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tell from the way she never took her eyes from him.
    So if he wasn’t a spy, there had to be some other explanation. Someone must have told him about her birthmark. They were probably all laughing about it right now.
    Not that it mattered. Whoever he said he was, she wasn’t going to listen to him. She was a Prefect and that meant not entertaining any nonsense.
    Turning over, Anna closed her eyes and forced herself to sleep.
    But it was a restless sleep, and throughout the night her dreams were filled with crying children, a woman screaming and a little butterfly, trapped in a cold, grey prison.

Chapter Five
    Grange Hall was a Modern-Georgian building, built in 2070. Its design was based on Sutton Park, an old stately home in Yorkshire which had been built in 1730 and had long since crumbled to the ground. Photographs remained, however, and its style was admired very much by the present Authorities, who had decided that all government buildings should be built to resemble it, although in grey, not cream, because that colour withstood the elements better, and with lower ceilings. Lower ceilings meant lower heating requirements in the winter, and with the stringent tariffs for energy the Authorities been forced to impose, high ceilings were a luxury few could afford these days.
    Initially, Grange Hall had housed the Revenue and Benefits Department, but it was soon declared too small, and was left empty for several years until the Surplus Act was introduced and the idea of Surplus Halls mooted. The original idea had been to create new, dedicated buildings for Surpluses, with the latest technology and teaching tools to develop an obedient, hard-working and amenable workforce; in the meantime, Grange Hall was hurriedly converted to house the growing number of Surpluses being gathered up around the country. Over the years, plans and papers had been periodically submitted by the Longevity and Surplus Department – usually when someone new had been given the Surplus remit – plans for new buildings, for merging the three UK Surplus Halls into one, for moving to the European model of deportation. But each time, nothing was done, because change carried risks, because change led to instability, because new technology meant using precious energy, and because, at the end of the day, no one really cared. And so, lethargy prevailed and Grange Hall was now the oldest Surplus Hall, its carpets and wall colours unchanged from its time as a government building, the smell of red tape and frustration still lingering in its very fabric.
    Margaret Pincent hated the low ceilings of Grange Hall. She’d been brought up by her father to believe that stature directly influenced the height of one’s ceilings. Those who could pull enough strings to get hold of extra energy coupons enjoyed the highest ceilings; everyone else was forced to accept lower ceilings, to crouch and bow and scrape just to keep warm. Mrs Pincent’s father would bow to no man, he had told her regularly, so why should he be forced to bow by his own house?
    Her father had never visited Grange Hall, of course, and had never shown any interest in it. It was hardly surprising; Mrs Pincent and he had not actually spoken for over fourteen years. Not since . . .
    Well, not for a long time. Mrs Pincent felt the familiar anger clenching in her stomach and the nauseous feeling welling up her throat as memories she worked so hard to suppress found their way back into her mind. The unfairness. The shame.
    But what was the use remembering? No point crying over spilt milk, she thought bitterly. Those were the exact words her father had used when the truth had come out. And when her husband had left her, her father had made it clear that he wouldn’t be able to offer her any financial assistance; no assistance of any kind. That she would understand if he didn’t see her again.
    It had been left to Margaret Pincent to fend for herself, and fend she did. She’d seen the job advertised at