Welcome to “First Chapters,” Cosmo’s column where we shine a spotlight on debut authors that you're definitely going to be obsessed with. And what better way for you to get to know them and their books than with the first chapter of their new release. This round, we’re highlighting S. F. Williamson’s A Language of Dragons, a sweeping historical fantasy that takes us all the way back to 1920s London and a world where dragons and humans live together. But what happens when their truce is broken? Here’s some more info from our friends at HarperCollins:
In an alternate London in 1923, one girl accidentally breaks the tenuous truce between dragons and humans in this sweeping debut and epic retelling of Bletchley Park steeped in language, class, and forbidden romance. Perfect for teen fans of Fourth Wing and Babel.
Dragons soar through the skies and protests erupt on the streets, but Vivien Featherswallow isn’t worried. She’s going to follow the rules, get a summer internship studying dragon languages, be smart, be sweet, and make sure her little sister never, ever has to risk growing up Third Class. She just has to free one dragon.
By midnight, Viv has started a civil war.
With her parents and cousin arrested and her sister missing, Viv is brought to Bletchley Park as a codebreaker—if she succeeds, she and her family can all go home again. If she doesn’t, they’ll all die.
As Viv begins to discover the secrets of a hidden dragon language, she realizes that the fragile peace treaty that holds human and dragon societies together is corrupt, and the dangerous work Viv is doing could be the thread that unravels it.
While part of the deal is that you have to wait until January 7 to read the full story, that doesn't mean you can't check out a sneak peak of the first chapter below.
An Excerpt From A Language of Dragons
By S. F. Williamson
ONE
I’m dreaming in Draconic again.
The long, intricate sentences come to me more easily in sleep than when I’m awake, and just before I open my eyes, my mind settles on one word.
Mengkhenyass.
What does it mean?
I roll over, the haze of sleep lifting quickly as sunlight streams in through the sash windows. On the floor, tangled in a pile of blankets, my cousin Marquis snores. His father spent the night talking with Mama and Dad again, whispering about strikes and protests and dragonfire. Marquis’s presence on my bedroom floor is becoming a regular occurrence.
The clatter of pots and pans rings from the kitchen below and I swing my legs off the bed as realization settles in my stomach. The Chancellor of the Academy for Draconic Linguistics is coming for dinner. Here in my parents’ house.
Tonight.
I’ve been waiting for this day for weeks—no, months. Dr. Rita Hollingsworth is coming to see Mama to discuss her theory on dragon dialects, but it will be my chance to impress and—I almost don’t dare hope—secure a summer apprenticeship in the Academy’s translation department.
“Marquis!” I throw a cushion at my cousin’s head. “Wake up.”
Marquis grunts into his pillow. “For God’s sake, Viv. I thought we were sleeping in.”
“Too much to do,” I reply. “I have to be at the bookbinder shop by ten.”
I pull on my dressing gown and cross the room to the desk, where my professor’s letter of recommendation lies crisp and smooth. The door opens with a bang and Ursa bursts in, fully dressed. Marquis groans as she tramples over him and presses her rosebud lips to his ear.
“Cousin?” she whispers loudly. “Are you awake?”
“He is now, little bear.” I laugh and open my arms to her. She’s soft and warm and smells of milk and honey. “Where are you going?”
“I can’t tell you,” Ursa replies, her eyes growing wide. “It’s a secret place.”
“A secret place?” Marquis sits up, a devilish grin on his face. “That’s my favorite kind.”
Ursa giggles and lets me untangle her hair, which is caught in the fraying ribbon that holds her class pass.
URSA FEATHERSWALLOW
AGE 5
SECOND CLASS
I turn the ribbon over in my hand and swear.
“Ursa!” I say. “You should have asked Mama to replace this by now. You know not to risk losing your pass.”
I reach for my own pass, strung on a black velvet ribbon, and slip it round my neck. The thought of Ursa being stopped without her class pass fills me with dread. Those two words—Second Class— are the difference between having something and having nothing.
