Waltzing With Wishes

Vanellope, Charlotte’s etiquette tutor, stood as still and imposing as a marble statue. Her tight brunette curls were pinned high atop her head, spectacles gleaming sharply under the light.

"Your Highness, today we shall review the formal manners for a seven-course dinner," she announced, her voice crisp and polished.

With a graceful sweep of her hand—every movement refined, not a single finger out of place—she gestured to the spread of cutlery, glasses, and plates arrayed before Charlotte.

The table was set with an elaborate collection of utensils, each laid out with perfect precision for the imaginary courses to come: a round-bowled spoon for soup, a broad fork for fish, a weighty knife for meat, a dainty fork for dessert, and a slender blade for fruit. Every piece was polished to a high gleam, reflecting the light like tiny mirrors, and positioned with exacting order from the outermost to the innermost setting.

Yet not a single dish nor a drop of wine graced the plates or glasses.

Charlotte maintained the serene smile befitting a princess, but inwardly, she sighed.

…If we’re truly going to practice table manners, they could at least bring some food.

"Remember," Vanellope continued, "hold the wine glass by the stem to avoid leaving fingerprints on the bowl. You are familiar, I trust, with the distinctions among the glasses for red wine, white wine, sweet wine, and water?"

Charlotte offered a graceful nod, lifting one of the empty glasses by its stem with practiced elegance.

"And do not forget: utensils are used from the outside in. Now, tell me—how should you handle your spoon when taking soup?"

Charlotte responded smoothly, her posture impeccable. "Spoon away from oneself, and drink quietly, without making any sound."

She had already mastered this much.

Vanellope allowed herself a rare, satisfied smile, clearly pleased with her star pupil.

Charlotte couldn't help but think to herself. ...It's hard to enjoy a delicious meal while worrying about every little rule.

The lesson was perfect and concluded without any major mistakes. Vanellope gave a small nod of approval.

“However, Princess,” she said, “while that ribbon and hairstyle do suit you, they might seem a bit childish for someone of your standing.”

“It’s fine,” Charlotte replied without meeting her teacher’s gaze, “I always wear a proper hairstyle for official events.”

The red bow and braided hair were her favorite since her childhood. She’d worn them ever since before her parents had disappeared. She’d never changed it, not once.

Even though she clung to a somewhat childish appearance, Charlotte could carry herself beautifully on any stage as a princess.

Dance lessons were her true joy—her one guilty pleasure. Vanellope had once called her "the most graceful ruler this kingdom will ever see," rare praise that Charlotte cherished.

The grand dance hall shimmered with late afternoon light as Charlotte twirled across its polished floor—not alone, but with Eliza, the former renowned dancer from Bahharis.

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.

Eliza, tall and nimble, took the lead, guiding Charlotte with ease—and yet, Charlotte hardly needed guiding. When the steps quickened, she answered in kind, twirling, dipping, and arcing like a young swan awakening to its wings.

"Charlie," Eliza said, flashing a grin that could topple kingdoms, "you were simply born to dance, weren't you?"

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

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.

The waltz, the rondelle, the starfall—partner dances had always been her secret joy.

Eliza gave a devilish little spin, then leaned in conspiratorially. "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, "E-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…" Charlotte murmured, glancing away shyly.

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

"Oh, come on! The Flower Festival is just 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 Charlotte could just 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."

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

Eliza, beautiful and incorrigible, only chuckled—a woman who collected suitors as easily as flowers in a meadow.

"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.

Sometimes she dreamed of finding someone like her father: warm, gentle, steadfast—a man who truly saw her, not just her title and magic.

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.

Still, while Nina brushed Charlotte's golden locks, 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.

Those who stand above others could not afford to show weakness.

So then—how could she ever meet someone, fall in love, and build something real?

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

"Good evening, Your Highness," he said, adjusting his small round spectacles with thick fingers—a gesture so reminiscent of his wife, Vanellope.

"We’ve finally received the details for this year’s Flower Festival. It seems the townspeople are planning quite a few new events."

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," Charlotte 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.