There was a young boy playing with a little stick in the courtyard.  

Celestia had never much cared for embroidery; she’d barely begun stitching a petal on her sampler.  Quickly she turned her gaze from the window to see if her nurse was watching her, and found that the woman was preoccupied with trying to force a bottle on little Luna.  The princess set her sampler on the vanity and crept from her seat to the door, finding her escape in the hallway.  

The skirt of her dress clutched in both fists, she darted to the nearest staircase and bolted down two steps at a time—she could almost hear her nurse’s disapproving croak reprimanding her for her actions ‘unbefitting of a young lady of a House’.  

There was a window there at the base of the stairs, one she had used many times in her flights from the southern wing of the castle.  Tucking her skirts between her legs, she swung herself over the edge, landing steadily on the other side.  

“And our fair young princess has escaped the wicked dragon once again!” There was a deep, warm laugh from across the garden, where stood Franklin, the gardener.  “Won’t you ever wait for a prince, dear?”  

“A prince?”  Celestia crinkled her nose at the thought before waving and skipping off once again.  

She found the strange boy under an old apple tree, waving his stick back and forth in frustration.  

“Can I help you?”  

The boy jumped, dropping the stick; from its tip, red sparks flew.  Celestia stared at it in amazement.  

“A magical stick!” she exclaimed.  “No wonder you were playing with it so much.”  

“I wasn’t playing!” the boy exclaimed defensively.  “And the stick isn’t magical.  I am.”  

“You can use magic?” Celestia asked skeptically, kneeling down to lift the stick.  She held it out for him, and he looked from her to the stick before taking it again.  

“My dad’s a practicing magician,” he said proudly.  “Also he’s the duke of Triswitch, but what does that matter?  I’ve been trying to do magic like him, that’s the first time it’s worked properly.”  

“Do something else with the stick!” Celestia urged.  

The boy furrowed his brow at her; looking into her eyes, however, his expression cleared.  He held the stick with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, and ran the fingers of his right hand over it once.  Then, his tongue half stuck-out in concentration, he waved his hand at it.  Suddenly, the brown wood was a fresh green stem, and at its tip, a flower began to unfurl.  The stick Celestia had handed him became before their eyes a bright crimson rose.  

Celestia’s eyes seemed to grow as she looked upon the rose.  “It’s…it’s perfect,” she breathed.  “It’s beautiful.”  

The boy seemed just as amazed as her.  He looked up at the princess, then back to his rose; finally, he held it out to her.  

“For you.”  

“Celestia!”  

Celestia spun about in distress.  “Oh, dear,” she murmured.  She knew she was in for it.  “I’m sorry, I have to go!”  

“You’re princess Celestia?” the boy asked.  

“Yes, and you’re—“ Celestia broke off.  

“Charles,” the boy answered.  “My name’s Charles.”  

“Pleasure to meet you, Charles,” she offered a little curtsy before bounding towards the castle.