‘I’m sorry, my lord, but this is not acceptable,’ he said, turning to face me. ‘A direct descendant of Planetary Governor Zanwich shall not abide in such squalor.’

‘I am not a direct descendent–’ I began, but it was too late. Obeying an unseen summons, footmen had already entered and begun stripping the bed linen, despite the fact I was still nestling in the sheets. Strong hands seized my ­shoulders, ushering me to my feet, whilst a servitor attempted to retrieve my case, though it seemed perplexed by how to close the lid.

‘Stylee? What is the meaning of this? Where am I going?’ I protested.

‘Our governor has decreed you be given accommodation better suited to your status,’ he replied, bowing his head. ‘You will be transferred to the penultimate floor, and have the honour of sleeping directly beneath her.’

Governor Dolos was at breakfast when I was ushered into her suite, the bedding still draped across my shoulders as an impromptu toga. She was unmasked, clad only in silken blue robes, and for the first time I saw her face.

She looked young, her skin smooth, lips full. But that meant little. Rejuvenat treatments could extend youth and life for hundreds of years. And though the ravages of time did not show on her skin, some hint of it was carried in the eyes. She could have been older than my grandmother, may the God-Emperor preserve her soul.

She glanced up as I entered, feigning surprise.

‘Kile,’ she said. ‘Please be seated.’

The use of my given name surprised me. Still, it was an order. I lowered myself to the chair opposite, and through bleary eyes marvelled at the décor. The room’s colour palette was heavy on vibrant reds and burnished gold, including the gilded frames which housed numerous paintings. But I had little time to dwell on them, as I could not tear my gaze from the plant holding pride of place at the breakfast table.

It was tall and broad enough to almost obscure my view of Dolos, its leaves a vibrant green flecked with amber, its flowers pink and puckered, like tiny mouths. Each housed dozens of ripe berries. They smelt enticing enough, the skin a polished mauve and flesh an inviting shade of cyan.

It was these upon which Dolos breakfasted, though I was too befuddled to have much appetite. She held no such reservations, gorging herself on the fruit, the juice staining her chin. A footman stood beside her, cloth in hand, masterfully intercepting any droplets that would have stained her robes, as well as plucking fresh berries. I noted he wore chain-link gloves, presumably to protect himself from the plant’s unseen thorns.

‘Mmm,’ she exclaimed, as the footman daubed her chin. ‘Not hungry, Kile?’

‘Not at present, I’ve only just awoken.’

‘Shame, these are a rare delicacy,’ she said, holding up a berry. ‘They inspire the mind, and offer vivid dreams.’

‘Good dreams?’