Five years had passed. Five years of intensive rehabilitation following her previous, long, and exhausting life. For Princess Amelia Blackwood, this was a period of explosive growth and mastering a new instrument—her body. She was no longer a helpless infant. Her once-short black hair had grown out, transforming into a cascade of springy curls now held back by a silk ribbon. Yet, that same mischievous, all-knowing gleam still burned in her large dark-gray eyes—a look that didn’t quite match her sweet, childlike face.
Her progress was phenomenal. Small but surprisingly obedient fingers already danced confidently across piano keys, coaxing out melodies that took other children years to master. Her flexible body froze effortlessly in graceful arabesques during ballet lessons. And the calligraphy she traced in her notebooks was a subject of pride and astonishment for all her tutors.
Well, rehab is proceeding according to plan, she thought, looking with satisfaction at a row of perfectly formed letters. The brain is plastic, the body is young. I’m mastering skills faster than my son learned to tie his shoelaces. What an eventful retirement!
Today, however, a new stage of the program awaited her. A new "work team."
The Royal Study was a stern and imposing place. Towering dark wood cabinets propped up the ceiling, and the air hung heavy with the scent of old books and beeswax. The tutor, a severe man in spectacles named Monsieur Dubois, placed a hand on the shoulder of the tiny, yet utterly composed Amelia.
"By the order of His Majesty," he announced in a creaky voice, "from this day forth, Princess Amelia, in view of her outstanding abilities, shall attend lessons with you."
Five boys stood opposite her. In the center, arms crossed over his chest, loomed her older brother, Crown Prince Damian. Ten years old, perfectly styled blond hair, and an air of arrogance suggesting the entire world was created solely to offend his sensibilities. Flanking him were his friends, all his age, drilling the girl with glares full of poorly concealed disdain.
Well, well, the new 'work team,' Amelia chuckled mentally, assessing the situation. Look at these pompous little turkeys. My own son was exactly like this in the past... until he discovered the joys of puberty and online casinos. Alright, attempt number two. The key is not to give them too much pocket money and make sure they don't get hooked on gambling.
The moment Monsieur Dubois left the room, the atmosphere instantly grew tense. A boy with dark, unruly curls—Tristan, the Marquis’s son—stepped forward.
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"Did you hear?" he challenged, looking down at Amelia. "This is a study for serious lessons, not a nursery. Maybe you should go play with your dolls, Princess?"
Damian ostentatiously turned toward the bookcase, pretending to study the spines of ancient tomes with incredible interest. But inside, his stomach knotted.
I’m just looking at books, the Prince’s mind raced anxiously. There are very interesting books here. I hear nothing and see no one. Father will kill me if anything happens to her, but I can’t look like a weakling or a babysitter in front of my friends. Just... don't interfere. Strategic non-intervention.
Amelia, however, instead of getting scared or bursting into tears, simply tilted her head slightly to the side. There was neither fear nor offense on her face. Only a warm, slightly condescending affection—the kind a grandmother has when watching a funny, frowning grandchild trying to act like an adult.
Oh, what a serious young man, she thought. Trying so hard, puffing out his chest... What a cutie pie!
Without a word, she performed an elegant curtsy, honed to perfection in her choreography classes. The boys were momentarily taken aback by such politeness; it didn’t fit their "bullying the shrimp" scenario at all.
"You must be Lord Tristan?" her voice rang out clear and melodic. "I have heard much about your success in fencing. It is a great honor for me to study alongside you and the Prince."
The 'Flattery and Acknowledging Authority' tactic, she noted to herself. Worked flawlessly in every board meeting. The main thing is to make the client feel important.
Tristan blinked in confusion, unsure how to react to such an unexpected move. His prepared aggression hung uselessly in the air. Seeing his hesitation, Amelia, with a mischievous smile, took a small velvet pouch from her shoulder and retrieved an elegantly wrapped box tied with a satin ribbon.
"I thought, since we have much work to do together, we should start our collaboration with something pleasant," she whispered conspiratorially. "As a gesture of goodwill."
With a soft click, she opened the lid. Inside, resting on a golden liner, lay rows of exquisite miniature pastries from the Royal Pastry Chef. Tiny works of art covered in mirror glaze, adorned with berries and edible gold.
All five boys, including the Prince who was still pretending to study books, involuntarily leaned forward. They instantly lost their self-important airs. The hostility on their faces was replaced by poorly concealed childish curiosity and hungry interest.
"Whoa..." whispered a red-headed boy with freckles. "Those are the ones... Chef Pierre's specials..."
With a warm, all-knowing smile, Amelia made her final move. She didn't extend the open box to the instigator Tristan, but to her brother, the Crown Prince, demonstratively recognizing him as the group leader. Damian looked at his sister in surprise, then at the pastries, then at the expectant faces of his friends. He was confused, but his feigned coldness evaporated without a trace.
"Brother, treat your friends," Amelia said gently. "We are one team now, after all."
Checkmate, boys, she summed up mentally, watching her brother hesitantly pick up the first pastry. The way to a man's heart, regardless of his age, is through his stomach. A tactic proven by centuries. My royal pension promises to be very, very fun.
