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She tested the filet of Carr, which was deliciously doused in rich white cream sauce.

Even though she conjured ghastly thoughts of it being poisoned, the toxin slowly constricting her airways.

Visions of her face turning blue leeched any pleasure of the taste from her mouth.

She struggled to keep the bit of food down between short, tight breaths.

Hoping to avoid spewing vomit. There were pitfalls of possessing an active imagination.

It breathed fire into her anxiety, giving it life. She refocused on the here and now.

Blessedly, all that remained was spiced yellow summer squash.

and it proved to be poison free. After the repast was whisked out of sight to the king, Heather strode to the kitchen, retrieved a bucket of sudsy water and a rag and scrubbed the floor until it was spotless.

Satisfied Uster could see no fault in the task achieved, she retreated to the kitchens, at liberty to enjoy her own midday meal.

A larger helping of the soup and some squash awaited her at the preparation station.

A young boy, whose features were all sharp angles, with his face smudged in soot shoveled the ashes from the hearth.

Heather struggled to lift her spoon to her mouth, even as she knew the garden reserves were depleted.

Her stomach rumbled loudly in objection as she forced a few spoonfuls past her lips, but alas, she could not continue.

What did it matter if she ate? Poison on the king’s plate could strike her down at the next meal.

With the bowl in hand, she rose from the worktop and tapped the hunching chimney boy on the shoulder. He was as thin as a wishbone under her fingers. Fearing he would snap under the pressure, she withdrew quickly.

He turned to Heather, his sad face all eyes. Silently she handed him the bowl. His face lit up and it wasn’t a heartbeat later that he had the rim to his mouth, drinking from the bowl as if it were a chalice.

Heather reluctantly joined the other maids in the humid scullery yard where the linens were also scoured.

Until evening meal, she was on dishwashing duty.

The air was thick with moisture and heat.

Heather lamented another daily chore made more burdensome by the relentless weather.

She positioned her wash tub under an archway to avoid direct contact with the downpour.

Hunched over the wash basin, Heather overheard the hushed whispers between two laundresses. “We’ll be drying everything by the indoor hearths from now on. ‘Tis must be heavenly judgment on the king for knocking down the Stones. He hath blood on his hands, he does.”

Was the rain a punishment? Heather considered.

When her hands met the vinegar cleaning solution in the washing tub, she hissed much like the awful cat that gave her the gash on her right hand.

Her stomach clenched unexpectedly, the pit of her turning icy, then hot.

Breaking out in perspiration, a piercing pain in her middle bent her over at the knees.

The remains of her midday meal forced its way back up, and she choked on her own spittle.

The suffocating heat of the yard clashed with a sudden cold sweat, rendering her unsteady.

With clammy hands, she clung to the wash tub.

Heather was one of four overworked scullery maids. She did not possess time for sickness.

When she was assigned her role as tester, she’d hoped she wouldn’t have to scour another dish but she was awarded her separate sleeping quarters as payment for her additional duty.

She had her suspicions about whose idea it was to compensate her with private lodgings.

Ulcer’s stalking eyes finding her in every room, a blatant reminder.

She muddled his devious plans and happily shared the chamber with Jessa.

The man was slow to act on his unseemly urges with witnesses about.

Heather and Jessa were each other’s shadows when not fulfilling their castle duties.

Ulcer remained a vigilant bird of prey, seeking out those with the most vulnerable positions at court, of which she was a member.

This time she took great care to monitor the progression of the sun, noting the hour.

The day passed; the daylight star continued its journey over the sky through the sheets of rain.

Her back twitched as an angry shooting pain radiated down it, consequences of hunching over the wash tub for hours.

The languid rays weakened into dusk overhead.

It was time for the evening meal. She left the scullery yard, entered the castle, passing Jessa and Mason, who appeared to be amid a serious conversation at the cook table.

Heather claimed her seat in the great hall, turning a deaf ear to the sly whispers of smug courtiers. If only she could fill her role while in the kitchen, instead of out here under their observation.

A sennight ago, Heather had the misfortune to overhear two gentlemen loudly discussing her impending death. They placed coin on the exact date of her passing.

