I raise my eyebrows and try to translate, but I don’t think the wyverns have the same concept offeminineas we do.
‘What is this art that is carried out by females?’ Cindra asks.
Serena lists off her achievements. ‘If you want to learn needlework, embroidery, decoupage, flower-arranging, drawing, oil-painting or the pianoforte, then I’m your girl.’
‘I don’t see many pianofortes around here, do you?’ I tell her, but she watches Cindra with a lazy confidence as Aodahn attempts to relay the information.
‘An artist,’ Abelio says solemnly. ‘There are many among us, but we will gladly learn from this one.’ His gaze flicks to Marquis.
‘Oh, I dunno,’ Marquis says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. ‘I studied dragon anatomy, before. The dragon body and how it works, inside and out.’
‘A healer?’ Abelio ask hopefully.
‘That’s right,’ I reply quickly.
The old wyvern nods.
Aodahn translates Marquis’s job description to him as Abelio stares Gideon down.
‘Human tongues,’ Gideon says. ‘I know five.’
A surprised warble comes from Aodahn, but as I relay the information Abelio shakes his head.
‘We need not know the tongues of man. Only our own tongue, Cannair, matters. On the contrary, it is men who should learn to speak our language, the most superior of—’
‘You would deny us such a resource?’ Cindra hisses to Abelio. ‘Are not all languages linked? This boy could help us learn more about our beautiful Cannair, about its roots.’ She rounds on Gideon. ‘Do you speak Scots? Gaelic?’
‘Scots,’ Gideon tells Aodahn, who is still translating.
Abelio stares at him and his jaw chatters like a cat on a hunt. ‘Very well.’ Then he turns to the other wyverns, who are still watching the spectacle. ‘Our cultural exchange will begin at dawn. But now, the Twilight Meal.’
Several wyverns appear in the entrance to the Amber Court, pulling wooden trolleys attached to the base of their wings by harnesses made of dried, twisted seaweed. On the trolleys are clay pots of all shapes and sizes and Aodahn reaches for one and sets it down in front of us.
‘Gather, eat!’ he tells us, leaning back on his hind legs.
Is it their short front limbs, which serve as arms, that allow the Hebridean Wyverns to act more human than dragon, to read books and weave tweed and serve food? We sit in a circlearound the pot, imitating the wyverns, and I see Aodahn cock his head as he observes the way I cross my legs. Marquis lifts the lift of the pot eagerly, then recoils. It’s full of large chunks of glistening, raw meat, scattered with some sort of green herb. I glance around as the wyverns the next pot over use small stone bowls to scoop out a serving of meat each, then clink their bowls together before burying their snouts in the food.
‘Manners,’ Serena says incredulously. ‘They’re using their manners to consume a bowl of blood.’
‘Oh, I do beg your pardon,’ Aodahn says.
He has a fascinating way of speaking, using sentence structures that could only have been learned from Britannia’s First Class. Where did he get it from?
He returns the lid to the pot, then breathes fire on to the clay. When he removes it again, the meat is cooked and steaming. We scoop it up into bowls and eat. The meat is coated in salty juices, as if the herb used to season it has just been fished from the sea. For a moment there is only the sound of chewing and slurping as we fill our stomachs for the first time in days.
‘Hungry, are you?’ Atlas mutters with a sly smile.
I lower the bowl, feeling myself blush.
‘I was joking, Viv. Don’t stop on my account.’
He slurps so loudly from his bowl that Aodahn looks up in astonishment and I burst into laughter.
‘Do you think it would be rude to go back for more?’
‘Featherswallow, you’ve gone from a comfortable Second Class existence to Bletchley Park to rebel life in London to asecluded island with the boy you thought was dead, but here you are worrying about wyvern social codes.’
I snort.
