Tilly hated the way the bomb shelter smelled—like rancid potatoes and socks. She hated sharing the cramped space with her brothers, who wrestled constantly. But it was better than the alternative, her mum always reminded her. Better than being blood and guts smeared across the road. Her mum told her Blitzkrieg meant “lightning war.” The way the bombs rained down and shook the earth felt more like a thousand volcanoes erupting.

*

A bomb had flattened the school last week, so with no lessons to worry about, Tilly had played in the street with the other children. They’d spent hours collecting bricks and tiles from the debris that littered the neighborhood, fashioning it all into a long, winding dragon. It serpentined along the road, between the smoking ruins, as if it was alive. Tilly was reluctant to leave it when the siren blared, but her mum would give her a good hiding if she took too long.

“See you in a bit, Mavis,” she’d shouted over her shoulder. Every dragon needed a good name, and Mavis was a good one. Her great-grandmother—who’d made it to ninety years old, after eighty years of smoking—had been called Mavis. Tilly had loved watching her tamp tobacco into her pipe and blow smoke rings. Nanny Mavis smelled like sweet hay after a rainstorm.

“She’s a tough old girl,” Tilly’s dad once said. “Made of bricks and mortar.” But she’d had a soft spot for Tilly, plying her with humbugs or slipping her an extra tuppence. She’d tip Tilly a wink, like they were co-conspirators.

Tilly could imagine her rising from the rubble as a dragon, spewing fire on Jerry’s planes.

*

The bombs fell. Each one louder than the one before. Tilly grabbed her mum’s hand as the world shook. She closed her eyes, willing it to stop. But the enemy was relentless. They dropped bomb after bomb. Tilly imagined them as monsters, red eyes searching the darkness. Sniffing through the shadows for people to devour.

“Please,” she whispered.

“It’s alright, love.” Nanny Mavis’s voice drifted by her ear. Tilly looked up, wide-eyed, at her family. *Mum, Dad, Alfie, Edwin.* Of course Nanny Mavis wasn’t there—she’d been dead for a year.

The world went still. Then a roar broke through the silence, rattling the corrugated iron of the shelter. Tilly thought her ears might burst. There was a loud, stuttering whine, as if a hundred engines had stalled; then the explosions began again. But the sound was different this time—it was still of things falling from the sky, but not the excruciating terror of bombs.

Tilly ran to the hatch and pushed it open.

“Tilly!”

“I’ve got to see.” Tilly looked out into the night.

“Close the bloody hatch, Tilly. Jerry’ll see.”

She felt Alfie grab at her foot and kicked it, so he couldn’t get a grip.

“Ow!”

“Sorry.” Tilly squinted. The night beyond the hatch was lit by a bright half moon. A cluster of planes flew overhead. “Shit.” She was about to pull her head back in and close the hatch, when a black shadow twisted across the sky—a giant serpent with wings, snaking through the darkness. The roar echoed again and Tilly watched in wonder as a vortex of flame spewed from its mouth, engulfing the planes in fire.

“Mavis,” whispered Tilly, as the serpent flew through the night. It barreled towards her, swerving at the last minute. The air smelled of newly turned hay in a rain-drenched meadow. And Tilly was sure, as the beast passed, that it tipped her a wink.