I sat down to breakfast at my parents’ mansion. I was finally beginning to warm to the place now that I understood it layout, and was accustomed to the tourists who peered in to observe us every day.

When I put the slice of toast to my mouth I almost choked on the vile taste of marmalade.

“This jar says honey!” I protested.

“Oh dear, that would be your mother’s labelling” said one of the two servants hovering over me, as she whipped my plate away.