When the prime minister told Princess Pirouette that the old King meant to marry again, she had to press her handkerchief to her mouth to stifle her laughter. “Who is to be the lucky bride, or has she been chosen yet?” She asked.
“His Majesty means to marry my niece, Lady Greenmeadow.”
Any mirth that Pirouette may have felt was squelched by this revelation. How could that old man even think of marriage? She thought to herself. Given his constant coughing fits, there probably wasn’t one healthy bronchiole in either of his lungs.
“I can’t think of a more unsuitable candidate for Queen of this realm,” said the Princess tersely.
“But Your Highness!” Said the prime minister. “You are to be her maid of honor!”
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