‘Makes no sense,’ she said. ‘To avoid the risks of a no-drug Winter you take on every risk the Winter can throw at you?’

‘Now you mention it,’ I said, ‘it does seem kind of dumb. But at least I’m away from St Granata’s.’

Luckily, Chief Logan chose that moment to walk in the door.

‘Hello, Fran,’ he said, moving forward to greet her with the traditional Winter embrace, then making some reference to ‘sprightly times’ they’d spent together during some Winter I-don’t-know-when in Sector something-or-other. Fran, it appeared, had been part of the established Winter crew on Logan’s first placement. Consuling was a small, close-knit family, tighter than the military, they say. They chatted for a while – reminded each other of the time they were charged by a frost-deranged glyptodon – but it was only a matter of time before he noticed me.

‘Remember my bacon sandwich, Worthing?’ he asked, then, annoyingly and predictably: ‘Where’s Mrs Tiffen?’

‘I  . . . remembered the bacon sandwich,’ I said a bit stupidly, ‘and the tea.’

‘Good of you. And Mrs Tiffen?’

‘She was  . . . stolen. I think she’s going to be farmed.’

Logan gave me a pained expression.

‘You bloody idiot, Worthing. Who took her?’

I explained as quickly as I could what had happened.

‘Terrific,’ said the Chief once I’d finished. ‘You should cross off “babysitting nightwalkers” from the short list of things you can do. Pull your finger out, Worthing, or you’ll be mucking out breedstock for the Winter. Fancy that?’

‘No, sir,’ I said. Looking after the Winter breedstock was a job usually reserved only for convicts and people who were, well, hated.

‘But,’ I added, ‘we have to get her back, right?’

‘No, we do not. Hold fast and think for a moment. We lose a nightwalker and HiberTech are mildly pissed off they lost a Tricksy walker, but really, who’s hurting here?’

‘Mrs Tiffen?’

‘Mrs Tiffen died five years ago. What you lost was something she used to walk around in. She’s gone, it’s done, you screwed up, move on. Let’s get on the train.’

I backed away.

‘No.’

I said it in the manner of a petulant child, and regretted it instantly. Logan stared at me with a quiet, unblinking gaze.

‘What do you reckon, Fran?’ he said. ‘Gross insubordination or the idealism of youth?’

‘Idealism of youth,’ she said. ‘In the Summer it’s perfectly harmless albeit mildly tedious – but in the Winter it’s a killer on a par with hypothermia and the measles.’

Logan moved closer and lowered his voice.