However, deep in Neverfell’s tangle of a mind there was a curious little knot of stubbornness. In truth, she had never resigned herself to the idea of a life spent cloistered away among Stiltons. Thus, when she had discovered the identity of the woman who had so confidently invited herself to tea, a small bubble of hope had formed in Neverfell’s mind.

Neverfell flung off her leather apron, and hurried on the jacket with all the buttons or near enough. She had barely had time to make herself presentable when she heard the door’s string of bells ring to announce the arrival of Madame Vesperta Appeline, the celebrated Facesmith.

Facesmiths could be found only in Caverna. The outer world had no need of them. It was only in the labyrinthine underground city of Caverna that babies did not smile.

In the overground world, babies who stared up at their mothers’ faces gradually started to work out that the two bright stars they could see above them were eyes like their own, and that the broad curve was a mouth like theirs. Without even thinking about it, they would curve their mouths the same way, mirroring their mothers’ smiles in miniature. When they were frightened or unhappy, they would know at once how to screw up their faces and bawl. Caverna babies never did this, and nobody knew why. They looked solemnly at the face above them, and saw eyes, nose, mouth, but they did not copy its expressions. There was nothing wrong with their features, but somehow one of the tiny silver links in the chain of their souls was missing. They had to be forced to learn expressions one at a time, slowly and painfully; otherwise, they remained blank as eggs.

These carefully taught expressions were the Faces. Those at the cheapest crèches learned only a handful of Faces, all suitable for their station, for what need had they of more? Richer families sent their children to better nurseries where they would learn two or three hundred Faces. Most Cavernans spent their lives making do with the Faces they had learned in infancy, but the affluent sometimes hired Facesmiths, specialist Face designers, to teach them new expressions. Among the fashionable elite, a new, beautiful, or interesting Face could cause more of a stir than a string of black pearls or a daring hat.

This was Neverfell’s first opportunity to meet a Facesmith, and her heart was punching against her ribs with excitement as she sprinted back to her master.

“Can I be the one to unlock the door?” she asked, aware that she might be pushing her luck.

Cheesemaster Grandible was always careful to hide his front-door keys away from Neverfell’s curious grasp, and dug them out only when a visitor was imminent. On this occasion he tossed her the great ring without a word, and she ran back to the door, her fingers thrilled by the cold weight of the keys.