‘The Consul recruitment office doesn’t shout about that part of the work; it puts people off, although given the horrors of the Winter, it’s the least of one’s worries. I like to see our Winter Easement work as an invaluable aid to the well-being of the Wintering community. And just so you know,’ she continued, ‘“drowsy” is not really an appropriate term. It demeans the noble profession. Sleepmaiden or Sleepmaster is better, or if you’re into your French, Dormiselle and Dormonsieur. Actually, even Sleepworker is more acceptable. Is it true you killed Lucky Ned?’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘Lloyd.’

Perhaps telling him all about it might not have been such a good idea.

‘I think the Winter took Ned,’ I said.

She put her head on one side and stared at me for a few moments.

‘The Winter takes a lot from everyone, and only ever returns meltwater and bodies.’

I mused on what she had said.

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘The first is free, the second on account – the third, you pay cash.’

‘You’re living in the Siddons,’ I said. ‘Are you having any recurring dreams?’

She was about to take a sip of her coffee, but then stopped and raised an eyebrow.

‘You mean the blue Buick dream that’s blowing around the ninth floor like an unwelcome fart?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘precisely that sort of dream.’

She leaned forward.

‘I live on the nineteenth floor – half of it, actually, sort of a penthouse – so I haven’t had the dream, but I’ve heard all the details. And I know precisely how Mrs Nesbit got to be in it. I can sell you that information.’

‘She’s there because dreamers were told she’s in it,’ I said. ‘The blue Buick, oak trees, hands, boulders, Mrs Nesbit. The dream was seeded by incautious gossip.’

She leaned forward and lowered her voice.

‘Shimmery, was she? Looked as though she didn’t belong there? Words and lip movements out of sync?’

‘Look,’ I said, now used to the reverse nature of my dream memory, ‘I’m a touch narced and my memory is rebuilding retrospectively. All that stuff is in the dream because you said it just then.’

She frowned at me.

‘I’ve never heard of that happening.’

‘It’s like being in a permanent state of déjà vu.’

Zsazsa looked around to make sure we were alone. Fodder was on the other side of the room and Lloyd nowhere to be seen.

‘Do you have a pen and paper?’

I nodded and laid them on the table.

‘The Mrs Nesbit in the dream, she said something, as she did to all the others. A sentence, a test line, a quote. We’re both going to write it down. Okay?’

I agreed as there was nothing to lose, and wrote: ‘We know of a remote farm in Lincolnshire where Mrs Buckley lives.’