The Frances Hoggan, I learned, was the sole Dormitorium in a village to the west of here, and as we headed over, the Sno-Trac making easy work of the deep snow, Fodder explained procedure: all Dormitoria were required to call the Consulate on a designated day.

‘The Hoggan hasn’t checked in for the past three Wednesdays,’ he said, ‘so Winter Best Practice demands that we have a look.’

I followed Fodder’s directions while he described points of interest, of which there were many but all covered in snow, so it was mainly an exercise in imagining what was beneath the large drifts.

The day was quite beautiful, and the trip out to the Hoggan a break from Birgitta and the dream, both of which were dominating my thoughts. Fodder tired of being a tour guide after a half-hour or so and we fell to chatting about the Summer, of which my memory was as fresh as his was hazy. I told him about the warmth, and the breeze, and the harvest, and the freshness of the food. He said that this was the bit he missed the most.

‘I haven’t seen a banana for over six years,’ he said almost dreamily, ‘and I’d give my left foot for a fresh pineapple.’

No one who got cold and dirty in the Winter was ever truly welcome in the Summer. The citizenry didn’t know or care what the Consuls did during the cold to keep them safe, they just wanted to wake alive in the Spring, same as always. For many people, the Winter didn’t really exist except in an abstract sort of way, and by consequence, neither did we.

‘You and Jonesy serve together?’ I asked, recalling that she’d said that she and he ‘went back a ways’.

‘Camp Firebrand,’ said Fodder, ‘second Ottoman campaign.’

‘I heard it was seriously hot out there.’

‘Our real enemy was adequate hydration. We lost more soldiers to desiccation than to enemy action. Bodies out in the sun reduced to less than one per cent moisture in forty-eight hours. You could snap off a Souther’s ear and grind it to dust in your fingers. Jonesy’s lost more comrades than you and I have had hot dinners. It’s what makes her a good Consul, especially out here – not afraid to die, and may even welcome it.’

I slowed down as we entered the village, although to the untrained eye it was simply a series of large, snow-covered lumps. Unlike Talgarth, Llangorse was a ‘sleeper’ town where no one ventured out, and the only overwinterers were the porters.

‘Go through the town and you’ll see the Hoggan. It’s on the lake.’