“Lord Pence,” the Queen said, standing up. “I find the Princess’s dress to be deeply educational. And I find your shears to be... frivolous. They are a frivolous tool for a frivolous law. I hereby repeal the Frivolous Dress Order.”

The Queen, meanwhile, sat in her throne room, which now resembled a very comfortable monastery. She wore a sturdy, brown sack. It itched. She missed the whisper of velvet against her ankles, the gentle weight of a pearl chandelier earring. She had issued the decree in a fit of pique after a visiting duchess had worn a dress so large it required its own postal code, blocking the main corridor for three hours. But now, boredom had set in.

Within a week, the kingdom of Ardore became the most sensibly-dressed nation in history. Silk stockings were burned in bonfires. Lace was torn from collars and repurposed as fishing nets. The milliners, those architects of whimsy, closed up shop and fled to the mountains.

The royal decree, etched on vellum and sealed with a pound of wax, read:

“What’s that for?” he mumbled.

Lord Pence stared, his shears trembling in his hand. “That... that spiral has no practical application!”

It was a masterpiece of ambiguity. Did it ban dresses that were frivolous? Or was the order itself frivolous? The courtiers, terrified of the Queen’s unpredictable moods, chose the harshest interpretation.

“Originality is the mother of frivolity, Your Majesty,” he replied, polishing his shears. “And frivolity is the father of... poor time management.”