Jasper Fforde - Early Riser

‘It might have been me,’ I conceded, ‘but I have no recollection.’

The Dowager Countess took a sip of tea and gathered her thoughts.

‘I don’t want this to escalate to war any more than you do, Mr Fodder, so we’ll accept reparations for our loss – your Novice there, for a ten-year servitude. Agree and the truce is kept as though it were not broken, nor even bruised.’

Fodder took a sip of tea, and they all stared at him, waiting to see what he would say.

‘I came to bargain,’ said Fodder, ‘not to hand over one of ours. We will parley some more.’

‘Then we’ll take the stamp instead,’ she said, ‘the 2d Lloyd-George Mauve.’

‘With the Anglesey cancellation,’ said the same man off to our right.

‘The only one in the world,’ I said, when no one else had chimed in.

‘We have no ownership of the collections,’ said Fodder, ‘you know that.’

‘Then it’s the Novice.’

‘We’ll bargain some more.’

‘No, Mr Fodder, we shall not. It’s the Novice, the stamp, or nothing. And think wisely and fast, my friend, for I’m of a mind to take you as well. Don’t be upsetting a widow on her day of grieving.’

One of the small group drew out a large hunting knife and they all took a step forward, but Fodder simply reached down and pulled a dark cylindrical object the size of a rugby ball from the holdall. It was a Golgotha. Even if they started running now, Fodder could wait ten seconds before pulling the pin and they’d still be shredded. There was a sharp intake of breath from the assembled Villains. A mix of fear, respect and curiosity. Everyone had heard of a Golgotha, but few had seen one detonate. It is said the multiple shock waves are quite lovely to behold as they tumble and spiral outwards like a Romanesco cauliflower.

‘No one moves,’ said Fodder, who had a finger hooked around the detonation pin, ‘or we all go. You get nothing from this, and I get my long-deserved peace.’

‘I so love your style,’ said the Lady Dowager with a chuckle. ‘No fear or compromise. You’d make a fine Villain. We’ll talk some more. What will you be putting on the table, Mr Fodder? And don’t say the 2/6d Dylan Thomas Parcel Post red, because we’ve already got one – in mint condition, too.’

‘The Novice remains free,’ said Fodder, ‘and in return we offer you six gross of Snicker bars, two Favours and a Debt.’

‘A fig for your chocolate and promises,’ said the Lady Dowager. ‘No, you can pull the pin and know that the 15th, 16th and 17th Earls will all take vengeance upon your people from now until the end of time.’

This could be going a lot better than it was.

‘Death suits none of us,’ said Fodder, ‘but we will find a trade. I offer you… a healthy infant.’

Up until that moment most of the eight had been swapping random and irrelevant quotes to one another in Latin but they soon fell quiet as the idea found favour. I could easily see why. The gene pool was narrow in the groups living at the glaciated fringes of Albion, and an injection of genetic variation could mean a huge improvement in their long-term health prospects.

‘I’m listening,’ said the Lady Dowager, ‘but we don’t want any runts. A strong baby, genetically first tier. Make that so and you’ll have the truce you seek, Mr Fodder.’

I couldn’t see how resorting to child theft would be a healthier alternative to offering me up for a decade. Besides, I couldn’t allow it.

‘I’ll take the ten,’ I said. ‘We’ll not be taking anyone out of the Nursitorium.’

The Lady Dowager looked at me and smiled.

‘Your Novice has grit,’ she said, ‘probably make a fine servant.’

‘We offer more than that,’ said Fodder, ignoring me. ‘We offer a first-tier confinement sired by a Farnesworth for you to nurture and love.’

‘Oh yes?’ said the Lady Dowager. ‘And which surrogate will you offer? We won’t be wanting madwoman Jonesy, and Aurora would never let Toccata get past the first nine weeks. The one named Laura Strowger would be admirable, but only when she’s of age. One does not approve of child with child.’

‘No,’ said Fodder, ‘not Jonesy, not Toccata – definitely not Laura. I offer up… myself .’

There was silence, and several of the Villains looked at one another and began to laugh.

‘We aren’t short of seed, we need a healthy plant pot to grow it in. Twenty-four carat as yours might be,’ she added, looking up and down at his impressive physique. ‘Your deal is no deal. Come, pull that pin and let the Winter embrace us all – or hand over the Strowger girl when she’s ready, or the Novice for our dishes. We are all done talking.’

But Fodder didn’t waver for an instant. I stared at him, wondering where he was going with this. He passed me the Golgotha.

‘If anyone tries anything, pull the pin.’

‘Sure,’ I said, and I meant it. Ten years is a long time, and given previous cases of forced domestic service, in reality it meant a lifetime. You’d struggle until your third year, be reconciled to your lot by the fifth. By the end of the eighth you’d be assimilated and by the tenth you’d be loyal through and through, probably with family and responsibilities. Abductees rarely made it back.

‘You’ve a right to view the goods you’re trading for,’ said Fodder, and began to unbutton his jacket.

We were on the road again in five minutes, the Golgotha made safe and in the holdall, the Farnesworths happy, the wax from the signet still warm on the hastily-scribbled agreement.

‘It’s always better to grab the vixen by the tail and broker a peace,’ explained Fodder. ‘The Winter is all about ensuring the most favourable outcome is enjoyed by the majority – but in a good way, of course.’

‘You could have given me up.’

He turned to look at me.

‘No,’ he said, ‘we don’t do that. You’re young and you’re new and confused and need all the help you can get.’

I couldn’t deny it; I think he’d summed me up pretty well.

‘I’m in your debt,’ I said, ‘but you’re going to bear and then give up your child – to Villains. Are you okay with that?’

‘I’m sixth-generation Pool,’ said Fodder. ‘My people haven’t known their biologicals for over two centuries. Villains are hideously class-conscious and English to boot, but good parents – my child will improve the health of their dynasty for generations. The truce gets to hold, and you don’t get to work in the scullery. It’s the Code of the Winter.’

Fodder had my back. It was a good feeling, but carried with it an awesome responsibility. In time, I would have to risk everything for another, and so on, down an unbroken chain of Winter camaraderie for centuries to come, as had been the case for centuries before us. In that moment, I realised what being a Winter Consul was all about, and I knew then that I’d never want to be anything else.

We drove on in silence for a few minutes.

‘Does anyone else know?’ I asked.

‘No one around here, and you’re not going to tell. I’ll take two years’ leave of absence until she’s born. Money will be short but, well, heigh-ho.’

There was another pause.

‘Can I ask why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why you’re something you’re not.’

‘We’re all something we’re not,’ he said. ‘Every one of us is stuck between the person we want to be and the person we can be. And there doesn’t have to be a why. All things have to do is feel right.’

‘I understand,’ I said, ‘and thank you.’

He didn’t need to tell me to keep his secret. I’d carry it to the grave. I spent the rest of the journey thinking about the Farnesworths’ incredulous expressions as they gazed upon Fodder’s naked body, there in the snow and the sun: bold, muscular, athletic, Snowdonian in stature and physically at variance with the gender with which he felt most at home – but with the rare and highly desirable tiger stripes picked out in auburn on his blond winterdown.