‘Want one?’
‘Yes,’ I mumble.
Edward hands me a cigarette and offers me a light. I place it between my lips the way I’ve seen Hollingsworth do, then inhale. The end of the cigarette glows orange and my lungs fill with smoke. I panic, choking and gasping for breath.
‘Pen, shut up,’ Edward hisses, glancing at the sky.
I muffle another cough with my sleeve, eyes streaming.
‘That’s disgusting,’ I croak.
He plucks the cigarette from my hand and puts it in his mouth so that he’s smoking two.
I wipe my eyes. ‘You’redisgusting.’
‘Thanks.’
I lean back against one of the pillars and close my eyes.
‘Your aunt didn’t tell you, then?’
My eyes snap open. ‘Do you think she knows?’
Edward stares up into the dark clouds and shrugs, the two cigarettes still smoking between his lips. ‘She and Wyvernmire are supposed to be as thick as thieves. It would surprise me if she didn’t know the Prime Minister has instated a Bulgarian dragon as Dragon Chief of State – whatever that’s supposed to mean.’
You don’t know how wrong you are, I want to say.
He looks at me. ‘I thought you were about to teach Stephen a lesson back there.’
I roll my eyes. ‘He’s an ignorant skrit.’ I pause. ‘Do you have the . . . ?’
Edward pats his pocket with a nod, then pulls out a bundle of pamphlets and gives them to me. They’re printed in black ink on creamy paper, unfolding in my hands like a book. Edward and I discovered we had the same disdain for the Babel Decree during a heated debate about dragon family dialects a couple of months ago, but neither of us dared declare it outright until the truth became blatantly obvious.
In Defence of Wyrmerian, the cover of the pamphlet reads.
This is how I rebel. I write the pamphlets defending the importance of the banned dragon tongues, and Edward uses his father’s printing press to produce them. So far we’ve also done Harpentesa, Drageoir and Drogarti – Britannia’s most common Indian dragon tongue – and the Guardians are no closer to figuring out who is responsible for the illegal publications that appear every fortnight.
Here Wyvernmire is banning languages left, right and centre, unaware that they are the very thing her most wanted rebel is using to undo her hard work. This deliciously ironic fact helps me get out of bed in the morning.
If Hollingsworth knew I was risking discovery in this way, she might think twice about making me the face of the rebellion.
‘And are you going to tell me how you’ll be distributing these ones?’ Edward says.
‘No.’ I slip the pamphlets into the waistband of my skirt and close my coat. ‘Will you let Hyacinth know I had to leave early?’
‘You’ve had a bit of a shock. Perhaps it’s best I walk you.’
‘I’ll be fine. Thanks, Ed.’
I hurry back across Pimlico, keeping to the shadows to avoid any Guardians enforcing curfew. Across the street is a Third Class quarter. It’s littered with signs protesting the Babel Decree, covering the exteriors of the houses in such quantities that the Guardians can’t keep on top of taking them down. A few months ago this would have surprised me, as the Third Class have never been permitted to study languages at university level. But now the idea that these people wouldbe uninterested in linguistics or the right to free speech is ludicrous. Second languages, dialects, slang . . . they come naturally to those who inhabit the poorest corners of society, where people take care of each other, where community is made by talking and cultural melting pots give birth to new words in the wink of an eye. The Third Class – discarded by the Empire because they are not educated, wealthy or white – are linguists in their own right.
I turn to walk along the River Thames as a boat horn blares. I look up, just in time to see a huge figure on the path ahead. It’s a Bulgarian dragon, head bent down to talk to the pair of Guardians standing in its shadow. I feel a swoop of dread. I slip into the obscurity of the nearby trees and walk as quietly as I can, studying the dragon in the moonlight. It’s slightly bigger than Chumana, probably male, and a silver crown sits atop its head, peaking down into a triangular shape between its eyes. I’m only half-surprised that the Bulgarian dragons agree to wear such an evident marker of their alliance with Wyvernmire. Their magpie tendencies towards wealth and decoration have clearly won over their disdain for humans.
‘You dare abandon your post?’ the dragon snarls at the Guardians. ‘Only Bolgoriths patrol the streets between here and the South Bank. You should not be here.’
I stop, surprised at his tone. These are Wyvernmire’s Guardians of Peace.
‘We have orders to search this part of Pimlico for rebels,’ one of the Guardians says. ‘A dragon cannot fit inside the houses.’
