I ran straight up the winding staircase to my bedroom. So far my night off had been a nightmare, but it wasn’t over yet. There was one person who would try to help me if what the goblin prince said was true. I had to get changed and haul my arse to a party in Curzon Street before sunrise in order to find him.

I had several decent gowns in the walk-in off my bedroom. I had to – Queen V didn’t like what most of us considered fashion, so at fancy aristo functions the Royal Guard and the Peerage Protectorate had to dress to code, females in gowns and men in black tails. Sometimes it was a bit of fun, but other times – like now – it was an exercise in frustration. It wasn’t that the aristocracy fought progress; just that time moved so slowly for them, it took change longer to take hold. They clung to that which was familiar.

I grabbed the easiest to get into – a pewter-coloured silk with tiny sleeves and long concealed slits on either side of the skirt in case I needed to move quickly or fight.

My shower took exactly four minutes, including waiting for the water to get hot. I didn’t have time to wash my bright red hair, so I dusted it with shampoo powder, gave it a bit of a back-comb and twisted it up on to the top of my head.

The hair thing was often copied by humans looking to emulate halvies, but wigs and dye couldn’t quite get the same shine. Aristocrats had gorgeous hair – thick and rich, with extraordinary highlights due to the plague’s mutation of the pigmentations that determined hair colour. The only way I can describe it is to say that the plague seemed to make everything “more”. With halvies, this pigmentation was often sent into overdrive by our unique maternal genetics. It didn’t happen in all halvies, but the brighter colours were something of a status symbol amongst our kind. My colour, the same red as Christmas barley candy, was highly unusual.

Clean undies and a fresh corset that hooked up the front went on as quickly as I could manage, followed by stockings, boots and then the gown. I was still fiddling with the zip on the side as I raced back downstairs. I had to get to Curzon Street. I had to find Church.

It was quarter past three in the morning. Most aristo functions ended around four to give everyone time to get home and into their dark chambers before the sun rose, so that gave me forty-five minutes. Luckily, my destination was less than a mile away.