My sister just frowns and points a finger at the wall behind my desk. It’s decorated with paper clippings: sketches by Marquis of the different dragon species, my acceptance letter to the University of London, and a watercolor painting. I brace myself for the question Ursa asks most days.
“Where is Sophie?”
I turn reluctantly toward the painting, trying to ignore the sudden longing that floods through me. My own grinning face stares back at me and, beside it, the face of my dearest, oldest friend.
“I’ve already told you,” I say, cupping Ursa’s face in my hands. “She’s gone away.”
I haven’t seen Sophie since the summer, since she failed the Examination and was demoted to Third Class. In the space of a few weeks, she was forced to give up on our dream of attending university together and move away from her family’s home in Marylebone to a halfway house in a Third Class quarter. I shudder at the memory of results day. Sophie’s weak cry, the way she sank to the ground like a deflating balloon, the grim face of her father as he stooped to read the paper in her hand.
The guilt rises like a tidal wave, knocking the breath from my chest.
“Sophie’s Third Class now, Ursa,” Marquis says, glancing at me nervously.
I rip the painting from the wall.
“Ursa!” Mama’s voice calls up the stairs. “I’m waiting for you, sweetheart.”
Ursa darts from the room without a backward glance, and a few seconds later the front door slams. I drop the painting into the wastepaper bin and pull a lace blouse and trousers from my wardrobe.
“Will you let me dress?” I say to Marquis before he can mention Sophie’s name.
He nods, gathering his belongings, and leaves the room. I let the tears come, hot and inevitable, as I pin up the front of my hair. Then I blink them away angrily. What I did to Sophie is unforgivable, but it’s too late to change things. I made my choice—an ugly, necessary one—and now I have to live with the consequences. My sorrow is nothing compared to what Sophie must feel.
A few moments later, there’s a knock. I open the door and Marquis offers me his arm.
“To the bookbinder?” he says with a cheerful grin.
He’s wearing a camel trench coat and his dark hair is styled to perfection. I loop my arm through his and my anxiety subsides. The day stretches ahead, bringing us closer to the moment I’ll impress Rita Hollingsworth with my portfolio. I feel a rush of anticipation. If tonight goes as planned, I’ll be one step closer to becoming Vivien Featherswallow, Draconic Translator.
Fitzrovia hums with activity and I grip Marquis tightly as he sashays between the street-sellers peddling sweet treats and boxes full of trinkets. Many of them turn to greet him. Marquis, whose effortless charm and wit has brought us all sorts of privileges since we were children, is loved by everyone. A group of bearded men are inspecting a collection of antique books, holding up eyeglasses to admire the gilded edges. The familiar Bulgarian language sounds sweetly in my ears and a row of painted religious icons stare out at me from one of the stalls.
“Rebel Dragons Detained in Durham!” shouts a newspaper vendor. “Is the Peace Agreement in Peril?”
Marquis turns to read the headlines and I snort.
“In peril? It’s been in place for over fifty years. As if a few rebels are going to bring it down.”
The Peace Agreement between Prime Minister Wyvernmire and the British Dragon Queen allows humans and dragons to coexist harmoniously. Without that and the Class System, we’d still have overcrowding, homelessness, and the hunting of humans and dragons. I don’t understand the sudden backlash against it.
“I heard a delicious rumor yesterday,” Marquis says as we cross the street into Marylebone.
I step over a deep fissure in the pavement, the impact of a dragon’s tail left over from the war.
“Hugo Montecue’s current girlfriend said her brother-in-law saw a dragon and a plane in the sky at the same time, flying side by side.”
“That’s a lie. Dragons and planes have their own designated routes to avoid collision,” I recite, opening the door to the bookbinder’s. A bell rings shrilly inside.
“Well,” Marquis begins, “maybe the rebels are finally getting their way. Maybe they’re closer to overturning the Peace Agreement than we think.”
