Starring Princess Charlotte, Age 6, on a Quest for Misadventure
It was official—I had turned six.
A seasoned professional at birthday galas, dreadful family luncheons, and producing palace blockbusters, I was arguably more of a socialite than most grown-up aristocrats. But even a royal prodigy needs a break now and then.
So I did what any overachieving six-year-old drama queen would do.
I ran away.
Well—snuck out. It sounds more poetic.
Step 1: The Escape
It began with a plan. I'd overheard the maids chattering about a festival in the village—warm bread, tiny street theater, children running wild with no lace collars or governesses watching their every shoulder.
I was instantly sold.
Wearing the dullest cloak I could find (which still had gold stitching, because apparently even palace rags are designer), I fled at dawn. I tucked my curls under a bonnet, masked my royal demeanor, and waddled through a garden hedge with a walking stick, a sack of snacks, and some suspicious coins I'd won at dice with the guards.
Step 2: The Village Revelations
The village was perfect.
It smelled like cinnamon and goats, and no one whispered about my "heritage" or "hereditary villainy." They just smiled, ruffled my bonnet, and handed me pastries. (Which I paid for, of course. I am nothing if not a responsible economic citizen.)
Children dashed around the square barefoot, shouting with joyful, chaotic anarchy. No curtseys. No etiquette exams. Just... existing.
So I joined in.
Step 3: Street Games & Cat Crimes
We played kick-the-pebble, make-believe potions (I may have consumed leaves), and some shady game involving a sock and a pig that I still don't understand. I fell in the mud three times, scraped my knee on a rock, and laughed so hard I hiccuped for an hour.
And then, in a quiet alley behind the bakery, I saw him.
A magnificently fat, one-eared alley cat lounging on a flour sack like he ruled the cosmos. He blinked one golden eye and emitted a slow, judgmental meow.
It was love.
I named him General Whiskers III (the first two being fictional warlords from a bedtime saga I wrote in crayon). He was unimpressed—but he followed me anyway.
Step 4: The Discovery (and Mild Royal Panic)
When I returned to the palace—mud-caked, smelly, missing one sock, triumphantly holding General Whiskers aloft—the guards shrieked, the maids fainted, and my father aged a decade on the spot.
"I thought you were kidnapped!" thundered the King.
"I kidnapped myself," I said breezily.
The Queen blinked and muttered, "She's becoming like me."
General Whiskers bit a footman and claimed the royal chaise as his throne.
I did not apologize.
Aftermath
The palace is in polite disarray because:
I'm grounded again.
General Whiskers bit a duke.
The King is convening emergency councils about "commoner infiltration threats."
Meanwhile, I've started drafting adoption papers for my cat, and the village kids are sending me secret messages via pastry boxes.
I'm six now. The world is wide, the stories are wilder, and next time?
I may not just sneak out.
I might invite the whole village in.