Mother Fallopia was with Logan in her study, a small, austere chamber that smelled of furniture polish, coffee and photocopier toner. The room had a large wooden desk in the centre, but otherwise comprised mostly filing cabinets and pictures of infants on the walls. It was always unnerving being in here, and not just because of Mother Fallopia and her piercing ‘what-have-you-done-to-deserve-existence’ look: all the pictures were of the nameless children that didn’t make it past their first Winter, and the ones with names who didn’t make it past any subsequent. We couldn’t ever figure out if the images were for remembrance, an invitation for the sisters to breed better, or because Mother Fallopia just liked pictures of kids and didn’t care one way or another.

‘You have a message?’ asked Mother Fallopia.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I heard the Winter Consul interviews were open to all.’

‘You already have a job,’ said Mother in a voice like galvanised pipes, ‘you don’t need another, and believe me, you wouldn’t last ten minutes as a Consul.’

I have to admit that I felt an overwhelming desire to apologise profusely and then sneak out, but to my credit, didn’t.

‘Charlie Worthing,’ I said in a shaky voice. ‘I’d like to be considered for the post.’

‘Let’s move on,’ said Mother, ‘we’re wasting time here.’

‘No, Prudence,’ said Logan, the first time I’d ever heard Mother Fallopia contradicted or someone use her first name, ‘we’ll see anyone who wants to be seen.’

He turned to me.

‘The usual selection process is exhaustive,’ he explained, ‘but not perfect. I like to find the hidden gems the preselection process has missed. I’ve seen you about, Worthing, you one of mine?’

‘No, sir. I’m a  . . . surrogacy that turned out wrong.’

‘On account of your head?’

‘Yes, on account of my head. I was transferred to St Granata’s with half of the insurance payout. The rest went to my bios as compensation.’

‘Worthing is an insurance write-off,’ said Mother Fallopia, ‘and one that is still paying off our kindness.’

‘I disagree,’ said Logan. ‘You were a write-off. Right now you’re a candidate for the Winter Consulship. Each on their merits.’

I liked Logan instantly, and all of a sudden would do anything to work with him, Morphenox or not. He asked me if I saw myself being a career House Manager here at St Granata’s.

‘No, sir,’ I said, now sitting more upright in my chair and ignoring Fallopia’s hot gaze, ‘I recently applied to join the Winter Prudential.’

‘And?’

‘Rejected.’

‘Reason?’

‘Interference  . . . by a third party.’

I looked at Mother Fallopia as I said it, and she looked away. Logan followed my gaze, and probably guessed what had happened.

‘Not necessarily an issue,’ he said. ‘Qualifications?’

‘I can read and write to level 4A,’ I said, ‘first aid trained, one hundred yards in 14.2, drive, swim and play the tuba.’