a voice called. Fogged by sleep, I thought: Norrie? Eyes still closed, I listened for the customary sounds of an island morning—the pots clattering, the cockerel crowing, and Norrie’s wide-awake call, “Up now, and no dawdling!” Instead, I heard dogs yapping, and hammers tapping, and hoarse voices hawking wares: “Had-had-haddock!” “Small coal, penny a peake!” And beneath everything, a rumble like a hundred handcarts rolling by. Where on earth was I? London, my sleepy mind said. I was in London with Norrie and Mama, in the narrow garret by the River Thames. Only for the winter, Mama had said, and then we would move out into the country . . . . “Wake up!” The command was sharp as a slap on my cheek. I opened my eyes and saw a boy with hazel eyes looming over me. Memory flooded back: Nat and Penebrygg. Scargrave and the Shadowgrims.
