Stitching the Kingdom

There were no charming princes, no gossip over jam-grazed cookies and sponge cakes, no twirling in dresses laced with crushed gemstones or slippers spun from enchanted glass.

There was too much to do. Too much to learn. Her daily schedule was as tightly stitched as the embroidery hoops she still struggled to master.

Each morning, she rose before the sun had fully kissed the palace’s high towers. She splashed ice-cold water on her face—a brisk ritual that banished any lingering drowsiness—then turned to the dresses laid out for her.

“Which dress shall it be today, Your Highness?” asked Nina, her faithful lady’s maid.

She had chosen two options: one, a dignified gown in calming shades of peacock and Persian green; the other, a bright, lively dress embroidered with colorful flowers, tied with an eye-catching icterine-yellow ribbon. It reminded Charlotte of the gardens, where blooms were beginning to wake with the spring.

“I’ll take the yellow one,” she said, smiling.

Once Charlotte decided on today’s dress, Nina dusted the princess’s face with powder and helped arrange her hair. Instead of the elaborate, intricate styles she wore for formal audiences, Nina braided her hair into a neat ponytail with a bright red ribbon.

For a princess, it was a surprisingly simple, innocent look, yet this had become her symbol—an emblem of her free spirit. And although there was a deeper reason she clung to this style, she rarely spoke of it.

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

After she slipped into the soft dress, Charlotte and Nina headed toward the castle’s heart—the sacred Chamber of Life—for morning prayers. As they walked, castle workers greeted them: maids with fresh linens, laborers polishing windows, cooks with baskets of produce, knights on patrol.

“Good morning, Princess! Lady Nina!”

“Good morning, everyone. It’s finally warming up, isn’t it?” Charlotte said.

“Yes, Your Highness! Please visit the gardens later. The head gardener has been boasting about the blooms all morning,” a young maid replied.

“Thank you—I’ll be sure to take a look.”

Though she chatted easily, her steps never faltered. Palace schedules moved like clockwork, and she had no wish to disrupt their rhythm.

Down a flight of stone steps, they entered a vast, circular courtyard carved into the building itself. The Chamber of Life was open to the sky, with no roof and no glass in its windows. Rain and sun alike fell freely within.

From the sky, a little blue bird fluttered down, chirping as it flew toward Charlotte.

“Oh, good morning.” When she held out her finger, the bird perched upon it, twittering cheerfully. Hearing its song, Charlotte let out a small, gentle laugh. “I’m sorry, it’s time for my prayers now. Come again next time.”

With that, she lifted her arm toward the sky. The bird gave one last chirp, then beat its wings and flew off into the distance.

At the chamber’s center grew the sacred tree—a living offshoot from the original Mother Tree, a remnant of the world’s ancient magic. Though it was shorter than the castle walls that surrounded it, the tree was still tall enough to look down upon Charlotte and the visitors who came to this place. The great tree’s branches were heavy with spring’s first buds, tiny explosions of green unfurling into tender leaves.

Nina spread a beautiful carpet embroidered with motifs of forests and spells at the tree’s root. Charlotte knelt on it, closing her eyes and folding her hands. She offered thanks for the gifts of the forest and the blessing of life itself, then prayed for those who were not here.

The ancient tree, as always, offered no reply.

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

After the prayer, it was time for breakfast. On a long, stately table large enough to seat dozens, only one place was set. A porcelain plate and polished cutlery lay out neatly, waiting for the princess.

As she took her seat, the head chef appeared, pushing a cart laden with covered dishes.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” he greeted with a bow. “Today’s salad is made with lettuce and herbs we picked just this morning.”

“Oh, I’ve been waiting all winter for a lettuce salad,” Charlotte said with a delighted smile, unfolding her napkin with practiced grace.

“Not to worry,” the chef added with a wink. “You won’t see many pickled vegetables again, not until winter returns.”

She gave a wry smile. The scent of butter melting over the bread, the snap of fresh herbs between her teeth—these simple pleasures made her glad that spring had returned. 

Once the meal ended, duty called. She sat upright in one of the study rooms, pen ready, shoulders squared. The door creaked open. Edmund stepped inside—chancellor, historian, and ever-patient tutor, though never without a touch of pomp. He was short and round, had slicked-back hair streaked with white, and always fussed with his mustache or glasses when he got dramatic.

“Today, Princess,” he said with a small bow, “let us review the rise and fall of the Northern Empire of Sorcery you studied earlier, along with what tends to befall lands struck by great calamity.”

