There was no real answer to this, and knowing the dead woman was going to get hungry again pretty soon, I took her with me to the one watering hole still open: Mrs Nesbit’s Traditional Tearooms. At the last count there were eight thousand outlets of the popular eatery across the Northern Fed, with four hundred and six open throughout the Winter. The establishment had a cosy familiarity about it: the logo of the company, here emblazoned bright and proud on the window, was the eponymous and wholly invented character of Mrs Nesbit herself. She had a winning folksy smile, a swirl of grey hair tied up in a bun and was wearing an old-style blouse and red dress beneath a kitchen apron. For reasons of familiarity and convenience – both ruthlessly exploited by NesCorp – it was the default snack bar for almost everyone, irrespective of social class or cultural background.

I walked inside, the bouzouki across my shoulder, the dead woman shambling in front of me, still occupied with trying to lick the peanut butter from the roof of her mouth. Inside the tearooms the air was heavy with the smell of baking, cheap jam and chicory-laced coffee, and predictably, the rooms were not busy. There were only six customers in an establishment big enough for ten times that number.

‘We don’t serve the dead in here.’

The comment came from a woman who I guessed by her almost translucent pallor and two Gold Solstice stars was a long-time Winterer. Most Winter branches of Mrs Nesbit’s were run by burned-out ex-Consuls who would keep the supply of tea and fresh scones uninterrupted until their decades-long sleep deficit finally caught up with them.

‘I’m not asking you to serve her,’ I retorted, ‘I’m asking you to serve me  . . . who will then serve her.’

‘The answer’s no. Her dead body in here over my dead body in here.’

‘Linguistically that was quite  . . . poetic,’ I conceded. ‘A chiasmus, I think?’

‘Closer to polyptoton, my guess. Now why don’t you take the abomination and piss off?’

‘I’m a Winter Consul,’ I said, flashing my badge.

‘My sincere apologies,’ said the proprietress. ‘Piss off  . . . with all due respect.’

She held me in about as much esteem as a nightwalker. Just as I was wondering if I could fit Mrs Tiffen into a left-luggage locker for an hour and whether that was ethical or not, a voice piped up.

‘Is that bouzouki tetrachordo or trichordo?’

It was a man’s voice, low and confident.

‘I have no idea,’ I said, still staring at the proprietress but jabbing a thumb in Mrs Tiffen’s direction, ‘it belongs to her.’

The proprietress grimaced.

‘It’s worse when they’re Tricksy. Like they’re pretending they’re alive.’

‘It’s called Nonsentient Vestigial Memory,’ I said, ‘and they can’t pretend to be anything. But yes, she plays the bouzouki. And quite well, if you’re interested.’