It struck me then, the way history could hinge on such small things: an apology, a treaty on a napkin, a smile from a baker, or a scone for courage. None of this was how I'd imagined royal life, back when I was just a lost girl thrown into the body of a princess with a fate as heavy as the crown itself.
I didn't imagine, for instance, that the most pressing matter on my royal schedule would be how to get jam out of state regalia. Nor had I anticipated that my council of advisers would include a professional mischief-maker, two former bodyguards-turned-conspirators, one semi-reformed shadow sorceress (and crush), an exasperated librarian, a pair of revolution-hungry siblings, and, depending on the day, a union of enchanted lawn ornaments.
This, I told myself, was probably not the scenario in the royal training manual. But then, manuals rarely survived contact with my family.
