It began with a shivery quiet. No fanfare, no trumpets—only the soft scrunch of my feet on the floor as I walked toward the grand hall, where yet again the Royal Painter, Sir Porfirio Paintsworth III, stood with his easel at the ready.
This time, however, I was seven years old. And I had things to say.
"Why do I need another portrait?" I grumbled, arms crossed and eyes narrowed at the easel as though it had personally offended me. "I've already been immortalized in cookies."
"You've grown up," the Queen replied, her eyes twinkling with mirth. "The kingdom must see how you've... matured."
"Matured, you mean?" I scoffed, sneering at my royal finery with the same disdain I held for yesterday's lunch.
"Indeed," the King grumbled, rubbing his jaw as he inspected my posture. "Stand up straight now, Princess."
I slouched anyway.
Enter: Sir Porfirio Paintsworth III
Ah, yes. Sir Paintsworth—still draped in his velvet cloak, sporting a flair goatee that might've belonged to a poet who had swapped the quill for oil paints.
"Princess Charlotte," he intoned grandly. "The canvas calls to me! Your grace, your brilliance, your transformation—all shall be immortalized... in oil!"
I raised an eyebrow. "Cookies for this guy, right?"
The Queen's smile grew even larger. "We'll discuss that later."
Testing the Royal Portrait—Again
Day 1: I slumped into the chair with all the grace of a slouching goblin, arms crossed over my chest. Whiskers, my loyal feline companion, grudgingly sat on my shoulder, as though he were attending a royal council session.
Day 2: I adjusted my crown at least 76 times. By the end of the session, Sir Paintsworth had no clue where it was supposed to go, but I preferred it slightly askew.
Day 3: I tried to stand up straight but found myself making faces at the canvas and behaving like a villain from one of my novels. It made Sir Paintsworth twitch involuntarily.
The Queen's Intervention
Mother, ever the vision of chaos and control, strode in, glanced at the half-completed portrait, then at me, and finally at Sir Paintsworth, whose eyes sparkled with a very particular kind of mischief.
"Leave her alone, stop trying to make her a statue," she commanded, stepping forward. "This is Princess Charlotte—let her be."
Sir Paintsworth's face softened. "You're right, Your Majesty. I'll paint her spirit."
The Final Masterpiece
Two weeks later, the portrait was finished.
And there we all were:
Seated in a royal composition—me in the center, my royal attire rumpled as if it had been blown by a gust of wind (which, I confess, it had), a cookie grasped firmly in one hand, Whiskers sprawled indolently across my knee, a sly smile spreading across my lips as I gazed at the viewer with an unmistakable gleam of roguery.
On either side of me were the King and Queen, both captured in the same frozen moment. The King, in all his stern majesty, sat beside me with arms folded against his chest, a scowl that could have been mistaken for admiration on his face. His crown tilted slightly to one side, much like mine, and his normally stern expression had softened into the beginning of a wry smile.
The Queen, behind us, stood with hands on her hips, her dignified gown flowing as she nodded her approval to the artist, as if she had orchestrated this mad moment. Her crown was perfectly placed, her eyes gleaming with her trademark curiosity and allure, her lips curling into a knowing smile that seemed to say, This is just how I wanted it.
My crown was a bit askew, my socks didn't match, and one hand was raised in a half-wave to the nonexistent court. The King's look was one of exasperation tinged with grudging pride, and the Queen's smile suggested she was already planning to regale the tale of this portrait at the next royal feast.
The King stared at it for a long time. Then, he glared at me. "She seems to be scheming something."
The Queen giggled. "She likely is."
I executed a saucy curtsy, crumbs spilling from my hand onto the polished floor.
"I christen this look: Regal Rebellion with a Side of Snacks," I declared, flashing a cheeky grin.
The nobles gasped.
Then they applauded.
It wasn't a portrait anymore. It was an expression of what I really was—wild, rough, and totally me.
And Sir Paintsworth? He appeared to have aged ten years in the last five minutes, but there was a spark in his eyes as he studied the canvas.
"By my troth," he grumbled, "a masterpiece."