I scoff. “If your friends believe the government is letting the rebels take to the skies, then they’re bigger skrits than I thought.”
“You’re just jealous because Hugo Montecue has a new girl.”
“Oh, shut up,” I say, scowling. “The boy was my ticket to passing mathematics, that’s all. He was a good teacher.”
Marquis smirks. “I bet he was.”
I rummage in my purse for the coins to pay the bookbinder, my cheeks growing warm. My romances—even the insincere ones— must stay as secret as my cousin’s.
“You’re one to talk,” I mutter quietly. “You have as many boyfriends as you do silk scarves.”
The bookbinder hands me the portfolio and I murmur a word of thanks. Beneath the expensive leather cover lie my best translations, and I feel a shiver of pride.
Every act of translation requires sacrifice—it is this harsh truth that made me fall in love. There exists no direct correlation between the words of one language and another, and no translation can be entirely faithful to its original. So, while a person can more or less bridge the gap between languages using words, there is always some deeper meaning left unsaid, a secret invisible to those who only have one language with which to navigate the world.
A translator, on the other hand, is a creature that flies with several pairs of wings.
I slip the portfolio under one arm and follow Marquis out of the shop toward home, passing the University of London on the way. We have been students there for two months already, me having skipped my final year at school to attend early. I love it so much that weekends have become a bore. I’m still jealous that Marquis was permitted to take rooms there, on account of him being male, but I know some universities don’t allow women to attend at all.
You must see the silver lining of the situation, Uncle Thomas told me.
And I do. The University of London, with its sun-kissed campus, spired buildings, and giant library, is everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
Dreams . . . I think about the Draconic word from this morning.
Mengkhenyass.
It’s Komodonese, a dragon tongue not much spoken in Britannia except by the traders traveling to Singapore. Its English translation is on the tip of my tongue, but still I can’t remember.
“Slow down,” Marquis says suddenly.
A crowd of people is marching down one of the roads that snakes out of Fitzrovia. I glance at the sign they walk past as they flood into the square.
CAMDEN TOWN—THIRD CLASS QUARTER
That’s where Sophie’s halfway house is.
“The Peace Agreement is corrupt!” shouts a voice.
The disheveled-looking group is interspersed with men in white uniforms and helmets.
Guardians of Peace.
I reach instinctively for my class pass and sense Marquis do the same.
“Free the Third Class!” a woman shouts at the top of her lungs. She and the people with her are hoisting signs above their heads.
THE HUMAN-DRAGON COALITION OF BRITANNIA DEMANDS REFORM!
DEFEND DEMOCRACY!
GENERAL ELECTION NOW!
I flinch as she’s knocked to the ground and the crowd behind her surges, trampling her.
“Justice for dragons!” screams another voice.
More Guardians appear, all of them holding silver batons, and I jump aside as another group of protesters runs up behind me, one of their signs hitting my cheek. I reach for Marquis’s hand as the two groups merge, spilling farther across the square.
“Come on,” Marquis says, pulling me toward home.
We hurry across the cobbles and a flash catches my eye. A silver baton is raised high, glinting in the sunlight just a few steps away.
“Down with Wyvernmire!”
The air rings with screams as the baton comes down onto the crowd. Blood splatters across my coat and the cover of my portfolio.
“Oh.”
I sway, the stunned noise that escapes my lips immediately silenced by a woman’s shrieking. Then the crowd is seething, growing bigger and moving closer in a mass of cascading bodies. I register the horror on Marquis’s face and run, then stumble as I realize I’m about to step on someone’s head. The girl is lying on the ground, her long hair matted with blood, her eyes dead and staring.
A shot cracks through the air.
“Viv!” Marquis roars.
We break into a sprint. The street-sellers are scattering and Guardian motorcars hurtle down the road toward us. I see home, the tall white house with the blue curtains. I clamber up the steps, tripping as a second shot sounds, followed by a third. I push the key into the lock with shaking hands as Marquis presses urgently against my back.
