards us and behind them, squealing, come a herd of brown pigs. Ruth’s camp surges with movement, books dropping to the ground as the girls rise in a practised choreography.
‘Back to the tunnels!’ Ruth shouts.
