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For Jane, Eleanor, Matilda and Julia.

In memory of Dobby, a most excellent Chihuahua.

“I ought to say,” explained Pooh as they walked down to the shore of the island, “that it isn’t just an ordinary sort of boat. Sometimes it’s a Boat, and sometimes it’s more of an Accident. It all depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“On whether I’m on the top of it or underneath it.”

—A. A. MILNE

As wonderful as dogs can be, they are famous for missing the point.

—JEAN FERRIS

PROLOGUE

Ben

Once, a long time ago, there was a boy called Ben. He lived in a big, gray orphanage on the edge of a big, gray town, where the orphans ate gray food and wore gray clothes and went barefoot even in winter—which was miserable but also quite lucky, because if Ben had worn shoes, most of the things in this book would probably never have happened.

Every Sunday, the orphans were made to go for a long walk along the canal that ran through the town. And one Sunday, when he was four years old, Ben cut his foot on a piece of glass and it hurt so much that he stopped right in the middle of the towpath and began to cry. Now you might have thought the other orphans would stop for him, but the orphanage had strict rules about being late, and the orphans were scared of getting into trouble. They just carried on walking until Ben was quite alone except for one other orphan.

Sam was eleven years old, tough as the boots he didn’t have, and really couldn’t care less about trouble. In fact, the people who ran the orphanage said that, most of the time, Sam was the trouble.

“Stop crying and show me your foot,” he ordered. Ben, whose awe of Sam was absolute, did as he was told.

“I’m going to pull the glass out,” said Sam. “Are you brave?”

“Yes,” said Ben, then howled at the pain.

Sam grinned, threw away the glass and crouched down so Ben could climb on his back.

“Jump on!”

They came to a bend in the canal. A new narrowboat had arrived, and a man sat in her hold, painting a lion on a wooden pub sign. Sam stopped to watch. Ben slid off his back and hopped to the edge of the water.

The boat was red and green, with her name, Sparrowhawk, painted in gold on a scarlet panel. Above the letters, a bird of prey flew, tough and graceful, orange eyes glinting and blue-gray wings outstretched. Ben reached out to touch it.

“Careful you don’t fall in,” said the man. “What happened to your foot?”