‘You’re worth more than just your languages, Viv,’ Atlas says softly. ‘It’s just a job, it’s not who you are.’
‘Vivien, I didn’t choose you for this mission simply because of your linguistic capabilities,’ Hollingsworth snaps. ‘Do you remember when we first met?’
I nod, remembering the meal at home in Fitzrovia beforemy parents were arrested and my life changed forever.
‘That night, I saw a young girl who was unsure of everything she said, who was desperate to please, who, despite her impressive academic achievements, showed a lack of confidence in herself. But just a few hours later you released a criminal dragon from the University of London, convinced her to set fire to Downing Street and negotiated a job for both you and your cousin that would save your entire family. That was when I knew what you were.’
A hot feeling comes over me.
‘And then I saw what you did at Bletchley Park.’
‘Studying the Koinamens for Wyvernmire,’ I whisper, my skin prickling with shame.
‘Not that,’ Hollingsworth replies. ‘Refusing to turn Dr Seymour in when you found out she was a rebel spy. Destroying the loquisonus machine. Trying to save Atlas despite knowing it would surely end with you getting caught. I believe in you, Vivien, not because you are a translator but because you are willing to move heaven and earth to make sure the right side wins this war, to make sure the dragons and the Third Class are free. That is why I made you the Swallow – because I believe in your capacity to succeed.’
‘Sorry to disappoint,’ I mutter.
‘You haven’t disappointed me. I know you still have it in you to convince the wyverns to help us. You possess more of an understanding of languages, of the expectations and emotions they carry, than most, because of the way bilingualism has been part of you since you were born.’
I think of how I speak English with Dad and Bulgarian withMama and a mix of the two with Ursa. How both languages hold different halves of me, how I’m not the same in each one. How, in a way, parts of me are untranslatable, too.
‘You’re the leader of the Human-Dragon Coalition,’ I say quietly. ‘Surely you have another plan, another weapon?’
‘The Koinamens is a language and languageisa weapon,’ Hollingsworth says. ‘I’ve told you that before.’ She sighs. ‘Will you ask the wyverns to help us, Vivien? Will you fight for the rebels, this one last time?’
I want to sayyes. Yes, if you keep the wyverns safe. Yes, if I never have to see Atlas look at me this way again.
‘No.’
Hollingsworth’s mouth sets into a thin line.
‘The wyverns have suffered enough,’ I say. ‘And even if they agree, you’ll never be able to protect them, to hide what their echolocation can do. They’ve taught me more about translation than the Academy ever has and I’m not about to exploit their most precious, intrinsic language for our gain, Dr Hollingsworth. Not even to win this war.’
Slowly, Atlas sinks down into Hollingsworth’s seat. My feet carry me down the stairs and it’s as if my soul has left my body, preceding it out into the cold morning air as the realisation of everything – my failure, Hollingsworth’s corruption, Atlas’s betrayal – sinks deep into the sinew of my very being. It creates a dark cloud of anxiety that sits on my chest, restricting my breathing, as I remember how Hollingsworth let me talk about Atlas as if he was dead, how Atlas kissed me and told me he didn’t see a future without me.
Both have used me.
I let out great, desperate sobs, howling in the dawn the way I did in those months after I thought Atlas had died, how I wanted to howl when I saw him upright and alive.
I lost him and found him only to lose him a second time. And this time, I know there’s no going back.
Atlas King will never kiss me again.
Rain begins to fall. I stare up into the clouds and let it drench me, droplets coursing through my hair, breathing in the petrichor smell of Canna’s water until it seeps into my clothes and chills my bones. And I sob some more for everything I’ve lost. Translation, Atlas and the war.
A shadow swoops across the sky.
I don’t move as the dragon lands. I let her walk towards me, let her tail encircle me, let her giant head touch mine as her hot breath blows down my neck. All I can do is reach up like a child, my fingers finding the grooves of hot scales, my soul finding my body again as both collapse with grief and exhaustion.
Then Chumana wraps her wings around me and flies me into the sunrise.
WE LAND ON SANDAY. IT’S PEACEFUL in the morning light, the tidal island empty except for a huge dragon skin that lies on the grass in front of us.
‘Yours?’ I croak, my throat sore from crying.
‘It was time to be rid of what the Wyvernmire boy did to me in that tent,’ Chumana growls.
I nod, goosebumps rising on my arms. I don’t want to know. I crawl down off her back and stand in the wet grass, my back to Ruth’s tunnel system, staring out to sea.
