Let the record show that I did not intend to start an international incident. Not this time. Honestly, I only meant to spice up the royal banquet with a touch of theatrical whimsy.
But it turns out foreign dignitaries are alarmingly humorless about ducks.
Let me explain.
It all started at a state dinner in honor of the arriving Emissary of Bellavierre—severe-looking man, bald head, monocle, and a mustache so pointed it could cut politics in half. "Not to be trifled with," declared Miss Beatrice. And in my opinion, he resembled a cartoon villain who needed a pie in the face.
Which was my idea.
The Bellavierrans adore—yes, you heard me right—serenity. Quietness. Formality. Their whole court is akin to a taxidermy display with some taste. Of course, I figured it would be amusing to add a little. motion.
The ducks enter.
I bribed a kitchen boy (two cookies and a drawing of a pirate cat) to sneak four trained ducks in from the garden menagerie. They were tiny velvet caped and top-hatted by me. Their big entrance was choreographed exactly for the dessert course.
The strategy? They would waddle onto the banquet table in unison, quack nicely, and stage left make their exit.
What happened in reality?
Whiskers sprang onto the table to pursue the ducks. The ducks panicked. One flew straight into the lap of the Emissary, toppling a goblet of revered Bellavierran wine, which had clearly been aged longer than most people stay alive.
The Emissary sprang to his feet, yelling about sacrilege and foul demons. The Queen forgot her fork. The King said, "For the throne's sake, not again." Elias stormed into the hall during peak chaos, following the crumbs from the cookies that I had deposited in my wake.
"CHARLOTTE," he panted, taking in the chaos: flying duck, drenched Emissary, shrieking cat, overturned tureen.
"Are we getting to the scandal portion yet?" I chirped.
He didn't respond. He was too involved in attempting to catch a duck that had fluttered into the orchestra pit.
The Queen rose, her face a lesson in controlled anger. "Everyone, please be calm," she commanded. "This is merely. a royal surprise performance. An expression of whimsy of our kingdom."
"Whimsy?" the Emissary stammered. "That monstrosity attacked me!"
Whiskers growled. The duck quacked in protest.
Elias was able to herd most of the birds with his cloak and some mashed figs. The head duck would not give up.
Eventually, things calmed down. Barely. The Emissary only agreed to resume negotiations after the King made a formal apology, Elias personally delivered a replacement bottle of Bellavierran wine, and I—gasp—had to scrub the banquet table.
I attempted to apologize.
"I just wanted to spread some joy," I grumbled, washing duck prints from the silver.
Elias shot me a look, frustrated but gentle-eyed. "You bring something, that's for sure."
As punishment, I was sentenced to "watch decorum" for seven days. No scheming. No costumes. No random wildlife rescues.
But as I sat by the window, bored and grounded, I couldn't help grinning to myself.
Because afterwards, later that evening, I caught the Emissary spying in the garden and laughing at the ducks—still wearing their small hats.