Craning his neck, Harry saw Billie and Arthur bobbing along further back, too far away to reach. At least they’re together, he thought. Swinging around, he stared up at another placard. “ISLANDERS, BE GONE.” Then he looked at the people in the crowd. They were shouting, wailing, shaking their fists. Craning his neck again, Harry saw other people gathered at the sides of the street and up on balconies, watching the crowd go by. Their expressions were wary; none of them made any attempt to stop the crowd, and Harry couldn't blame them, feeling the strength and speed of the bodies sweeping him along. He looked back at the faces around him, which were alive with fear, determination, and rage. “What’s going on?” Harry asked the man closest to him. “Haven’t you heard?” the man roared back. “The whole city’s talking about it! Those folk on Fisherman’s Point, they’ve gone too far this time!” “Don’t tell him.