She nodded. The flourishing of magical culture, the rot of power, and at last the collapse—the palace and its capital laid to ruin by a storm unlike any before—that followed. He said that whether the capital had fallen by a willful act of sorcery or by the misfire of a mage’s hand, no one could say.

“Not only magic, but storms, earthquakes, tidal waves, famine . . . After a disaster, survivors often hide their origins. Many believe that such misfortunes cling to people like a curse. Well, of course, such beliefs are little more than superstition.” He gave a small sigh. “And even if they are not shunned, there are always those who would seek to exploit them. It is not unreasonable to think that some survivors remain, but few would openly speak of their past.”

She hesitated, then asked, “I understand about commoners and lesser nobles. But what of the royal family of that empire? Or the magi who served them?”

At her question, Edmund fell silent for a long time, pondering. “Corruption had festered among the rulers for generations,” he said at last. “It would not be surprising if some, disgusted by the decay, had fled before the empire’s collapse. They would become runaways hidden among the scattered survivors.”

So, survivors might still exist, yet their identities remained veiled by necessity. She drew her own conclusion.

“Why, Princess,” Edmund said, giving a slow, almost mischievous smile. “For all we know, one of them might even be living among us today.”

Charlotte blinked in surprise, then gave a soft, delighted laugh. “That would be rather wonderful, wouldn’t it?”

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

History wasn’t the only subject in her curriculum. The subjects she had to master were endless: mathematics, diplomacy, economics . . . She wasn’t expected to become a scholar in each field. But for royalty, knowledge was as vital as any armor. A princess without a shield would be devoured before she even understood the danger.

The morning lessons were only the beginning. Afternoons were no easier—she hurried around the castle so quickly she felt dizzy, but she never let it show. Especially not in front of Vanellope, her etiquette tutor.

When Charlotte stepped into one of the private chambers of the Royal Library, she found Vanellope already waiting, accompanied by a young clerk who bowed deeply at her entrance.

Vanellope’s tight brunette curls were pinned high upon her head, spectacles gleaming sharp in the lamplight. Vanellope was the sort of woman who could read the smallest cracks in one’s posture or tone, catching the faintest flicker of fatigue or distraction.

“Your Highness, I hope you have recovered from the recent audience with the Duchess of Bahharis,” Vanellope said, her voice measured and precise. “Today, we shall review the transcript of that meeting—examining your words and conduct. Do note, this session will be recorded, as I have invited a trainee clerk to join us.”

The young man at her side lifted his head, brushing back the platinum curls that had fallen into his eyes. He wore a finely tailored outfit embroidered with work that could cost more than most trainee clerks earned in a month.

“My name is Francis. An honor, Princess,” he said with a bright smile, his white teeth flashing.

“Yes, ma’am. And . . . pleased to meet you, Francis.” Charlotte returned his greeting with the same flawless politeness.

They took their places: Charlotte and Vanellope sat at the wide walnut table in the center of the chamber, while Francis settled at a maple writing desk to record their exchanges.

As Vanellope read from the transcript, she guided Charlotte through moments where her poise had faltered or where her words might be sharpened. A royal tutor’s duty was not simply to instruct in curtsies and cutlery. It was to ensure a sovereign’s every gesture carried dignity worthy of a nation, rooted in deep knowledge of other lands’ culture, history, and politics. Each word was diplomacy—each expression, an extension of the Crown itself.

“This question,” Vanellope said, pointing to Yuli’s inquiry about the dance partner at the Moonblossom Gala, “seems to carry political intent.”

“You think so . . . ?”

“Consider this. If Lady Yuli imagined the ritual akin to a ball, then her inquiry about the festival dance may have been an opening to suggest a partner for Your Highness. A potential match—perhaps one intended to grow into something deeper.”

At that moment, Francis’s pen faltered ever so slightly in its movement. But it was so fleeting that neither Vanellope nor Charlotte noticed.

“Now that you mention it . . . But I’ve heard that all of Lady Yuli’s sons are already married or betrothed.”

“Either way, Your Highness’s response made it clear to her that you don’t yet have a fiancé. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Bahharis is a friendly nation . . . Perhaps Lady Yuli will introduce you to some nobleman of her acquaintance when she visits for the festival.”

Charlotte blinked, startled. “That . . . would be quite the surprise.”

“Not a delight, then?”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing at all.” Vanellope adjusted her spectacles with a faint glint. “At any rate, this exchange reveals much significance. Were such a question to come from a less friendly nation, Your Highness, the approach must be entirely different. For example—”

And so the lesson continued. Together, they dissected each phrase, each hesitation, each smile. They practiced how to deflect loaded compliments without offense, how to draw out information while revealing none in return.

