Black Fingers dips his own ruff like a screen so he can nestle his lips to her ear. I can’t catch what he whispers. Whatever he says, the Painted Pig tries to fit her face into a smooth mask, but it doesn’t work. She steps away from him and smiles tightly. ‘You are a comfort.’

Black Fingers catches her hand and brings it to his lips.

Suddenly there’s a cry by the door and a rustle of skirts. I look up to see the Queen, her bosom puffing and cheeks reddening beneath her face paint.

I want to scream, The ladies were poisoned! The hearts not recited! Your favourite is a murderer!

My head’s gone light and my stitches burn. I start to rise off my stool towards the Queen.

Black Fingers sees me from the side of his eye. His hand darts to his hip where his dagger, the one that ripped into my neck, sits brightly.

I drop back down onto my stool and take up the bread. But Black Fingers’s hand stays at his dagger, his fingers around the handle. Three and a half paces to the door. I ready my feet to run.

But it’s the Queen who moves first. She crosses direct to the Painted Pig and strikes her full across the face. It’s such a blow the Painted Pig falls, great skirts and all, nearly taking Black Fingers with her. He pulls his arm away just before she can drag him down.

The Queen shakes where she stands, looking between Black Fingers and the Painted Pig, ‘Would you betray me?’

The Painted Pig blocks her face and honks, ‘Your Grace! I never!’

Black Fingers pulls at his ear again. ‘You cannot think . . . Your Grace, you cannot believe—’

‘I believe what I see,’ the Queen interrupts. ‘Your lips were on her hand.’

‘If cordial affection towards a longtime friend brings you distemper,’ says Black Fingers, ‘then I shall leave you in peace.’

‘You do not have my leave to go,’ the Queen cries before he can take a step.

‘I will not be leashed like a dog,’ he whispers, sharp-like.

The Queen’s shaking grows stronger, and I think for one terrible moment she, too, might have been poisoned.

‘Your Grace.’ The Willow Tree appears at her side.

His voice seems to break through the Queen’s rage. Her shaking quiets. ‘Help her up,’ she orders. Several folk work to right the fallen Pig.

‘Your Grace,’ the Painted Pig says once standing again. ‘I am an old candle next to your young light. Your sunlight! That you think I, who have been like an auntie to you, could presume . . .’ She seems to grow wary of her own words and lets them fritter away.