Ahem.
Let it be publicly proclaimed throughout the kingdom—in every noble house and knight's quarters, every kitchen and drawing room—that Lady Charlotte, four and three-quarters years of age, fair of face and cunning of mind, has had her life attempted upon.
By nature.
And thus began the most extravagantly romantic chapter of my little royal life.
I was in bed, swaddled like a pitiful cabbage roll, when something shifted in my wicked little brain. Everyone had been spoiling me outrageously, so I thought—why not lean into it? Twist the tale. Add some tragedy. A few well-timed sniffles. A flair for the dramatic pause.
And so, I began to rehearse.
"The lake drew me in," I whispered to the wide-eyed maid bringing me juice. "It was jealous of my loveliness."
She gasped. Juice was spilled. Success.
"The fish—so many fish—they were biting me. I'm sure of it," I informed a guard, who now won't go near the lake without backup.
I even told the royal doctor I'd seen my dearly departed grandfather calling to me from beyond the ripples. (Fun fact: I'd never actually met the man, but it sounded poetic enough.)
Stage Two: Sympathy & Snacks
The payoff was immediate.
Cakes. Honey buns. Exotic chocolates. A custom blanket with my face on it. The palace staff began referring to me as "our brave little lady" and "the precious flower who defied death's grasp."
One overly sentimental knight knelt at my feet and vowed to "protect my honor and well-being." I named him Sir Wet Blanket—because he fainted when I coughed too hard.
Even my father, King Glares-a-Lot, looked perpetually stressed around me. I'd look up with big, teary eyes and whisper, "Daddy, am I still alive...?" and he'd mutter something unintelligible before fleeing the room—after ordering more dessert for me, naturally.
Queen behavior? Absolutely.
Stage Three: Expanding the Lore
I knew the story needed depth. The lake wasn't just a jealous puddle—it was enchanted. Cursed by an ancient witch to rise every hundred years and claim the kingdom's purest soul.
Guess who was voted "Most Pure"?
Yep. Tragic. Me.
"I battled the lake spirit," I solemnly told the cook. "It tried to riddle me into the underwater kingdom for eternity."
I'm 92% sure she cried. I received three extra honey muffins for heroism.
Stage Four: Regret? Never Heard of Her
You might think guilt would catch up with me. That I'd eventually come clean. That I'd stop tormenting the entire palace with tales of the Haunted Lake of Doom™.
But no. Because the next morning, the royal painter showed up to do a memorial portrait. I posed dramatically in bed: one hand flung across my forehead, the other clutching a plush duck (Sir Quacksworth, naturally).
My devious mother? Absolutely thrilled.
"That's my girl," she said, feeding me grapes like I was Cleopatra.
And honestly?
Same.
So now I'm officially known as The Lake Survivor. It has a certain flair. There's even talk of a ceremony once I "recover"—flower tossing, a puppet show retelling the ordeal, perhaps a tragic ballad.
Do I feel guilty for turning a slip-and-splash into palace-wide legend?
Not even a little.
But next time I approach that lake?
I'm bringing a lifeguard, two guards, and maybe a magical charm.
Just in case it really is haunted.