He smiles. ‘Did you find any tunnels, girl with the golden machine?’
I roll my eyes. ‘No. But Abelio wants nothing to do with the government, or with bringing it down. He’s waiting for us to leave.’
Atlas nods. ‘The wyverns coming to my classes on the Peace Agreement and the rebellion seem nervous to be there. They’re all so intrigued by human-dragon relations, butAbelio is the opposite.’
‘At least you’re doing something. I’m useless here, andIwas supposed to be the one using Cannair to convince the wyverns to join the rebels. Half the time I can’t even understand what they’re saying.’ I can barely keep the bitterness out of my voice. ‘Now I’m here, I’m realising that I’ve barely scratched the surface of the language. Maybe we should leave. I could go back to Hollingsworth and—’
‘What if we use the loquisonus?’
Atlas’s eyes are on the wooden swallow around my neck.
I frown. ‘What for?’
‘You already know the basics of echolocation. It would take a lot less time to learn the wyverns’ Koinamens than to become fluent in Cannair. You’ve done it before, haven’t you?’
When I don’t reply, he continues, ‘You could listen to it to know what they say to each other. Maybe, from that, you could figure out how they can help us.’
I shake my head. ‘That would be spying. And the Koinamens is—’
‘Sacred, I know,’ Atlas says. ‘But this iswarwe’re talking about. And we wouldn’t be hurting the wyverns. When we leave here with them we’ll destroy the machine, like we did with the other two. No one will ever be able to listen to echolocation again.’
I hesitate. ‘A few months ago you would never have suggested such a plan.’
Atlas shrugs his jacket off, a weary frown on his face. But I remember perfectly well what Chumana told me back atBletchley Park – that the Koinamens is a sacred language of dragons that gets more complex depending on the bond, that it’s made up of emotions so strong it can make tiny dragonlings grow inside their eggs. If my work in the glasshouse taught me anything, it’s that the Koinamens is not to be tampered with.
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. What Hollingsworth was thinking. It takes years of study to learn a new language, let alone communicate effectively in it. This task is impossible. Almost as impossible as understanding the deeper meaning of echolocation calls.’
‘But—’
‘No, Atlas.’ I stare at him until he meets my gaze. ‘You know the Koinamens is more than just a set of audible noises. I couldn’t make any use of it even if I wanted to, because I’m not a dragon. And anyone who has told you otherwise—’
Atlas stands up abruptly, his jacket falling from his lap. ‘No one has told me otherwise,’ he says quickly. ‘I’m not stupid.’
I gape at him. ‘I didn’t say you were.’
‘I’ll see you at the Twilight Meal.’
I watch as he leaves the room without a backward glance, my cheeks burning with humiliation. It’s not like Atlas to sulk. My eyes fall to the jacket on the floor, the notebook sticking out of the pocket. I pull it out. It’s bound in marbled leather, with a small pencil tucked into an elastic loop. I open it. I can tell from the printed dates that it’s a diary. One quick look could tell me what’s going on in his head.
The pages are covered in Atlas’s small, untidy handwriting and the sight takes me back to a time when we exchanged secret notes. I glance at the last sentence he has written andmy heart freezes.
This mission is a sin.
An uneasy feeling creeps over me. What mission is he referring to? Finding the wyverns? Why would that be a sin? My heart hammers as I flick through the pages.
What I’m being asked to do goes against my every instinct. And yet I know that its fruits will be good. If I refuse, or fail . . . the consequences don’t bear thinking about.
I jump when I hear clattering in the passageway. I close the diary and slip it back into the pocket of Atlas’s jacket, where a piece of green cloth has been cut away from the lining. Atlas just tried to persuade me against leaving the wyverns, so this can’t be the mission he’s referring to. Dread floods my body. Has he been entrusted with another? And if so, why is he keeping it a secret?
THE WYVERNS ARE IN A CONSTANT state of creative pursuit. They read great piles of English and Gaelic books, sculpt with their curved foretalons and sketch with large pencils carved from tree bark. They sleep curled up together in large groups, hot scale upon hot scale, but the night is for hunting too and sometimes I see a select few drag in puffins and fish and entire sheep. Hunting is the only reason they leave the tunnels. With my loquisonus demonstration complete I wander aimlessly, but the others are much solicited: Serena for her ability to embroider a pretty pattern or sketch scenes from her First Class London upbringing and Atlas for his lectures on the Peace Agreement, the lives of London’s dragons and the Babel Decree. Marquis rarely leaves the healing caves, which the rest of us are not permitted to enter. I am thoroughly bored, fit only to help Gideon and Aodahn with their lists of French verbs and German adjectives, and Atlas with his lectures.
‘Remind me which Babel Decree articles were instated when you were in London with Chumana?’ he asks me.
We’re looking over his notes in the mostly empty Amber Court, the sunlight shining through the orange stones above us in a dappled, golden glow.
‘The last one I heard was the instatement of Slavidraneishá as Britannia’s national dragon tongue,’ I tell him.
He nods, the warm light flickering against his dark skin. He’s serious, business-like in his manner and when he reaches towards me to take the pen from my hand, I lean in to kiss him.
