The Grand Steward had eaten nothing in five hours except a small plate of olives, a candied pomegranate and some quail’s eggs. Neverfell, of course, had only been given a very tiny portion of each. Already she was starting to see one of the downsides of being a food taster. Originally she had worried about dying of poison. Now she was more worried about starvation. Worse still, the pomegranate had contained some spice that widened her field of vision, which was very distracting and made her feel a bit like an owl. Once Neverfell had gobbled enough refreshingly ordinary porridge that she lost the queasy emptiness and the dizzy ache behind her eyes, Leodora swept her off on a slightly calmer tour of the tasters’ quarters, whilst filling her in on the rules. ‘This whole area is set aside for us,’ explained Leodora. ‘One entrance, carefully guarded, so that nobody can get in except tasters and the palace servants.’ There were indeed the usual supply of soft-paced, flitting servants, all wearing white palace liveries and Faces like very polite sleepwalkers.
