You'd think that after painting the King and Queen with my own two hands—under the disapproving, glittery gaze of Sir Porfirio Paintsworth III—I might be accorded a little respect.
You would be mistaken.
"Oh, how darling," Lady Anastasia simpered one afternoon in the royal gallery, her voice as sticky-sweet as overripe strawberries. "A child playing with paints. So sweet. I suppose next she'll be carving fountains or writing national anthems."
I blinked at her, slowly. Innocent. Unbothered. Dangerous."Would you like me to? I'm very flexible."
The nobles surrounding us giggled nervously. Everyone knew that Lady Anastasia's family once commissioned a disastrous portrait of the King—too much gold leaf, not enough chin. She never quite recovered from the embarrassment.
Now, she stared at my portrait of the King and Queen—the one revealed to thunderous applause, hung in the gallery with ceremony, and described by Sir Porfirio as "youthful yet noble, regal with a touch of rebellion." Of course, Whiskers and I had snuck into a corner of the painting, reclining behind a curtain.
"It's quaint," Lady Anastasia sniffed. "But one can't help but wonder if it's really your own work."
I came to a halt.
"She's seven," she continued, as if that alone negated any possibility of talent. "No shame in the gentle guidance of a master's hand. Sir Porfirio, surely you—"
"Lady Anastasia," Sir Porfirio interrupted, his mustache quivering with outrage, "I oversaw. I did not raise a brushstroke. The Princess painted this entirely on her own."
That, it seemed, was the wrong answer. Or the right one, depending on how you feel about drama.
Lady Anastasia's smile curdled. "Then perhaps… a demonstration? A public one. Let the court witness her paint in real time."
I smiled sweetly. "Name your challenge, my lady. A duel of brushes?"
The Queen's eyes sparkled. "This could be fun."
The King sighed. "You're egging this on?"
"Clearly," Mother said. "It's excellent for court morale."
And so it was decided.
A week later, the royal courtyard was transformed into a makeshift studio. Nobles gathered beneath silk canopies with chilled lemonade and scented fans. I donned my finest smock (embroidered with tiny gold crowns), and Sir Porfirio arranged two easels. One for me. One for Lady Anastasia.
We were to paint a portrait of Whiskers.
Lady Anastasia sniffed. "A cat?"
"Only the most dignified member of the royal household," I said.
Whiskers reclined on a velvet cushion between us, tail twitching in lazy disapproval.
We painted for one hour. I worked with careful strokes, catching the shadows beneath his whiskers, the glint in his amber eyes. Lady Anastasia jabbed at her canvas like it had insulted her ancestors.
At the end, both paintings were unveiled.
Hers looked… distressed. As if Whiskers had been caught mid-sneeze while attempting to escape a bathtub.
Mine?Mine captured him in all his lounging majesty—half-lidded eyes, paw outstretched like a bored emperor, one ear tilted at a rakish angle as if he'd just dismissed an urgent decree.
The nobles gasped.
The Queen applauded.
The King muttered, "She's going to be unstoppable."
Lady Anastasia looked as if she'd bitten a lemon.
"I suppose talent can surprise us," she whispered, curtsying.
"Indeed," I replied with a gracious smile. "And age has nothing to do with it."
As I sipped lemonade and received a small mountain of compliments, Elias appeared beside me. He glanced at the portrait, then at me.
"You didn't just disprove her," he said. "You disproved something to everyone."
"No," I corrected, running my fingers along Whiskers's painted ear. "I reminded them."
And thus, with a paintbrush duel under my belt and Lady Anastasia properly humbled, I returned to my regular occupation:
Being brilliant.And seven.