Mira sighed. This was a daily ritual, as predictable as the tides but twice as dangerous. She had tried everything over the years: gentle songs, warm scones, even a small flute-playing boy once (he retired early to raise goats). Nothing worked. The Cranky Princess would not be moved.
No one smiled.
The crown might be heavy, but it’s nothing compared to the weight of her sheer, unadulterated mood. brat princess Isabella Cranky princess has to get up
“Good morning, Your Highness. It is time to rise.” Mira sighed
Isabella peered one eye from beneath the duvet—just a sliver—and measured the world. Ribbons were nice. Meringues were a treaty in sweetness. The hedgehog fan, fluttered by an artful hand, produced a draft that lifted the corner of the curtain like a stagehand revealing a prop. Nothing worked
