Rorie dreamt of night, and of the coming of dawn. Of a flush of pink light. Of countless voices in song, singing one word, her name. A song of devotion. A song of love.

Tom dreamt of his mother, withering in a rocking chair, drinking her tea and reading the paper. “Faggots,” she said, and turned to him. “Faggots trying to get married, Thomas. You see how it is?” She waved the paper at him, but he couldn’t make out the words.

Nyx slept heavy and remembered no dreams, and woke sore.