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"At the rate this wench is moving," he gestured to Heather, "We'll need a plate warmer, or His Majesty's dish will be stone cold.

Off with you then!" His yellow plume sagged with the exclamation, at odds with his threatening words.

He swiped his fingers over it to set it to rights.

Heather slouched with relief as Jessa was dismissed to the kitchen with the wave of a jeweled, pretentious hand.

With no ill symptoms from the duck entree and green beans, she traded her fork for a spoon. She twirled it between her fingers, waiting for enough time to pass, so she could test the next item.

When the grand clock struck two ticks, Heather washed the taste of the vegetables down with a sip of mead.

It may as well have been vinegar on her tongue.

The goblet was scarcely removed from her lips when the impatient Ulcer snatched it from her grasp, nearly spilling its contents over the side as he hurried it over to His Majesty at the long banquet table.

The manservant was breaking his own regulations, not waiting to see if Heather fell dead from poison. She knew better than to protest his actions.

Loosening a drawn-out breath, she realized it was now or never. Her final test of the night was a slice of her favorite side dish, baked brie garnished with wild blackberries, smothered in honey.

Her next bite would either prove deadly and she'd meet her mother in the unending Summerlund. Or… she'd live long enough to test the king's next meal. She held a trembling hand over her knotting belly. It was a vicious cycle.

Beyond the tall, arched windows of the castle, lightning flashed, as if in warning.

Ulcer was quick to return to her side. "His Royal Highness awaits. Get on with it, mouse," he growled, shaking away her thoughts.

She filled her spoon to overflowing, mayhap helping herself to a larger portion than was necessary. A taster only lives once, after all. The small, delicious cheese wedge practically melted in her mouth, vanishing before she wished it so.

If she looked to the bright side, she could thank her role of taste tester for her improved palate, for the meals… were fit for a king.

Three more ticks and she could flee the hall. It did not escape her notice, Ulcer held fast to the time directive, choosing to comply in order to keep her at his command as long as he could.

If she was fortunate, her insides would calm enough before she tried to imbibe her own sup. It all proved incredibly taxing. Her gut roiled like milk in a churn.

She felt the prick of a weighted gaze on her person.

Looking up, she met the steel, icy gray stare of the king, who sat impatiently tapping his dinner knife against the table.

He was an uncharitable ruler, exceptionally lanky, with graying long hair and a thick mustache.

His gold crown weighed heavily on his head, causing him to hunch.

Her own shoulders sank within themselves at his appraisal.

She lamented he even knew who she was. She longed to be another nameless servant back in the kitchen. But those days were gone.

Perhaps her role wouldn't be as anxiety ridden if their ruler were a kind and just man. Sadly, King Willem of the royal house of the Rose, was not known for his considerate rule and he had many enemies. His cold eyes matched his soul.

He recently confiscated numerous plots of land, where villagers freely pastured their cows and sheep. The bit of earth previously available to all for free ranging their herds was now at his discretion. Forthwith, he fattened his coffers by collecting a monthly fee.

Of late, there were grumblings of his ambition to connect all the parishes of the realm with one permanent road, accomplishing what no ruler had ever done before.

Nay, the king was not a gracious sovereign, but that was the least of the Isle's worries. Over a fortnight ago, the sky darkened. Rolling clouds blustered through and settled above. With a great crashing rumble of thunder, the heavens cleaved open, releasing torrents of water down upon the kingdom.

During the first few hours, the realm delighted in the overdue precipitation. Farmers rejoiced for their crops. But as commoners laid down their heads that eve, the rain continued to fall. And the second day, it rained harder. On it advanced, never failing to descend.

There was no way of escaping it. The storm hovered over the entire Isle.

The king decreed his court confined to the castle, avoiding the rains, mud and the muck.

The nobles had the means to avoid their bleak reality, but the common folk had no choice but to persevere, regardless of the inclement weather.

Alarmed, and aware that this was no run of the mill summer storm, peasants dreaded the future of their crops. Minimal yields might deplete altogether with the continuation. Most of the seasonal harvest would perish from rain rot, and the taxes were unlikely to adapt.

The everyday folk had less to eat, but Heather had yet to notice reduced dinner portions at court, and certainly not on the king's plate. The proof evident in the rich, overflowing pewter dish set before her.

A fortnight hence, limited to the indoors, the dancing was lively.

However, Heather could spot the signs of ill ease.

It wasn't a figment of her imagination that the court's garb was more elaborate.

Their coiffures were increasingly dramatic, and their petty bickering was on the rise, while sequestered within the castle walls.

The lords and ladies of the court were idle and surely the less fortunate, such as herself and others of the keep's peasant class, would fall prey to their boredom.

The noblewomen's unpretentious hair arrangements were evolving into monstrosities with jeweled cages and growing wider by the passing chime.

Heather suspected the ladies-in-waiting were vying for the amplest hair buns and headdress.

Their attention was captivated by trivial things, while the common folk were on the brink of starvation.

The butchery crew had ongoing jests about which lady's head wouldn't fit through the chapel door this seventh day. Most alarming, more barrels of mead were consumed in the last week than in the previous moon phase.

A spark of hope kindled within. Soon she would gather her own dinner plate and make herself cozy in the four walls of her tiny chamber. She was fortunate to have private sleeping quarters, which she happily shared with Jessamine.

Regardless how she came by it.

Most of the laborers slept in the vast kitchens on rush mats.

There were over forty servants in the king's cookery, split among the butchery, the bakery, the gardens, the confectionary, the dairy and the boiler room.

Privacy was scarce. A mere two score responsible for feeding the court of six hundred, three times daily.

Chancing a gander over to Jessa, who stood in the kitchen alcove, twisting her apron between her hands, Heather mouthed her apologies concerning the goblet.

Her sweet friend remained anxious for Heather at each meal.

Jessa shook her head in response, indicating that there was no harm done.

She knew full well the challenges Heather faced at mealtime.

The quartet switched out for a lone bard with a lyre.

In a crisp voice, he sang a solitary tune, the famous one about Luna moths and the faerie oak.

The pattering of rain on the great hall roof, his only accompaniment.

It was Heather's most cherished tale. A song her mother used to sing young Heather into deep slumber with.

The sacred Luna moths were believed to live in the tree humans tied ribbons or anything shiny to- in exchange for a wish. Everyone knew the faeries were weak for pretty things.

The dancing court members retreated to their seats.

After what felt like an age, Ulcer declared, "You're dismissed for the evening, Heather. His Majesty will break his fast in the morning at eight chimes- dare not make him wait."

Heather curtsied and bit back a retort she did not require a reminder. The king's hourly schedule remained unwavering during her time in this role. She slipped out of the great hall as silent as a mouse, with Uster's hawkish gaze burning into her backside.

Uster swiped the royal plate, covered it with a glass cloche and whisked it over to the king.

Following His Majesty's first full bite, the remainder of the court tucked into their own plates. As etiquette dictated, not a soul dared partake in their meal ahead of him.

Heather secretly delighted in the fact their ruler had to wait on her- a lowly, nameless scullery maid.