“I can’t—”
We collapse into the foyer and Marquis slams the front door behind us. I stare, breathless, at my cousin’s ashen face and bloodstained shoes. My heart beats relentlessly inside my chest, and my hair is drenched in sweat.
“What was that?” I say.
“Rebel protesters,” Marquis replies.
The dead girl’s bloodied hair flashes in front of my eyes and I press my hand to my mouth, stomach churning. I’ve always imagined the rebels to be an organized political party with official headquarters, its members angry dragons and armed radicals. Not the men and women I see crossing the square each day. Not teenage girls.
I jump as the front door springs open and Mama bursts through, carrying a wailing Ursa.
“Lock the door,” she says sharply, setting Ursa down. “And keep away from the windows.”
I do as I’m told, exchanging a glance with Marquis as Mama strips Ursa of her coat and boots.
“Bring me your shoes and anything else that has been dirtied, both of you,” Mama says, shrugging off her own coat. “And tend to your sister.”
“Hush, little bear,” I whisper, kneeling down to murmur soothing words in Ursa’s ear.
Marquis gets to his feet and stares stubbornly out the window. A few hours from now, Mama will have erased any trace of our accidental presence at the rebel protest. My clothes will appear in my wardrobe, pressed and pristine, and it will be as if I had never crossed paths with a silver baton or the body of a Third Class girl.
This is why.
The thought strikes me suddenly, steady and reassuring.
This is why I can count the few bad grades I’ve ever received in the line of white scars up my arm.
This is why I let Hugo Montecue slip his hands beneath my dress in exchange for math lessons last year.
This is why I betrayed my best friend.
To pass the Examination. To become a Draconic Translator. To never, ever risk being demoted to Third Class.
Ursa hiccups, stroking the new pale blue ribbon threaded through her class pass.
“Want to play a game?” Marquis says, taking her by the hand.
I wait until they disappear into the parlor before picking up my portfolio off the floor. I wipe the blood from the cover, glad that Mama didn’t see it and make me dispose of it, and wander into the dining room where the table has already been set. This evening’s meal has been entirely orchestrated by Mama, as we’ve never had a maid or a cook. That would leave no money for tutors.
I place the portfolio on the seat of my chair—the dark marks on the cover will easily pass for water stains. It will be enough, won’t it, to make Rita Hollingsworth consider me for the apprenticeship? And with my letters of recommendation and the professional, smiley demeanor I was taught at school, I’ll be as convincing as I was on the day of the Examination. Fruit ripe for the picking, Dad called me that day. I still don’t understand what he meant, but it’s how I see myself now.
I am a bright, ripe fruit: shiny on the surface, but rotten at the core.
The doorbell rings at seven o’clock, just as Mama is placing the last of the flowers in the vase on the table. Wisps of pale hair escape their pins, framing her face, and she gives me an encouraging smile. With my dark curls and freckled skin, I look nothing like her, and that comes as no surprise to me. She is wise, even-tempered, patient. I am fretful, hotheaded, selfish.
Dad plants a kiss on her cheek and pulls out two bottles of wine from behind his back with a flourish.
“I thought we agreed on just one bottle?” Mama says.
“We did,” Dad replies, “but with such a distinguished guest gracing our table, I thought we might need more.”
Uncle Thomas growls from his seat. Dad started drinking during the wait for my Examination results and didn’t stop.
“Give me those,” Uncle Thomas says, taking the bottles of Merlot.
He opens them with a pop and sets them by the fire to breathe. Dad leans closer to Mama, points to her research on the mantelpiece, and whispers, “Don’t lay all your cards on the table straightaway.”
I know enough about Mama’s research to understand that tonight is important. I know that she believes that each dragon tongue contains dialects, branches of a language particular to a group or place. Showing the existence and cultural significance of these dialects, Mama says, will remind our society of just how similar dragons and humans are. But the Academy maintains that dragons are too solitary for their tongues to have spread and developed into anything more.
