With every morsel I consumed, I was informed that princes most love slender young ladies. As I was as interested in a prince’s love as in sticking my fish fork into my ear, I reacted to this by cleaning my plate ever more thoroughly.

How could Paolo think the queen and her ilk were my people? I had no more relation to them than a pigeon does to a flock of swans – or a vortex of vultures, which the castle’s denizens better resembled in both attire and attitude.

As for the queen, I had no more interest in her company than in plunging my face into a nest of hornets.

My downfall, inevitably, was triggered by food.

I mulled on the tower-bound princess whose lover employed her hair as rope. My own curly locks – one of my better features, I will admit, better being a relative term – hung just past my shoulders, and barely draped over the windowsill.

No matter how I prayed, no fairy godmother appeared. No elf or leprechaun or world-weary wizard materialised to provide the secret weapon against my foe. I remained alone in a mouse-infested cell, empty but for a pallet and the nightdress into which I now had to struggle.

I could not help but notice that in this regard the book, inanimate though it was, cared more for my welfare than any human in the castle.

Finally I halted, my cloak soiled with grease and jam. Why was it that jam always coated me so?

The day of the ball was spent preparing me much as one prepares a goose for Christmas, with the same ultimate effect.