Atlas hesitates, his brown eyes searching mine. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, go on, King,’ I say, folding my arms. ‘I’m listening.’
‘You know I’ve always thought that priesthood is my vocation. The thing I’m called to?’
I nod.
‘Well, sometimes I wonder if I’m drawn to it so much because it’s a way of hiding away – with my books and my prayers – and of loving quietly. Priests say Mass, counsel people, pray for them. They get to be good without necessarily being called to anything dangerous, like, say, soldiers are. Being sent to Bletchley Park ripped me away from that quietness, forced me into the rebellion in a new way, no longer on the sidelines but in the middle of the battle.’ He swallows. ‘And then I met you. And no amount of prayer could help me work out what that meant. Now, I can’t imagine going back to seminarian school, or staying a rebel soldier.’
‘No?’ I breathe.
‘No,’ he replies. ‘Every future I imagine, Viv, is with you.’
We’re still kneeling among the rockpools when he kisses me. I sink against the cliff face as he leans in, my fists full ofsand. His hands cup either side of my face and his mouth trails fiery kisses from my lips to my neck and back again. He tastes of salt and tobacco.
‘Vocare,’ I whisper.
‘Hmm?’ Atlas murmurs against my mouth.
‘Vocation is from the Latinvocare. Andvocaredoesn’t just meancalling, Atlas. It means todesignate. Tochoose.’
He nods. ‘It means I can decide. I realised that down in the tunnels. Aodahn’s egg was his because hechoseit, and God wants me to choose my vocation. It’s—’
A spine-tingling roar erupts from the tent. We jump apart.
‘I have to go,’ I say, scrambling to my feet. I brush the sand from my trousers. ‘When you cut out the detonator, whatever you do, do not drop it.’
Atlas rubs his rosy face and gives me a hurried nod. I take one more look at him, at his glistening lips and the swallow on his arm, then step out on to the sand. Ralph drops his helmet when he sees me. He blinks and scans the beach.
‘I’m alone,’ I say.
His eyes narrow suspiciously. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘The rebels have lost,’ I reply. ‘Wyvernmire has seized London and soon the Bulgarian dragons will discard her to take the rest of the country, just like you said they would. So I’m here to make the best of the situation. To help you listen to Goranov using the loquisonus machine, in exchange for a place in the new world. I’d rather see my family enslaved than dead.’
A smile spreads across Ralph’s lips. ‘You said echolocation was untranslatable.’
‘It is. But you don’t always need to translate a language tounderstand it. Sometimes, you just need a few lessons from the source. And I happen to be friends with a Bulgarian dragon.’
Ralph’s smirk grows wider. ‘Where’s the machine?’
‘I’ve hidden it,’ I reply. ‘I’ll go and get it, if you promise to let me go once you have the information you need.’
Guardian voices sound from the other side of the tent. Ralph pulls the flap of the tent open for me. ‘Inside, quickly.’
I hesitate. This wasn’t part of the plan, but I don’t dare glance back at where Atlas is hiding. Instead, I step inside. The light is disorienting, extending in great, blinding beams from giant, battery-powered torches that only a ship could have brought in. Ralph follows me in as my eyes adjust. The tent’s sides rise up to a singular point, like a teepee or a circus tent, and thick, metal chains dangle down from the top.
I blink, trying to comprehend what I’m seeing. Ralph steps in behind me and I feel his hand land assuredly on the small of my back. The hairs on my neck rise as his lips brush against my ear.
‘Say hello to your friend.’
I sway, nausea rising in my stomach.
Caught in the chains, her wings stretched out like a crucifixion, is Chumana.
THE TENT IS SILENT EXCEPT FOR the sound of the waves and my own sobs. I stare up at Chumana, bound to the iron structure of the tent, her tail dangling lifelessly behind her. Blood drips from her face, a steady plink that sets my teeth on edge.
‘Is she dead?’ I whisper.