By the time they concluded, the hours had slipped away unnoticed.

“That will be all of that for today, Your Highness,” Vanellope said with a crisp nod.

Charlotte exhaled slowly, careful that it could not be mistaken for a sigh.

“It was most enlightening, Your Highness,” Francis said, gathering up his parchment before offering a deep bow. “Though I must admit—it seems a shame you have no partner for the festival dance. If permitted, I should be the very first to volunteer.”

“My . . .” Charlotte’s eyes widened before she gave him a faint smile. “You are quite the jester, Francis.”

“Jester? Hardly. I assure you, I speak from—” He placed a hand over his heart and took a step forward, but Vanellope’s voice cut him short.

“Francis. You will review those transcripts and prepare a full report. The princess’s instruction is not yet finished.”

His smile froze. With a bow, he stepped back and withdrew from the chamber. Vanellope followed.

“We shall meet again in the ballroom in ten minutes, Your Highness.”

At the mention of ballroom, Charlotte’s spirits lifted. Finally—the part of her day she truly looked forward to.

After changing into her lighter practice dress, Charlotte and Vanellope made their way through the eastern corridor, where tall windows let in the late afternoon sun. The grand dance hall shimmered with golden light as she entered, finding Eliza—a former renowned dancer from Bahharis—already there, stretching near the harpsichord.

“Good afternoon, Eliza,” Charlotte said, dipping into a graceful curtsy.

“You’re on time today. Good,” Vanellope said.

“You’ve come, Princess. And hello to you too, Vanellope,” Eliza replied with a smile, extending her hand to Charlotte as if she were a prince stepping out of a fairytale. “Now, then—shall we enjoy a charming little dance?”

Where Vanellope stood ramrod straight in her austere moss-green dress, hair pinned into an unyielding bun, Eliza was a vision of rebellious charm. Her long black braid swung over her shoulder, and her crisp teal blue trousers and black boots gave her a lively, roguish air. Against her sun-kissed skin, the colors sang.

Today’s lesson was the waltz, the crown jewel of courtly dances.

Vanellope settled at the harpsichord in the corner of the room, her fingers finding the keys to play the dance music. The melody was faithful to form, never swaying with emotion or faltering in rhythm—whether it was artistic or not was debatable, but it was perfectly suited for dance practice.

Taking Eliza’s outstretched hand, Charlotte walked to the center of the hall. The two women curtsied to each other, then clasped hands once more and stepped forward to begin their dance.

Eliza, tall and nimble, moved with ease at the front, but Charlotte hardly needed any direction. When the steps quickened, she answered in kind, twirling, dipping, and arching like a young swan awakening to its wings.

“Charlie,” Eliza said, flashing a grin that could topple kingdoms, “you were born to dance, weren’t you?”

“I daresay I prefer it to needlework or sitting at the harpsichord all day,” Charlotte laughed, cheeks warming at the nickname. 

The waltz, the rondelle, the starfall—partner dances had always been her secret joy. She loved the way music carried her, lifting her across marble floors as if she were weightless—no crown, no burdens, just a girl lost in the dance.

Eliza gave a devilish little smile. “Then you must catch yourself a proper man at the next ball. And mark my words—if he steps on your toes, I will have his head.”

Charlotte gasped. “Eliza!”

“Darling, I refuse to see my finest pupil wasted on clumsy oafs,” Eliza said, winking at her. “You’ll be the envy of the ballroom, and I intend to bask in the reflected glory!”

“But I don’t even have a fiancé yet,” she murmured, glancing away shyly.

Not letting her retreat, Eliza twirled and blocked her line of sight with a playful spin.

“Oh, come on! The Moonblossom Gala is around the corner, isn’t it? Nobles, handsome knights, dashing rogues—plenty of candidates. I wager they’d line up just for the honor of being your dance partner.” Her teasing tone was shameless, as if suggesting the princess could pluck a partner off the street.

“And as for their reward? A sweet little kiss on the cheek should do the trick, I’d say.” She lowered her voice, whispering close to Charlotte’s ear.

“N-no! I can’t do that!” Charlotte cried, her cheeks turning the color of spring roses.

“Eliza, mind your tongue!” Vanellope’s voice cracked through the hall like a whip.

“Oops, she heard me.” Eliza gave a theatrical gasp and stuck out her tongue behind Vanellope’s back, earning a stifled giggle from Charlotte.

