The Portrait Chronicles of Princess Charlotte
It began with trumpets. And fanfare. And five maids attempting to stuff me into a dress that had more ruffles than dignity.
"Why must I sit for a portrait?" I grumbled, trying to wedge myself under the bed beside Whiskers—who betrayed me utterly by curling up on the ruffled monstrosity like it was his new throne.
"You're the redeemed evil princess now," said Head Maid Lora, far too cheerfully. "The whole kingdom wants a portrait of their little icon of change and redemption."
"I'm not an icon. I'm six. And I bite," I informed her.
"We know."
They had started wearing gloves.
Enter: The Royal Painter
Sir Porfirio Paintsworth III arrived like a thunderstorm in velvet. Billowing cloak. Feathered hat. Goatee so curled it seemed to whisper tragic poetry when he breathed.
"Princess Charlotte," he intoned, "the canvas calls to me. Your innocence. Your complexity. Your reform! I shall capture it all... in oil!"
"I want to be immortalized in cookies," I replied.
He attempted to pose me on a velvet chaise. I flopped sideways like a deflating soufflé.
He tried again. I thrashed like a fish on its way to drama school.
Attempts Were Made
Day 1: I sat backward in the chair and fashioned a pirate eyepatch out of a lace doily.
Day 2: I sneezed so hard my crown fell into the paint. It lives there now.
Day 3: I invited Whiskers to join the scene. He bit the paintbrush. Twice.
Day 4: I refused to smile without pudding. They brought it. I smiled. Then promptly threw up.
Sir Paintsworth Despairs
"She's a genius of chaos," he whispered to a maid. "I wanted innocence. I got... war."
By Day Five, I overheard him muttering to the palace gardener:
"Do you think she'd stay still if I painted her while she was asleep?"
Suspicious.
The Queen's Intervention
Mother swept into the studio like a tempest in heels.
"She doesn't have to sit like a doll," she declared. "Paint her as she is. Wild. Wrinkled. Loud. Show the people that."
Sir Paintsworth blinked. Then whispered, ".Brilliant."
The Final Masterpiece
Two weeks later, the portrait was unveiled to the court.
And there I was:
Sitting on the floor, puffed-up dress askew,
One sock off,
A cookie in each hand,
Whiskers perched like a gremlin on my head,
Grinning as if I had just set the royal curtains on fire.
(Which may have happened. Irrelevant.)
The nobles gasped.
Then they cheered.
I wasn't just the "reformed villainous princess" anymore. I was real. I was free. I was me.
The King stared at it for a long time.
"She looks like she's planning a coup," he muttered.
The Queen snorted. "She probably is."
I curtsied dramatically, crumbs in my wake.
"I call this look: Reform—but make it rebellious."