The dining room is bright and warm, the table set with Mama’s best pink china. Bookshelves and paintings line every wall, and Mina, our fluffy white cat, is asleep on the chaise longue. This is the room my parents stay up in with Uncle Thomas, night after night. At first, I thought they were discussing work, but Uncle Thomas isn’t an anthropologist like Mama and Dad. It’s the rebellion they talk about—that and the threat of another war. I heard snatches of their conversation last night on my way to bed.
The penalty for a coup d’état is death.
“Dr. Hollingsworth,” Mama exclaims. “Welcome to our home!”
We all turn to look at the small silver-haired woman being shown into the room. She has bronzed, weatherworn skin and crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes. She holds a long cigarette holder in one hand and a briefcase in the other. Her fingers glitter with rings and Ursa stares at them greedily.
“Such a delight to be here,” says Dr. Hollingsworth, handing her coat to Marquis.
He raises an eyebrow at me and I glare back, urging him to be polite to the woman who potentially holds the key to my future.
“Are you aware, Dr. and Dr. Featherswallow, of the rebel demonstration that took place this afternoon?” Dr. Hollingsworth says as Dad shows her to her seat. “What a violent disturbance to have outside your home.”
“We were fortunate to have been able to stay safely indoors,” Mama says quickly, shooting me a warning glance. “Dr. Hollings- worth, can I offer you a glass of wine?”
I listen to Rita Hollingsworth talk with my parents over bowls of buttery pierogi, her eyes burning with what I can only describe as brilliance. This is the woman who single-handedly recorded the syntax of three ancient dragon tongues, the chancellor of an institution that has given Dragonese a written form. And here she is, in my house, listening to my mama.
“As you know, Dr. Hollingsworth, dragons have conversed in hundreds of languages for millennia,” Mama says. “And my research shows that their linguistic capabilities stretch even further than that. I believe that small, close-knit groups speak in dialects born from the languages they know. These dialects are clearly distinct from one another, in the same way that the Queen’s English is distinct from, for example, Scouse.”
“Dr. Featherswallow, if dragons spoke in regional dialects, surely we would have heard them.”
“The dialects may not be regional,” Mama replies eagerly. “They could be—”
She falters as Dr. Hollingsworth holds out a palm to signal her to stop talking. I almost choke on my pierogi, and across the table Marquis spits his wine back into the glass.
“You are from Bulgaria, Dr. Featherswallow, are you not?”
“I . . . yes,” Mama replies.
“And you came to England when?”
“In 1865, as an infant.”
“Following the Massacre of Bulgaria, then.” Dr. Hollingsworth sets down her fork. “Did you lose many of your family members to the Bulgarian dragons?”
“Several, including my mother,” Mama says quietly.
It’s all Mama has ever told me about her family. That they fled Bulgaria when the dragon uprising happened, and that only Mama and her father survived. My grandmother perished alongside most of the human population of Bulgaria.
“I must admit that it surprises me that you became a dragon anthropologist, studying the very creatures that caused your family so much suffering,” Dr. Hollingsworth says. “Many of the Bulgarians I know carry herbs they believe will protect them against dragons and have vowed never to trust one again.”
Mama smiles and Dad reaches for her hand.
“Before the Travel Ban, my wife toured the world for her research, Dr. Hollingsworth,” he says. “For every bloodthirsty dragon encountered in Bulgaria, she has met several more who want nothing but peace.”
Dr. Hollingsworth meets Dad’s gaze. “And aren’t we lucky, to have the Peace Agreement to thank for that?”
Dad stiffens and I see Mama press a hand to his back. He pours himself another glass of wine.
“Praise for peace and prosperity!” Mama recites Britannia’s national motto in the same singsong voice she uses to help Ursa memorize her lessons, and Dr. Hollingsworth smiles approvingly.
