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in, unable to see any farther than the next corner or beyond the rows of shops that stood like soldiers, shoulder to shoulder, blocking any view of what might lie behind.
    â€œThat’s the funny thing about sisters, ain’t it,” the driver continued. “Some can’t stand the sight of each other and some can’t bear to be apart.” He chuckled to himself. “Strange things, families, eh?”
    Tilly stared blankly ahead. “Yes. I suppose they are.”
    They both fell silent again as the motorcar weaved down a series of dark, narrow side streets. Tilly thought about the two sisters. She thought of Esther; saw her perfect porcelain face through the cottage window, her sea-green eyes staring directlyinto Tilly’s and yet looking past her, through her. It was unnerving the way she did that, as if she were peering into another world, as if it were her eyes that had failed her, not her legs.
    â€œThat were just before Mr. Shaw took her to the orphanage in Clacton,” the driver continued as the cab emerged onto a larger road again. “Spent her childhood down there and come back to work in the Crippleage to make the flowers when she was old enough.”
    â€œAnd what happened to her then?”
    â€œNot sure, to be honest, Miss. Think she spent the rest of her days making the flowers. That was all. Seemed to be the only thing she cared about. Died there some years ago, as far as I remember. They say she never got over losing her little sister.”
    Tilly was unnerved by his revelations that someone had died at the house she would soon call home. “What a sad story,” she said.
    â€œMost of ’em are, though, Miss, ain’t they? Any worth the tellin’.” He had to stop talking as a dramatic coughing fit gripped him. Tilly instinctively put her hand to her mouth. She’d heard how easily disease was spread in London.
    â€œAt least the elder sister was taken in somewhere safe.”
    The driver nodded. “I suppose so.” Recovering himself, he continued. “Does a wonderful thing, Mr. Shaw. Like a living saint he is, giving all them poor girls a home to live in and an occupation. Still,” he added, lowering his voice a little, “you’d feel sorry for ’em, wouldn’t you?”
    â€œFor who?” Tilly held her hand over her mouth and nose as a nauseating stench of sulfur, rotting fish, and manure filled the cab.
    â€œWell. You know. People like them .” He lowered his voice further so that Tilly had to strain to hear him above the noise outside. “The blind and the cripples. Can’t think of nothin’ worsethan not being able to walk or see. Think I’d rather die than live like that. Need your wits about you in London, Miss—’specially round St. Giles or Spitalfields—riddled with disease and criminals. The houses there ain’t fit for the rats to live in, and it’s certainly not safe to walk about alone. It’d make your eyes water, Miss, if you saw how some people live. Well, let’s hope you never need to be visiting them parts of the city, eh!”
    Tilly pulled her coat closer around her as the motor cab bumped over cobbles, jolting her from side to side. She looked again at the fog that clung around the chimney tops, casting everything into a haunting half-light and giving the impression of evening time. How was she, a naïve blacksmith’s daughter from the country, ever going to manage in this sprawling, dangerous metropolis? The London she’d read about in stories and seen depicted in the newspaper reports commemorating the King’s coronation last summer bore no resemblance at all to the gray misery of Farringdon Road. There were no tree-lined malls here, no grand parks, no majestic statues or shimmering fountains. All she could see was poverty, slum housing, and the remnants of another busy day in the markets. Life was cruel for the people who lived