A palace. Nothing too extravagant.

Apparently, I no longer believe ordinary municipal improvements are sufficient. Potholes, after a while, you simply get used to. Every city has them. A Queen  must know which battles are worth fighting.

I want courtyards, fountains, and elaborate dinners. And at least one balcony.

The balcony is essential.

I need somewhere from which I can stare into the distance while someone worries about what I am thinking.

I have not yet determined what country I rule. This seems like an administrative detail that can be handled later.

There will, of course, be gowns.

Endless gowns.

Gowns for breakfast. Gowns for receiving visitors. Gowns for walking through the gardens looking mildly concerned. And gowns for occasions that have not yet occurred but may require embroidery.

Someone else will be responsible for my hair and face. I cannot reasonably be expected to govern and apply my own eyeliner.

There should also be several people whose primary responsibility is to hurry down very long corridors bringing me troubling news.

“Your Majesty.”

I turn slowly.

“Speak.”

“There has been a development.”

I wait.

“Your favorite dish will not be available for dinner.”

Silence.

I look toward the balcony.

“Why?”

He lowers his eyes.

“We are missing jalapeños.”

Oh, goodness.

Close the gates.

Send the cavalry to the market.

And bring me another gown. I cannot receive news of a spice crisis dressed for the garden.

As for the potholes, someone will see to them eventually.

I am the Queen. I cannot be expected to do everything.

The citizens will understand.

Or they won’t.

I suppose that is also an administrative detail for later.