Once upon a soft, candle-lit evening, when the wind brushed through the treetops like a gentle rumor, Princess Emma of Velinwood overheard a conversation she was not meant to hear.
“The sweepers take care of the halls,” someone whispered.
But Emma—Their Highness of Contradictions (and Cutlery)—tilted her tiny head, narrowed her eyes, and heard:
“The sweet pears take care of the Queen.”
Well.
That explained so much.
She had seen the sweepers moving about the kingdom—quiet, slight, soft-footed figures with brooms that glided more than swept. They were gentle and serious and wholly undeserving of such a boring name as “sweepers.”
Sweet pears, on the other hand?
Adorable.
Dignified.
Delicious.
So Emma did what Emma does.
She began leaving pears all over the kingdom.
On window ledges.
On bannisters.
Balanced precariously on the noses of statues.
Tucked inside boots.
One was lovingly placed atop Bunny’s head while he slept.
And the sweepers… accepted them.
In fact, they began bowing slightly when they found one—a gesture of respect, as though acknowledging a royal offering from the Heir Apparent.
Soon, Emma noticed that the kingdom felt lighter. Doors polished themselves. Lanterns glowed brighter. Floors shimmered even when no broom was near.
“Sweet pears,” she murmured proudly, eating one of her offerings herself. “You’re welcome.”
When the Queen found three pears nested in her cloak hood, she simply smiled.
Emma beamed.
The pears gleamed.
The sweepers worked harder than ever.
And so, in the quiet hours before sleep, Emma curled beneath her velvet blanket knowing—firmly, fiercely—that she had improved the realm once again.
After all… the kingdom ran better with pears.