Tamburlaine, Blunderbuss, Scratch: three. Plus himself made four. Four at most. But through his bleary, thousand-ton sleep—for trolls sleep the sleep of stones, and cannot be roused quickly nor safely without serious technical equipment—he counted four lumpy, blurry, splotchy shapes round the cold fire, which adding himself made five, and that in turn made his head hurt and sleep seem deeply preferable to whatever nonsense that other lumpy splotch turned out to be. Scratch sang out in a jazzy, swinging, somehow worried voice: Morning bells are ringin’, morning bells are ringin’ Ding, ding, ding-a-ling dong … Thomas rubbed his heavy fists against his eyes. If he pressed hard enough, perhaps he could punch through his eye sockets and scrub off the back of his brain till it decided to be useful. He felt stiff all over; he could hardly straighten his neck. When he sat up his spine gave several frightful cracks like pebbles rolling down a cobblestone street. “Careful,” Tam called to him.
What do You think about The Boy Who Lost Fairyland?
