Panting from her efforts to keep pace with the boy, Meg felt suffocated by the buildings that towered over her. Crossing London Bridge was like making one’s way through a tight dark tunnel. During her childhood days in the city, Meg had never liked the bridge with its close-packed houses and shops, the roar of the waterwheels below the arches, the clatter of carts and horses, the constant shouts of wherrymen, dockworkers, and hawkers. How like Armagil Blackwood to choose to dwell in the middle of such noise and chaos. It was no place Meg would have ever wanted to live … or die. A drover urging a small herd of cows to market added to the crush of traffic. Meg managed to snag hold of the sleeve of Tom’s jerkin to keep them from being separated in the crowd. To keep from being trampled, they flattened themselves back against the stone wall of one of the bridge supports. “How—how much farther?” Meg panted. “Not much. Just the last house but one on the Southwark side of the bridge.
