"She dyed her hair, it's a scandal!" The shrill voice yelled, entering the room full of writers. The editor-in-chief waltzed into the room as if she were the queen.
"Her hair?" One of them asked, unsure whom the editor was talking about.
"Yes, her hair," Frenchie exclaimed. "She dyed it blonde!"
"Blonde? But her brunette hair was beautiful!" Another stated, going along what the boss said.
"That's what I was thinking!" The obnoxious woman exclaimed, rolling her eyes. "Mirazko, find me a quill and parchments!" She snapped her fingers, asking her assistant. Mirazko felt the need her roll her eyes. The finger snapping was unneeded. She was always obedient, but the loud woman had some need to always feel superior.
"Don't you think you're over exaggerating this entire thing Ms Skeeter?" Mirazko piped up as she handed her boss her enchanted quill and parchment. "I'm sure you dyed your hair when you were younger. She's a preteen for Merlin's sake,"
"Tsk, tsk Mirazko," the lady said, casting the spell that brought the quill and parchment to life. "You work for Wicked Gossip and everything related to the Princess is valuable and bound to sell."
Ordering her assistant to bring her some coffee and pumpkin pasties, Frenchie ignored her writers and made her way to her office. The flying objects followed her as she closed the office door.
"Now write this," she instructed, formulating the sentences in her brain and spewing them out seconds later.
"Has the Princess gone wild? Her stringy yet beautiful chestnut hair has gone completely blonde! Is this a sign saying that this will bring the country to ruin once she - "
"I strongly suggest you don't finish that sentence."
Frenchie snapped out of her thoughts as the small hairs on the back of her neck stood. Looking at the man sitting on her chair, she gulped. The man flipped through the pages of the atrocious magazine, and slightly scrunched his face in disgust as the content within. He found the chair uncomfortable for his taste, far too soft for him.
He didn't spare a glance at the woman who called herself a journalist.
"Your majesty," Frenchie gasped, quickly bowing while the quill and parchment fell to the floor.
Without a single word from the King, one of his two bodyguards flicked their wand and the piece of parchment began to burn.
"I strongly suggest you don't write such nasty things about my daughter, and the future Queen, unless they're in a positive light," the King said, placing the magazine on the desk. His dark brown eyes looked over at Frenchie, but before he could continue, the door opened wide.
Mirazko balanced her boss's coffee and the pasties in one hand, while her other arm was full of papers that were on the verge of slipping. Gasping in surprise, she attempted to bow. A feat that was a bit difficult for her full arms.
"Your majesty!" The redheaded assistant exclaimed. Mirazko run through the schedule for the day, quite sure that she hadn't made an appointment for the king. Not that he would need any.
Standing from his seat, the King made his way to help Mirazko and gabbed the pasties and the coffee. He set them down on Frenchie's desk. He couldn't help himself to a breaded dessert though.
"Who made these? He asked, delighted by the pasties.
One of his security guards coughed. The king knew he shouldn't be having any sweets, but he ignored the guard. If the Queen were to find out, she'd have a field day.
"I did, your majesty," Mirazko responded, the stacks of papers pressed against her chest as she flushed in embarrassment.
"They're delicious," he complimented while looking over at the assistant. "If you would be so kind to write down the recipe and send it over to the castle Miss Jarah. I would love to replicate it."
Mirazko nodded, cheeks still a bright red as she scurried off to write the recipe for the king. She felt quite giddy that the King actually knew her name. As she exited, she heard the whispers among the other writers in the room, gossiping as Mirazko let them know who was visiting their lovely editor.
"Ms Skeeter," the king began as he sat back down on the chair. "I would like to know what your problem is with my daughter.
"You see, every time I happen to pass by your pathetic excuse of a magazine that I fund for, it seems that you are only spreading lies about the princess."
Frenchie's mouth kept shut, her lips forming in to a tight line. The king's bodyguards looked at each other, amused by the woman's stillness. They had dealt with her before, and were aware of her attitude. All talk but no action.
"If you wish to keep seeing this magazine in the stands, and to be living in this country, I kindly suggest you step down any type of preposterous gossip you make up about my daughter."
Frenchie gasped, her usual quick replies dying before they left her mouth. The king's penetrating gaze had yet to leave her.
"Any objections?" He inquired, standing up and fixing his robes nonchalantly. The verbal threat had been made, and the King's patience was wearing thin.
"I have none, you Excellency." Her words started strong, but her confidence dwindled by the end. Her gaze dropped to the floor. If her twin sister ever heard of this, she'd laugh at the sight of Frenchie being scolded like a child in grade school.
Rita Skeeter would never let her sister live this down.
A/N: I know, I know. "How many times are you going to redo this story? Just upload all the crappy versions you have." Is something that I feel some of you may be thinking. I've just go too much pride. :(