It was commonplace for the ladies to offer up unsolicited advice. They made snide remarks about her hair, her garments, and debated whether her nails were encrusted with dirt. They laughed over her unladylike shriveled hands.

Heather pulled the two loops of her bow taunt and focused on the music of the assembly as she had done for the previous month, keeping the memories at bay. Tapping her foot with the tempo.

During her years at the royal castle, Heather would watch the dancers from the kitchen alcove, learning noble dances and mimicking the ladies’ movements.

She daydreamed about joining them in their revelry in the great hall.

Of being a lady of the court. Donning extravagant gowns and possessing unblemished hands.

She could laugh to keep from crying about those foolhardy wishes now.

“If wishes were ribbons…” she mumbled Uster’s words from this morning. The ribbon and the faerie tree reminded her of her mother. Perhaps she was foolish to believe in something that gave her hope?

Jessa presented His Majesty’s plate to Heather’s corner table, removing the glass cloche shielding it.

“Better make quick work of it. There’s to be storytelling around the hearth.

The butcher’s been a braggart all day, claiming he has a new tale of the faerie tree.

” Jess wiped her hands down her apron. Heather plucked up her fork, at the ready.

“Apparently that mushroom mush is the king’s favored. I’ll tell you what, it’s no hen of the woods.” Jessa shook her head, taking her leave to the kitchen.

Heather loved hearing stories and discovering knowledge about the home of the faerie. Hopefully, the butcher wasn’t a fibber. He certainly was bad at timing, something that Jess would vouch for.

Heather scrutinized the evening’s extravagant spread.

Assuming the mushroom pottage to be the ‘mush’ Jess referred to.

There was also a pheasant, a loaf of white bread, and sweet salted pears to complete the meal.

Heather shrugged her shoulders. Since it was his favorite, she might as well taste test that portion first and appease the king.

The pottage was laden with heavy cream, butter and salt.

She could see why it was his favored dish.

As it was rich as royalty. Would the servants receive servings of the soup, or, like the Carr, would it be served to His Majesty only?

She licked her bottom lip, relishing the flavor. But something wasn’t quite right.

A tingling sensation sprouted in her toes.

It built, slowly climbing up her torso and spread to her limbs.

The accompanying numbness instilling her with panic.

The breath in her lungs caught, her chest constricting to the point she could not draw fresh air.

Her sight dimmed with each labored blink.

She must have cried out, for the bard halted his playing mid chord, the last blunder of a note clanging through the hall.

The sudden silence following was deafening.

Her own ragged breaths filled her ears. Her heart battered her ribs as she gathered her bearings.

Curiously, her surroundings were unfamiliar. Had she blacked out?

The mushroom pottage had to be to blame. It must have been laced. Shouldn’t she be dead?

But she continued to draw breath. Could it be… she miraculously ingested an innocuous amount of poison?

The ground below her feet shook, a sound like thunder struck her ears. Alas, not thunder, it somewhat sounded like Ulcer. Shaking her head, she covered her tender ears and looked about.

Heather came face to face with a monstrous blue eye, the breadth of a windowpane! She shrieked. What beast invaded the banquet hall?

Blinking repeatedly, she shrank back, preparing to run for her life when she realized it was not a fantastical creature at all. Uster the Ulcer was a GIANT!

She let out a yelp when his cumbersome hand reached out and pinched her with his fingers, lifting her high in the air. She squeezed her eyes shut, not daring to look at the incredible height from which she was currently dangling from the mere threads of her blue wool kirtle!

Ulcer’s voice might as well have been a blaring horn. “The king’s dinner was cursed! Remove his plate and goblet at once! It could be the wine or the mushroom pottage!” Heather screamed and covered her ears, trying to put an end to the pain.

Uster’s concern was for the safety of His Majesty, never mind that she was now the height of a thumb! So much for her consideration, she thought glumly and crossed her arms in front of her.

Heather was clammy all over, a vicious trembling wreaked havoc on her form. She grappled to come to terms with what had occurred. Something she ate… reduced her to this size!

