“If a cross between the monstrous winter of George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series and dream-heist film Inception sounds appealing then British author Jasper Fforde’s standalone novel Early Riser is for you. . . . Fforde is wildly innovative in his world-building. . . . The novel builds to a thrilling climax that is worth staying up for.”

—The Straits Times

“[Jasper Fforde] is one of our great comic writers, a man of seemingly boundless imagination.”

—The Scotsman

“Endlessly imaginative and distinctively quirky, this is entertaining fun.”

—Mail on Sunday

PENGUIN BOOKS

EARLY RISER

Jasper Fforde gave up his career in the film industry when his novel The Eyre Affair debuted on The New York Times bestseller list in 2002. He is the author of the Thursday Next series, the Nursery Crimes series, and Shades of Grey. He lives and works in Wales.

Also by Jasper Fforde

The Thursday Next Series

The Eyre Affair

Lost in a Good Book

The Well of Lost Plots

Something Rotten

First Among Sequels

One of Our Thursdays is Missing

The Woman Who Died a Lot

The Nursery Crime Series

The Big Over Easy

The Fourth Bear

Shades of Grey

The Dragonslayer Series

(for young adult readers)

The Last Dragonslayer

The Song of the Quarkbeast

The Eye of Zoltar

Dedication

For

Rhulen Marya Ivy Anna Fforde-Gorringe

Made in Australia but inspired by Wales

. . . and who knows a thing or two about hibernation

Mrs Tiffen could play the bouzouki

‘ . . . Survivability has increased during hibernation since the introduction of Dormitoria, efficient weight-gain regimes and Morphenox, but superstition and fear remain. The Hib is about rest and renewal as much as about dodging the Winter’s worst, and we did our bit to make the oily tar of longsleep seem warm and friendly  . . . ’

– from Seventeen Winters, by Winter Consul Lance Jones

Mrs Tiffen could play the bouzouki. Not well, and only one tune: ‘Help Yourself’ by Tom Jones. She plucked the strings expertly but without emotion while staring blankly out of the train window at the ice and snow. She and I had not exchanged an intelligent word since we first met five hours before, and the reason was readily explained: Mrs Tiffen was dead, and had been for several years.

‘It’s going to be a mild winter,’ said the grey-haired woman sitting opposite Mrs Tiffen and me as the train pulled out of Cardiff Central. ‘Average low of only minus forty is my guess.’

‘Almost balmy,’ I replied, and we both laughed, even though it wasn’t funny, not really, not at all.

After some thought, I had concluded that the woman was most likely an actor, part of the extensive Winter Thespian Tradition. Audiences were small, but highly appreciative. Summer players had to make do with the diluted respect of the many whilst Winter Players commanded the adoration of the few.