Fiona rose from her velvet throne, her pearls swinging against her chest, her face going red.

“How dare you,” she hissed, “walk into my jubilee dressed like that.

Where is the food, you ungrateful girl?

Where is my feast?”

I stood in the entrance to the grand dining room they had made me pay for, and I let a slow, cold smile spread across my face — the first genuinely enjoyable smile I had felt in five years.

“You wanted sixty dishes, Fiona,” I said, and my voice carried without effort across the silent room.