The cabbie frowned. His horse shifted and tossed her head. But the drunk hadn’t left. A white-sleeved arm extended out of the darkness, a glinting coin offered up by long elegant fingers.
“Well, if I ain’t a’ Ant’ony Pig! A crown, sir?” The boy’s wariness dissolved as quickly as the snowflakes against the wet cobblestones.
– chapter 1, book 2, Blood Trilogy