This is the moment when my plan could go pear-shaped and land me in deep trouble. My eyes on the ground, I pull off my cap, doing my best to act like a servant.

“Excuse me, sir, I’m the new boy.”

“I wasn’t told about any new boy.”

“One of the officers, sir, they told me to come.”

The man says nothing, and I risk a glance at him. He’s rubbing at his thick swatch of hair. His arms are muscled, tanned and covered in a pelt of dark hair. He’s an older Cerel man, and I’m surprised to see he’s about the same age as my father. How has he avoided the wild camps? At least he’s not a Travester worker, who are naturally suspicious, and that gives me hope.

“They didn’t say anything …” the man mutters. “Though it’s true I’ve been asking for a boy,” he admits, eyeing me.

Thank the gods! Hastily I drop my gaze again, so he won’t see the spark in my eyes. I’d been gambling on something like this – the need for extra help in such a big garden. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? That I get sent on my way with a clip round the ears?

The man is still looking me up and down. “Where did they find you?”

Damn, I haven’t worked out that part of the story. “My mother,” I say quickly, sweating, “she works at the House of Law.”

“A Cerel?” he asks suspiciously.

“C-cleaning the toilets, sir.”

“Ah.” The man sighs. “That’d be right.”

Hearing his sympathetic tone, I find myself breathing more easily.

“What’ve you got there?” the man asks, taking hold of the hoe and examining it. “You won’t need this here. We have plenty of tools.” He gives it back to me. “But what d’you know about plants? I can’t have just anybody working in the Director’s garden.”

Right, here’s the real test. There’s still a chance I could mess up, yet I’ve come this far and that gives me the confidence to look around the kitchen garden with some kind of knowledge. It’s enormous, like everything else here. I point at one of the rows. “Peppers … they like plenty of compost. Sometimes they’ll get aphids, but you can use a garlic spray, or grow garlic nearby.”

The man’s silence inspires me to take a step forwards.

“And there’s your garlic,” I point at another row. “When it’s the longest day, it’ll be ready to harvest.” Another step takes me to the onions. “These need good weeding. They don’t like the competition. And there’s your leeks. Carrots, fennel, potatoes …”

Glancing at the man, I risk a question. “No turnips?”