Florian stood once more on the dais to make a speech. ‘It is my great honour, and my duty, as one who has the blood of our sovereigns running through his veins, to thank each and every one of you, on behalf of my uncle, a great and glorious leader, and on behalf of all Quentaris. Tonight heralds the beginning of a new era, an era in which our two peoples…’

‘Will be great friends,’ interrupted Chief Navigator Stelka. ‘Good night!’

A cheer echoed in the chamber. Any other of Florian's words were drowned out by the sound of chairs shifting across the flagstone floor, and the din of talk and laughter. The guests stood mingling in loose queues while the servants emptied the urns into the ceramic ‘offering bowls’. One by one the guests peeled away and walked along the candlelit corridor to the front steps where the poor were waiting.

Tab was concentrating on not tripping on the hem of her dress, and not spilling the contents of her bowl, and so she didn't see her allocated ‘poor person’ until they were literally toe-to-toe.

‘Mrs Figgin!’ She was amazed to see the wizened face of her old dosshouse mistress. Tab thrust the dish forward and the broth slopped dangerously toward the bowl's lip. Mrs Figgin took it from her and curtsied. Tab turned and fled.

Later, lying in bed Tab wondered if Mrs Figgin was simply too shocked to say anything, or whether she didn't recognise Tab clean and in a dress.

She lay on her back too full to sleep and groaned. ‘I'll never eat again!’

‘Hush, will you?’ Amelia whispered from the bed on the other side of the room. ‘We need to get to sleep. It's nearly time for breakfast.’ The two girls giggled.

Later in the night Tab awoke with a brief fragment of a dream in her mind. A boy with sandy-coloured skin and chocolate-coloured hair climbed a long, wide rope. His arms shook with strain and the skin on his hands was raw. His face was pressed into a grimace. The boy rested for a moment, straddling the rope, gripping with his fingers. He looked down at the clouds beneath him.