Up until that moment most of the eight had been swapping random and irrelevant quotes to one another in Latin but they soon fell quiet as the idea found favour. I could easily see why. The gene pool was narrow in the groups living at the glaciated fringes of Albion, and an injection of genetic variation could mean a huge improvement in their long-term health prospects.

‘I’m listening,’ said the Lady Dowager, ‘but we don’t want any runts. A strong baby, genetically first tier. Make that so and you’ll have the truce you seek, Mr Fodder.’

I couldn’t see how resorting to child theft would be a healthier alternative to offering me up for a decade. Besides, I couldn’t allow it.

‘I’ll take the ten,’ I said. ‘We’ll not be taking anyone out of the Nursitorium.’

The Lady Dowager looked at me and smiled.

‘Your Novice has grit,’ she said, ‘probably make a fine servant.’

‘We offer more than that,’ said Fodder, ignoring me. ‘We offer a first-tier confinement sired by a Farnesworth for you to nurture and love.’

‘Oh yes?’ said the Lady Dowager. ‘And which surrogate will you offer? We won’t be wanting madwoman Jonesy, and Aurora would never let Toccata get past the first nine weeks. The one named Laura Strowger would be admirable, but only when she’s of age. One does not approve of child with child.’

‘No,’ said Fodder, ‘not Jonesy, not Toccata – definitely not Laura. I offer up  . . . myself.’

There was silence, and several of the Villains looked at one another and began to laugh.

‘We aren’t short of seed, we need a healthy plant pot to grow it in. Twenty-four carat as yours might be,’ she added, looking up and down at his impressive physique. ‘Your deal is no deal. Come, pull that pin and let the Winter embrace us all – or hand over the Strowger girl when she’s ready, or the Novice for our dishes. We are all done talking.’

But Fodder didn’t waver for an instant. I stared at him, wondering where he was going with this. He passed me the Golgotha.

‘If anyone tries anything, pull the pin.’

‘Sure,’ I said, and I meant it. Ten years is a long time, and given previous cases of forced domestic service, in reality it meant a lifetime. You’d struggle until your third year, be reconciled to your lot by the fifth. By the end of the eighth you’d be assimilated and by the tenth you’d be loyal through and through, probably with family and responsibilities. Abductees rarely made it back.

‘You’ve a right to view the goods you’re trading for,’ said Fodder, and began to unbutton his jacket.

We were on the road again in five minutes, the Golgotha made safe and in the holdall, the Farnesworths happy, the wax from the signet still warm on the hastily-scribbled agreement.