Jessa scrambled for the offending dishes, as if the poison would effuse into the air and harm the royal family.

Biting her lower lip, a wide-eyed Jess hesitated beside Ulcer. “I fear you’ll drop her, Sir- can we place Heather on the table?”

Ulcer, none too gently, dropped Heather onto the table’s surface.

Her knees collapsed from the shock. The very marrow in her bones ached.

She fought the rising of her stomach contents.

She decided that for now, she should stay seated, else her new tiny legs fail her again.

What was a single person table felt like an island.

She could see wood planks for what appeared to be miles in each direction.

Uster shooed Jessa away with the offending dishes.

His Majesty strode over to the table. With each of his steps, it trembled beneath her feet.

A powerful gust of air accosted her full on, almost knocking her flat.

She recovered and opened her eyes, realizing the king was nigh, and that it had been his breath.

For someone to have not eaten, it had an offending odor.

Heather struggled to stay sitting upright while he continued to inspect her with that wintry, calculating gaze and breathe in her face.

She resisted the urge to cover her nose and mouth.

Even as his taste tester, she had NEVER been this intimate with the royal, and she didn't want to repeat the experience again! She couldn’t help but look at him up close and personal…

was that a piece of midday meal stuck in his salt and pepper mustache?

Thankfully, he removed himself back from the table and declared, “Good call, Uster! Where’d the kingdom be if we lacked a food tester?

” Uster preened under his praise. To Heather’s utter astonishment, that was all he said.

ALL he said. She was to receive no thanks?

Her jaw slacked to the floor in disbelief.

She hurt all over. The reduction of her bones and muscles made her feel as if she had treaded water in a rushing river for chimes. Her limbs felt as if they weighed a ton each. Her reduced heart pounded at her chest. Pushing through the strain against her muscles, she wobbled to her feet.

“Your Majesty!” cried Heather. “It must have been the shroom pottage! It was the sole item I sampled! Please tell me we have an antidote!” She reached up and tightened her wish bow, relieved that her prized possession remained in place.

They continued to gawk at Heather with blank faces. “Uster, is she speaking?” inquired His Majesty.

Uster narrowed his eyes at her pointedly. “No Sire, all I hear are squeaks. Not much different from that of a mouse.”

The two men scowled at her as the members of the court gathered round behind the king to glimpse what remained of the taste tester.

The twitters and exclamations from the crowd had her covering her ears in pain.

This was going to be a wildfire topic among gossips, especially with the gentry confined during the unseasonable rain.

What good were their staring faces? Was she to receive no thanks for shouldering a curse meant for the king?

She hated being a spectacle, and the court was unnecessarily cruel.

What devious pursuits would spring from her new predicament?

The queen joined the king’s side, locking arms with him. Heather felt as if the young maid was glaring at her. It wasn’t Heather’s fault that they couldn’t hear her. And to think that she empathized with the woman for suffering marriage to the king.

“Gifford! Check the books. Did anyone claim forty-two days?” Shouted Lord Quincy from within the crowd. Heather’s ire resurfaced. The bastards cared only about their wager!

Panting Heather belted, “I said, IT MUST HAVE BEEN THE MUSHROOMS! Please, I beg of thee, do we have an elixir?” Fully aware of her station at court, she was reluctant to raise her voice in anger to the lords and ladies of the hall, much less the king.

But this was no time to cower to hierarchy.

To be safe, she followed the exclamation up with a curtsy, perchance it would help Their Majesties forgive her impertinence.

Stifling heat accosted her. She fanned her face with a hand, desperate for air. The room was shifting again, and she feared she was going to faint. What effects would shrinking cause the human body? And to be unconscious, surrounded by giants? And Ulcer in particular?

This was a nightmare. All she wanted to do was curl up in a little ball and hide from their eyes. But she straightened her shoulders, tightened her hair ribbon and determined to stay awake, waiting in bated breath for the king’s response.

But of course, they couldn’t understand her. That was the luck of a kinless servant girl. For the first time, she was as small in stature as the world made her feel.