There are times in life when you realize—firmly realize—that you've done something clever. Not just clever, but historically great. Legendary, even.
This was one such time.
The Grand Diplomatic Banquet had started gloriously: imported crystal glasses, servants in starched uniforms, and nobility puffed up like overfed peacocks. Among the guests were envoys from the Kingdom of Virelle—famous for almond cakes, strict protocol, and an utter lack of mischief.
Naturally, I found this deeply upsetting.
"Charlotte," Elias whispered beside me at the royal table, "you're staring at their dessert table like it owes you money."
"It does," I muttered, narrowing my eyes. "That is definitely an apricot tart, not almond. Deception. I need to get to the bottom of this."
Elias stiffened. "Don't do anything—"
"—undiplomatic?" I smiled, already pushing back from my chair. "Don't worry. I'm being my very best self."
To my credit, I survived three whole minutes before initiating international tension.
I simply swapped the Virellian ambassador's tart with mine to check the filling. Apparently, in Virelle, handling someone else's tart is tantamount to declaring war. The ambassador turned an alarming shade of plum. The Queen dropped her fork. The King choked on his wine. Elias aged five years in ten seconds.
"This is a misunderstanding," I declared. "A tart-based misunderstanding!"
"Princess Charlotte," the ambassador thundered, "you have insulted the honor of House Lutherré!"
"How was I to know your hierarchy of tarts was so delicate?" I asked.
Silence.
Then the Queen laughed.
The King sighed.
And Elias, as white as a meringue, whispered, "I should have run away to sea when I had the chance."
Ultimately, peace was restored when I formally apologized by presenting the ambassador with a painted tart portrait, which I unveiled publicly.
It now hangs in Virelle's Hall of Cultural Tensions.
Personally speaking, I consider that a victory.
A month after Pastrygate—as it's now called in diplomatic circles—I received a scroll sealed with Virelle's royal crest.
"Open it," I instructed Elias, reclining dramatically on a chaise like a tragic poet awaiting news from the front.
He raised an eyebrow. "You can read."
"I can also orchestrate culinary mayhem, and look where we are," I said sweetly. "Just open it."
He broke the seal and read aloud:
Her Royal Highness Princess Charlotte is officially invited to the Kingdom of Virelle for a goodwill tour and cultural exchange. Supervision can be assured. Tart etiquette training will be provided on arrival.
I sat bolt upright. "They invited me. I'm being exported. Like fine cheese. Or an invasive species."
Elias sighed. "You're being diplomatically humored."
"I am diplomatic humor," I said proudly. "Tell Father I accept."
The minute we stepped off the train in Virelle, the air was thick with wariness—you could frost a cake with it.
Guards in embroidered uniforms lined the marble corridors. A court official greeted us with a strained smile and handed me a pamphlet titled "Touching Other People's Pastries: A Virellian No-No." Elias snatched it away from me before I could fashion it into a hat.
We were escorted through the royal kitchens (fortified with lockboxes), the Hall of Cultural Tensions (where my tart portrait now had its own velvet rope), and finally, the Almond Archives—an entire wing of the palace dedicated to the kingdom's nut-related diplomacy.
"You can watch our tart-making ceremony," the guide explained, "but under no circumstances are you to—"
"Touch anything?" I finished. "Yes, yes. I've progressed."
Elias snorted. "Hardly."
Despite the pressure, I conducted myself with honor. For three consecutive days. I praised apricot sweets, politely declined to review the royal jam reserves, and only once attempted to crown myself with a whisk.
On the fourth day, the ambassador approached me with an expression that was both haunted and expectant.
"Princess Charlotte," he said, "mayhap you would like to make your own tart. With supervision, naturally."
My eyes sparkled. "Will there be apricot?"
His lips quivered. "As much as you like."
Under twelve serious eyes and Elias's glassy horror, I built a towering masterpiece: half almond, half apricot, finished with candied violets and a small icing sign that read, Diplomacy: Now With Flavor.
The ambassador presented it to the court.
The Queen of Virelle took a bite.
She smiled.
Then she laughed.
Then she asked for seconds.
The next morning, a new tart appeared in the palace dining room. It bore a note in elegant gold penmanship:
To Princess Charlotte: Sometimes one must shake the tart plate to gauge its resilience.With respect,House Lutherré
I grinned. "Elias, I think I've brought about a dessert détente."
He rolled his eyes. "I think you've begun Dessert Diplomacy: Phase Two."