Inside the little food tent, there’s a miniature castle made entirely of spun sugar with windows and gates and everything. I can’t help but take a moment to look it over. Another table is stacked with plate upon plate of stuffed fowl dressed in different fashions, one cooked swan even covered back up with its own snow-white feathers to make it look alive. There’s also a thick quarter of venison dripping with honey and roasted apples. It brings the taste of deer heart to my lips.

Tonight, my heart thumps. Tonight, I’m opening the jammed lock.

Oddly there aren’t any scullions or cooks about. The tent is empty of folk. As I wonder on it, I step out of the tent into the late-afternoon light. Direct into Black Fingers and his guards.

28. SACK POSSET

THE GUARDS HAVE rounded up all the kitchen folk. I’m at the very back of the gathering with the half-dressed turnspit boys. While Black Fingers looks on from the side, the guards are reviewing each and every folk to be sure they belong. Which I surely don’t.

I turn back towards the little tent. I’ll retrace my steps and slip out another way. But before I can duck inside, a guard spies me.

‘No you don’t, girlie,’ he says. ‘Back with the others you go.’

I’m stuck. Three or four guards seem to be doing all the checking. Black Fingers looks impatient, but he’s still watching the goings-on. My heart leaps into my throat. Even with my collar covered by my shawl and a coif covering my hair, Black Fingers might recognize my face. I can’t get caught.

I move to the side of the group farthest from Black Fingers. A lower cook ahead of me stamps with waiting. ‘I’ve got salmon to dress.’

Another lower cook blows out his cheeks and mutters, ‘They had me leave my wine sauce on the fire. Guess if it’s spoiled.’

My eyes keep going back to Black Fingers to see if he’s seen me. There’s three guards all checking folk at the same time, I tell myself. There’s plenty else to take his attention. But my arms are light and tingly. I recall Ruth the Sin Eater, her steady quiet, and try to settle my nerves.

The two lower cooks get waved up to the guards to be checked. It’s mostly scullions and spitboys left now. They seem not to mind the pause. The one direct in front of me digs in his ear with a little twig.

I belong, I chant. I belong. But my heart patters like a rabbit’s.

‘Come on.’ A guard waves me forward. He looks me square in the face. I’ve covered my collar, I remind myself. I still feel naked under his eyes. It amazes me that I was ever at ease with folk looking at me direct.