When Irene was little she believed she was a princess and told everyone so. It was a bit unclear exactly where her domain lay, and frisky Uncle Albert, the bachelor, delighted in watching her squirm as he pursued this line of inquiry. Princess of what he demanded, denying her the cakes and cookies he’d brought along until she could locate her kingdom on the Rand McNally globe. Irene’s eyes shifted between the stacks of Napoleons oozing with cream and her shiny tiara. Pointing to a little island north of nowhere, Irene projected a sense of triumph. She grabbed her Napoleon and bolted, knowing full well that she had no kingdom and that Uncle Albert was right. But she’d be damned if she’d give him that satisfaction. That is after all a princess’ prerogative.