As Eliza had said, Charlotte had never once had a partner of her own. Not at the palace balls. Not at the town festivals, where she watched laughing couples whirl across the squares.

No fiancé. No Prince Charming.

There were candidates—sons of noble families, distant princes of allied lands—but none had been chosen. Not yet. Not without her parents to guide the arrangements.

So for now—just for now—Charlotte told herself she didn’t need a partner. Until the day she met the one meant for her, she would dance with Eliza . . . and with herself, alone beneath the lights.

As the final notes faded, they released each other’s hands and exchanged a graceful bow.

“See you at the next lesson, Charlie,” Eliza called brightly as she gathered her things. “Next time, we’ll start practicing the ritual dance for the festival. Just imagine—the sweep of the gown, opening like a flower in bloom . . .”

“Yes,” Vanellope interjected, her voice calm and exact. “The ritual dance will surely be a magnificent sight.”

“It has to be,” Eliza declared, her eyes gleaming. “Something greater than anything the people have seen before! As a teacher, I feel it in my bones—this is what I was made for.”

Charlotte’s lips curved into a fragile smile. “My mother’s magic, in the last ceremony, was so breathtaking. If I can manage a dance that doesn’t shame her memory, I’ll be content with that.”

“Oh, Charlie, Charlie.” Eliza wagged a finger at her with mock scolding. “Modesty is a virtue, but when it chains you down, it turns into a flaw. What drives true mastery is passion—the desire to create the work no one else could ever replicate.”

“Indeed,” Vanellope added. “You possess remarkable talent, Your Highness—talent honed through diligence. To that, both Eliza and I can attest.”

Charlotte inclined her head at the praise, though she knew—so did they—that no spark of confidence shone in her expression.

“You were splendid again today, Your Highness. Rest well,” Vanellope said at last, bowing with impeccable grace as she saw her pupil to the door.

The walk back to her chambers felt longer than usual, as her heart still lingered on thoughts of what Eliza had said during the lesson. By the time she arrived, the evening shadows were already stretching long across the castle halls.

“There you are, Your Highness,” Nina said, already waiting with a brush in hand. “You’re flushed—was the dance lesson a bit intense today?”

Charlotte seated herself before the large vanity. “I had a waltz lesson with Eliza. And then . . .”

Nina tilted her head. “And then?”

“And then . . . we talked about needing to practice the ceremonial dance,” Charlotte said, changing what she had been about to say mid-sentence. Nina didn’t seem to notice, and the two continued their conversation.

As Nina worked through Charlotte’s golden hair with quiet care, she stared at her reflection in the mirror, wondering if anyone could ever love the real her—not the crown princess, but the lonely girl hidden beneath.

The one who still missed her parents every single day. The one who feared she would never be enough.

Most girls her age probably dreamed of kind, wonderful partners. And Charlotte was no different. She, too, wished for true love. But dreams were dangerous for rulers. They had a way of pulling you under, wrapping you in memories and desires sweeter than any reality, until you forgot how to stand on your own.

Those who stand above others cannot afford to show weakness. So, then—how could she ever meet someone, fall in love, and build something real?

The soft ticking of the mantel clock drew Charlotte back from her thoughts. The evening was advancing, and with it, the remainder of her duties.

Just as Nina finished tying the last ribbon into her braid, a knock sounded at the door. At her word, Edmund entered.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” he said, adjusting his small, round spectacles with thick fingers. He wasn’t wearing the face of her history tutor, but that of a ruler who ran the kingdom: the Chancellor.

“We’ve finally received the details for the Moonblossom Gala. It seems the townspeople are planning quite a few new events.”

“How delightful,” Nina said with a gentle smile.

“The people must be looking forward to it as well,” Edmund replied. “After all, it has been a long while since they’ve had any reason for cheer.”

His words, tinged with quiet solemnity, silenced both Charlotte and Nina. A long while, indeed. Ever since the queen and her entourage had vanished, no grand celebration had taken place.

He held out a folder, then added, “And your meeting with the royal archivist begins in ten minutes. Also, the grain tax report from the southern valley is on your desk. Your final review and approval are needed.”

His brisk voice snapped her back to reality.

“I’ll finish the report after dinner,” she said, rising to her feet. “Have someone prepare tea for the archivist—he likes it with honey.”

She turned away from the fragile girl in the mirror, fastened the mask of a perfect princess onto her face, and stepped back into the world.

As amber and violet light spilled across the darkening sky, the princess knew her duties were not yet complete.