John Hamilton twisted out of his bedcovers, wondering for a moment if Whitehall was under attack. The knocking began again; this time in earnest. “Your Lordship! Wake up! There’s someone here to see you.” As his heartbeat returned to normal, John began to put his clothes on over his thermal underwear. Outside the big cities, where they had energy to burn (but for how much longer?), nobody in the hinterlands went to bed without their long johns. Even now, late in an equatorial summer, it was cold enough in the chamber to set his teeth to chattering. The knocking resumed. “Just a minute!” he called out, as he pulled on his trousers. He opened the door to see James Dunn, the castle Warden—another term that no longer felt archaic or strange on his tongue. “What is it, James?” “There’s a Lord Whakley here to see you sir.” “A who—Whakley! It’s early. What’s he doing here?” “He just arrived from Castell in a hovercar with his wife and family, Your Lordship.
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