Between them Clive and Crispin Foster would have made two normal people. One was tall and stick thin, his expensive clothes cut to suit but unable to disguise the scrawniness of his wrists. His brother, on the other hand, was short and corpulent, his waistcoat straining across his stomach as it tried to escape. Their faces, though, left no-one in doubt of their familial relationship, although the fat one wore a scowl. He didn’t rise from his chair next to the roaring fire, but the other stepped forward, his hand out.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said, forced bonhomie oiling his voice. “I’m Clive Foster, and this is my brother, Crispin.”

“Th … thanks,” Hank stammered, wishing he hadn’t worn his long johns as he felt sweat spring out on his forehead.

Clive had noticed. “Yes, it’s rather warm in here, isn’t it? Moggridge, open one of the windows, will you? Just a little. We don’t want a draught.”

“Yes, sir.”

The butler pulled aside one of a heavy set of curtains as Hank and Clive shook hands, and opened the window a crack.

“There, that’s better.” Clive turned to the two women sitting together on a damask-covered couch. “This is my wife, Demelza, and my daughter Cora.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Hank said, having to stop himself from wiping his hand down his pants. The touch of the other man’s hand had been like old paper, dry and brittle. It reminded him of one of the vids he’d watched recently, about a mummified corpse coming back to life. Except that was ridiculous. He shook himself internally, and managed to smile at the two women.

Demelza Foster, a good twenty years younger than her husband, stood up and took his arm. “The pleasure is all mine,” she said, squeezing his bicep in reassurance.

Cora just nodded, muttering something that sounded like “Hi.”

“And these are?” Demelza asked, turning to the others and making her mass of flaming red hair twist in the pale draught from the window. “My, we haven’t had this many people in the house for I don’t know how long.”

Mal steppe