I lay a hand on the portfolio in my lap, thinking of the Draecksum past participle on page nine. Is now a good time to broach the subject of the apprenticeship? I’m looking to Mama for permission when I realize that Dr. Hollingsworth is staring straight at me.
“Vivien Featherswallow,” she says, “I understand you’re a budding linguist, too?”
My blood burns with a sudden energy and I sit up straighter. This is my chance. I smile the way I’ve been taught.
“I’m reading Dragon Tongues at the University of London,” I say. “It’s my first year.”
“Wonderful,” Dr. Hollingsworth says. “Do you get much practice?”
“Practice?” I say.
“With dragons, dear.”
“Oh . . .”
The question makes sense, but I’ve never given it much thought. Now that I do, I realize I haven’t said more than a few words to a dragon since I was Ursa’s age.
“The last dragon professor was replaced by a human this year, so—”
“How many dragon tongues do you speak?” she asks me in perfect Wyrmerian.
“Six,” I reply in the same language. Then I switch to Komodonese, which I’ve only just started learning. “But I’m not fluent in this last one.”
“Esti tin Drageoir?” she says in Drageoir. “Depuise quantem temps scrutes?”
“As it’s the official dragon tongue in France, I began learning it when I was eight,” I reply with the perfect Drageoir accent I learned from one of my tutors. “It’s among the easier ones, in my opinion.”
Dr. Hollingsworth gives me an amused smile before switching back to English. “And how did you find the Examination? You passed with flying colors, or so I heard.”
I feel my stomach knot at the mention of the Examination, but maintain my own smile. Where did she hear that?
“Vivien worked extremely hard to pass,” Dad says. “Some of her friends were not so lucky.”
Dr. Hollingsworth’s head snaps toward my father.
“You would say luck comes into it, would you, Dr. Featherswallow?”
“Our friend Sophie worked just as hard as Viv did,” Marquis says. “She wasn’t expected to fail.”
The knot in my stomach pulls tight. Being a year older, Marquis took the Examination before Sophie and me. But her demotion hit him hard.
Ursa stabs loudly at her pierogi with her fork.
“And what do you think, Miss Featherswallow?”
I glance nervously at Mama. What does any of this have to do with dragon dialects? All teenagers take the Examination when they turn sixteen. Those who pass remain in their class of birth, except for the Third Class kids, who get promoted to Second Class. Those who fail are demoted by one class, except for the Third Class, who can’t go any lower. It’s been that way since before I was born.
I think about the months of revision, of the university applications, of Hugo Montecue’s wandering hands.
“Failing wasn’t an option for me,” I reply.
That’s why I ruined Sophie’s life.
Dr. Hollingsworth winks at me and I lean back in my seat, surprised. Did I say the right thing? Mama gives me the smallest of nods.
“You speak of luck, Dr. Featherswallow, yet you pay for the best books, the best tutors, the best schools for both your daughters, do you not?”
Not the best, I want to argue. Cheltenham Ladies’ College only accepts First Class girls. But I say nothing. We may have to make a few sacrifices now, but the Featherswallows could be First Class within the next generation.
Dad drains his glass of wine and refills it, his eyes narrowing. It’s like the temperature of the room has suddenly dropped.
“I do more than that, ma’am,” he says. “Vivien was signed up for St. Saviour’s School for Girls before she was even born. Her mother wouldn’t let her sleep at night until she knew her books word for word. She has scars on her arms, inflicted by her own father—” Dad’s voice breaks and Uncle Thomas lets out a loud cough.
My heart seems to freeze. For a second, I can’t bring myself to tear my eyes from Dad’s face. How did we get here? I stare from Marquis to Mama to Dad, who takes another deep glug of wine.
Dr. Hollingsworth is smiling. “The actions of any good father,” she says softly.
“But they wouldn’t be necessary, would they, if—”
Mama snatches the wineglass from Dad as he slurs his words.
“—if my daughters didn’t have the threat of the Third Class hanging over their heads.”
