She'd walked past a similar statue every day of her adult life. It was a symbol, a thing of power, and supposedly on her side. Her guardian, her angel, a guiding hand. Her father had sat her down in front of it, told her stories. He'd spun it as a vengeful golem, something watching her door every night, making sure only good men entered...or left. She'd been impressed by these stories, as a child, had dreams of it defending her in mythic battles. These nights, she dreamed of other things. Women, alive, bleeding from the eyes, crawling and keening in gardens, watched by broken statues, old and chipped. Her dragon struggled with it, over fields of choking men, workers from Leeds, overexposed, whom her father had taken her to nurse when she was older. The statue shifted to sand, and the sand slipped through the cracks in her fingers.
With a start, she jerked up in bed, pulling her knees close. Bundles of sheets stuck to her skin, plastered on by sweat. Months, it had been, since she had slept well throughout a week.
