The chandeliers at Royal Lodge were certainly not prepared for the seismic news delivered by Princess Beatrice’s husband, Edoardo Mapelli Mozzi, at a recent, and otherwise mundane, family brunch. The architect and property developer, known for his refined taste and business acumen, gathered the small, highly-strung contingent of the York family to reveal what was hyped up, in Edo’s own stylish jargon, as a “game-changing, regenerative, multi-generational project.”

Prince Andrew, who was reportedly just settling in to complain about the temperature of his Earl Grey, looked up with an expression suggesting he feared yet another lecture on modern cryptocurrency. Sarah Ferguson, ever the optimist and quick brander, instantly took out her phone, muttering about “licensing opportunities.”

But the actual announcement was far more shocking—and far more domestic—than anyone anticipated.

“My darlings,” Edo began, gesturing dramatically toward the expansive, manicured lawn, “I have secured the funding and the design team to introduce a fully integrated, artisanal, vertical apiary and micro-farm here at Royal Lodge.”

Silence. Then, a low, guttural noise emerged from Prince Andrew.

Edo, oblivious, continued his presentation with the slick confidence of a man pitching a $50 million condo development. “This isn’t just a garden, Andrew. It’s a sustainable ecosystem. We’re talking about 30 hives of Royal Wessex Honey Bees, vertically stacked, coupled with a revolutionary hydroponic system. It will supply the house with year-round, hyper-local heirloom tomatoes and, critically, enough bespoke honey to launch an entirely new, eco-friendly brand.”

The sheer terror on Andrew’s face was genuinely arresting. This was the “shocking news”—not a geopolitical scandal, but the invasion of his pristine, traditional estate by bees and artisanal vegetables.

“A farm?!” Andrew finally spluttered, horrified. “But… the topiary? The croquet lawn? Where will the helicopter land when the entire place smells of beeswax and organic basil?”

Sarah, however, was already in full swing. “Royal Bees! Bea, darling, we need a hashtag. I see a docuseries! The Queen Bees of Windsor! We can wear brightly coloured beekeeping suits! Edo, genius! But can we make the honey sparkly?”

Princess Beatrice, who had been observing the chaos with the tired, knowing expression of a woman who mediates between an eccentric artist and a retired naval officer daily, finally intervened.

“Papa,” she said dryly, placing a reassuring hand on her husband’s arm. “It’s just some bees. They make lovely honey. And Edo, darling, perhaps we start with ten hives, not thirty. For the sake of the Duke’s anxiety about his lawn.”

Edo’s grand plan—to inject a dose of fashionable, green-living practicality into the often-stuffy royal routine—had been met not with applause, but with a panic attack about landscaping and an immediate attempt to monetize. The shocking news wasn’t about the family’s future, but about its imminent, bizarre transformation into a sustainable honey enterprise, proving that in the York family, the most disruptive forces are often the ones with the best intentions and the most elaborate architectural blueprints.