Mama jumps as if scalded and the glass falls from her hand, splattering wine across the wooden floor. It seeps into the cracks and crevices, a flood of crimson. Dr. Hollingsworth stands up. I hold my breath.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she says, pulling her cigarette holder out of her pocket, “I think I’ll retire to the smoking room.”
She picks up her briefcase and leaves the dining room. I turn to Marquis, but he’s staring at Dad with a look of stunned admiration.
“You’ve done it now, John,” Uncle Thomas murmurs.
Mama is shaking, her mouth set in a hard line. Dad leans back in his chair and stares at me, his lips stained purple from the wine. He has tears in his eyes. I’ve never heard him say a word against the way of things before, never heard him express regret for how he raised me. Why has he chosen to do it now, in front of a stranger, and an important one at that? He reaches inside his pocket and pulls out a flask, but Mama hits it from his hand before he can unscrew the top.
“Mama,” Ursa says. “Why are you so cross?”
Mama pinches the bridge of her nose and Uncle Thomas leans over to whisper something in her ear.
What’s got into your dad? Marquis mouths.
Two bottles of wine, I want to say. The flame of excitement I felt has been doused and is replaced by a simmering rage. I glare at my father. My one chance to show Dr. Hollingsworth my translations is lost.
“Can I go to the smoking room?” Ursa pipes up.
Marquis and I look at each other. We don’t have a smoking room.
So where has Rita Hollingsworth gone?
Dad tries to pull Mama into his lap, but she pushes him away.
“I’m sorry, Helina . . . ,” he begins.
I snatch up my portfolio and slip out the door.
The foyer is silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock. Down the hallway is a small sitting room and my parents’ study. Could either of those count as a smoking room? I move quietly toward them, my mind still reeling. What possessed Dad to speak in a way that almost made him sound like he’s against the Class System? The door to the study is ajar and faint lamplight shines through the gap. I rearrange my features into another smile and push the door open.
“I’m sorry for my father’s loose tongue, Dr. Hollingsworth.”
She is sitting at Dad’s desk, a cigarette smoking in the ashtray. Two of the drawers are open. She looks up without so much as flinching.
“Wine makes the best of us argumentative, Vivien,” she says indulgently. She waves a small silver box at me. “Cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke,” I say.
“You will one day if you ever have a career like mine.”
I seize my chance. “Dr. Hollingsworth, would you consider me for your summer apprenticeship program?” I slide my portfolio across the desk. “Here’s all my best work, as well as a letter of recommendation from one of my professors.”
She looks at me thoughtfully, smoke escaping from her mouth and nose.
“Do you wish to become an academic like your parents?”
“No,” I reply. “I want to be a translator. I want to discover new dragon languages. Like you.”
The brilliant light in Rita Hollingsworth’s eyes shines brighter.
“I’ve heard positive things about you,” she says. “You’re exactly the type of student I’m looking to recruit.”
My heart skips a beat. “It would be an honor—”
There’s a loud crash, followed by the sound of breaking glass. I spin round. Has Dad knocked something over? I move toward the door, but Hollingsworth catches me by the sleeve.
“I see a bright future for you, Vivien. But to reach it you may have to look in unexpected places.”
I search her face, trying to understand what she means. Among the powdered wrinkles and red lipstick is a look of knowing. My eyes fall on the telephone. It’s off the hook.
Mama screams.
“Guardians of Peace!” bellows a voice. “You’re under arrest!”
The world slows. I stare at Rita Hollingworth and at the piece of paper she has just pulled from Dad’s desk drawer. Realization drops into my mind with a clunk.
“You didn’t come to hear my mother’s theories, did you?”
She lets go of my sleeve and smiles. And the word from my dream and all its translations come hurtling back to me.
Mengkhenyass.
Serpent.
Enemy.
Imposter.
Copyright © 2025 by Stephanie Williamson. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers. All Rights Reserved.
A Language of Dragons, by S.F. Williamson will be released on January 7, 2025. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
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