The only decorations left in the town’s Makerhall are the stone carvings of Hagi Saul and Hagi Gabriel cut into the very walls beside its doors and the coloured glass windows. During services, I would sit in a pew where the sun cast coloured light, so I could lift my hand and see my skin blue, green, gold. It seemed as true a mystery as the Maker’s miracles.

Corliss’s Eating takes place in the Queen’s private Makerhall at the castle. Lots of folk come to witness, their heads sitting above their ruffs like roast meat on platters. Among them I find the Country Mouse, looking ill at ease in his pew. His eyes pass my direction, and I’m sure he sees me. Before I can help it, I smile, but his eyes have been pulled by the folk beside him, whispering and pointing to the coffin. I look around at the rest of the folk. A fair number are murmuring and pointing towards the coffin too. Must be the pomegranate for witchcraft. A frightful sin, to be sure.

Suddenly there’s squeaks and scrapes of pews moving as folk stand. Then the Queen comes in. The gnarled Willow Tree doctor walks behind her, and she has a dog at her side. Not a real dog, a man-dog. He wears a neat beard and a thick gold chain around his neck. His fingers are stained black with ink. The chain and ink are because he’s the Queen’s secretary. He’s the one folk say is her favourite.

Once the Queen takes her seat in the front, it’s our turn. The Sin Eater and I walk up the aisle towards the coffin at the front. The pews to each side are so polished that the wood looks like water. I brush them as I go by with my fingers, sliding callus to callus along the cool and smooth of it. I’m so intent on the feeling that I bump full into the Sin Eater’s rump when she stops a step from the coffin. I peek around to see why she’s halted.

The deer heart is dressed in truffles and oil. It must have been a huge animal. It sits like a centrepiece between the roast peacock and the pomegranate. I go over the list of foods in my head, but Corliss never recited a deer heart. And it isn’t a sin to forget. This is why all the folk were whispering and pointing.

The Sin Eater gets still. Not like an ass that won’t go, digging in its feet and eyeing you from the side, but wood-still like the pews, cool and smooth.