The Princess Who Crowned Herself

Princess Lily did not merely believe she was the Queen; she *was* the Queen, in her own magnificent, sparkly, tiara-wearing mind. The castle, to her royal eyes, was her personal playground, and its inhabitants, from the scullery maids polishing pewter to the stern-faced knights polishing their armor, were her devoted subjects, utterly and irrevocably hers to command. And oh, how she commanded!

“You there!” she’d trill, pointing a tiny, bejeweled finger at a bewildered footman struggling with a towering stack of freshly laundered linens. “Fetch me a strawberry tart, and make it snappy! And don’t you dare smush it, it’s for *my* royal digestion.”

The footman, a young man named Barnaby whose knees had a permanent tremor when Princess Lily was about, would stutter, “Y-yes, Your Highness! Right away, Your Highness!” He’d practically sprint to the kitchens, his heart thumping a frantic rhythm against his ribs, praying the pastry chef had a tart ready and that it was perfectly un-smushed.

Her mother, the Queen, a woman of considerable grace and even more considerable patience, would often observe these pronouncements from her throne, a gentle sigh escaping her lips like a wisp of smoke. Today, however, the sigh was a little less gentle, a little more like a puff of exasperated steam.

Lily, having finished her interrogation of Barnaby, was now sauntering through the Great Hall, her silken gown swishing around her ankles like a playful stream. Sir Reginald, the Royal Advisor, a man whose hair was rapidly retreating from his forehead like a frightened mouse, scurried to bow before her.

“Good morrow, Princess Lily,” he said, his voice a tad too high-pitched. “A glorious day for our kingdom, is it not?”

Lily stopped, tapping a perfectly manicured finger against her chin. “Glorious for *me*, Sir Reginald. And it would be even more glorious if someone had remembered to polish my favorite riding boots. The ones with the little silver unicorns. They look dreadfully dull.”

Sir Reginald’s eyes widened. “But, Your Highness, they were polished just yesterday. I saw the stable boy myself…”

“Well, he clearly did a shoddy job,” Lily declared, tossing her golden curls with an air of supreme authority. “And tell him that next time, he’ll be scrubbing the stables with a toothbrush. A *tiny* toothbrush.”

The Queen’s voice, usually as soothing as a lullaby, cut through the hall, firm and clear. “Lily, my darling.”

Lily spun around, a look of mild annoyance flickering across her face. It was ever so inconvenient when her mother interrupted her royal decrees. “Yes, Mother dear?” she chirped, though the ‘dear’ sounded more like a polite dismissal.

The Queen rose from her throne, her expression unreadable, though a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth hinted at suppressed amusement. “We have discussed this, have we not?” she asked, her gaze steady. “You are a princess, a beloved daughter, but you are not yet the Queen.”

Lily crossed her arms, her lower lip jutting out rebelliously. “But I *feel* like the Queen. I *act* like the Queen. Therefore, I *am* the Queen. It’s quite simple, really. It’s just logic.”

Sir Reginald coughed nervously, adjusting his spectacles. “Your Highness, the Queen is the ruler of the kingdom—”

“And *I* rule the Queen,” Lily interrupted, pointing a finger at her mother. “And I rule Sir Reginald, and Barnaby, and the cook, and the stable boy, and everyone else! So, logically, I am the ultimate ruler. The Queen of Queens!”

A ripple of stifled giggles went through the few courtiers who were within earshot, quickly suppressed by stern glares from their more sensible colleagues.

The Queen walked towards Lily, her steps measured. She knelt down, bringing her face level with her daughter’s. “Lily,” she said, her voice soft but laced with a warning. “Being a Queen is not just about giving orders. It’s about being kind, about being thoughtful, about making sure everyone in your kingdom is looked after. It’s about wearing the crown with grace and responsibility.”

Lily puffed out her chest. “I’m very graceful! And I’m responsible for making sure everyone does what I tell them to do. That’s a big responsibility!”

The Queen’s eyes twinkled for a fleeting moment before her stern expression returned. “If you continue to behave this way, Lily,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “if you continue to be so… imperious, so demanding, so utterly convinced that everyone exists solely to cater to your every whim…”

Lily leaned in, her eyes wide with curiosity, expecting some fantastical consequence. Perhaps she’d be turned into a frog? Or have her tiara replaced with a toadstool?

“…then,” the Queen continued, leaning closer, “I shall have to make you wear the old people clothes.”

Lily blinked. “The… the what?”

“The old people clothes,” the Queen repeated, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “You know, the drab, itchy woolens. The shapeless grey dresses. The sensible, sensible shoes that make your feet ache just looking at them. The bonnets that hide your pretty hair. The clothes that make you look like a… well, like an old person who has forgotten how to have fun.”

Lily stared at her mother as if she’d sprouted a second head. “Old people clothes? You jest!” She let out a peal of laughter, a bright, tinkling sound that echoed through the hall. “Mother, that’s a ridiculous threat! Nobody would ever make me wear such dreadful things!”

The Queen stood up, smoothing her own elegant gown. “We shall see, my dear. We shall see. For now, I have important royal matters to attend to. Sir Reginald, please inform the royal chef that I require his presence at once. And Lily, perhaps you could… reconsider your current wardrobe choices. They are a little… demanding.”

With that, the Queen swept from the hall, leaving Lily standing alone, a bewildered frown on her face. Old people clothes? The very idea was preposterous! She, Princess Lily, the Queen of her own magnificent world, reduced to wearing… *drab*? It was an insult to her very existence.

She huffed, a dramatic gust of air. “Honestly,” she muttered to herself, adjusting her diamond-encrusted bodice. “Mother has no sense of style. And Sir Reginald looks like he’s perpetually about to faint. They just don’t understand the demands of royalty.”

Sir Reginald, still hovering nearby, cleared his throat. “Princess, perhaps if you were to… temper your requests just a little? The royal staff are doing their very best.”

Lily glared at him, her eyes narrowing. “Temper my requests? Are you suggesting I am not being a proper Queen?”

Sir Reginald flinched. “No, no, Your Highness! Of course not! You are… a very unique and… powerful princess.” He wrung his hands. “It’s just… the old people clothes are quite a serious threat, you know.”

“Hmph,” Lily sniffed, turning her back on him with a flourish of her skirt. “I’ll never wear them. I’ll simply make sure everyone knows that *I* am in charge. And they’ll be too scared to even *think* about such a thing.”

She marched off towards her chambers, already formulating her next decree. Perhaps she’d demand a parade in her honor. Or a castle made entirely of spun sugar. Yes, a spun sugar castle would be splendid. And everyone would have to eat it, whether they liked it or not. After all, that’s what Queens did. They made demands, and their subjects obeyed. And Princess Lily was, in her own mind, the very best Queen of all. The thought of those drab, scratchy old clothes was merely a funny, far-fetched fairy tale. A tale that would never, ever come true. Not for her.