We make our way through the rainy park. My hand is clasped in Henri’s. Audrey follows close behind. Curiosity about what he’s going to show me mingles with a flutter of apprehension in my chest. The rain turns everything into a glossy blur of greens and grays. It soaks through my clothes. But it’s warm, so I don’t mind.
Henri’s grip is firm and reassuring, a joy in itself.
“I don’t know how you’ll feel about this, but I took a bet,” he says over the sound of raindrops hitting the leaves.
You shouldn’t have.There’s a reason I hate surprises. They always disappoint.
The overcast sky lends a surreal darkness to the morning, making it feel like it’s later in the day than it is. We approach something in the distance, something both familiar and utterly unexpected, both wonderful and out of place. Squinting through the rain, I try to make sense of what I’m seeing.
“What the…” I murmur in disbelief.
Before us stands an old, thick oak tree with branches sprawling like the raised arms of a Hindu divinity. Nestled within its embrace and cradled by a system of sturdy ropes is a tree house. And not just any tree house! It’s a whimsicalstructure that’s born from the pages of a fairy tale. Garden lights twinkle around it like magical stars caught in a net. Inside, are colorful cushions invitingly arranged across the floor.
“Happy birthday, Gigi!” Henri exclaims.
I’m speechless. My heart swells with a cocktail of emotions. There’s surprise, joy, wonderment, a touch of nostalgia…Am I dreaming?
“Thank you,” I finally manage. “Did Audrey tell you about my birthday?”
“I’d never, Your Highness!” my bodyguard exclaims, bristling. “I was instructed to keep mum, and that’s exactly what I did.”
I turn to Henri. “So, you remembered.”
His smile is as warm as the lights adorning the tree house. “Of course.”
“Was this tree house here before?”
“I had it built yesterday,” he replies.
“You did this… for me?”
He nods.
I knit my brows, perplexed. “But I don’t remember having told you this was an unfulfilled dream of mine.”
“I picked up on it when you told Yann and the others about Sophie’s tree house,” he explains. “I wanted you to have what you missed out on as a kid because of your folks’ overblown concerns for your safety.”
“In my parents’ defense,” I say, “Palace security discouraged it, too. We don’t have thick, solid trees like this in the royal gardens. It was designed for aesthetics and formality.”
“That’s right!” He grins. “Rows and rows of geometrical bushes is how I remember the royal park.”
“You remember correctly.”
“About safety.” His expression grows more serious. “This tree house was built by the best specialized carpenters in the region. They’re the artisans luxury hotels use to create treetop cabins.”
“I’m sure it’s safe.”
“As safe as a tree house can be.” He points at the ropes. “And it doesn’t harm the tree, thanks to this special support system. No nails or screws were driven into the bark.”
We stand there for a while, looking up, holding hands. Getting soaked. But it doesn’t matter. My eyes are fixed on the tree house, a symbol of escape, of a dream come true.
I glance at Henri. “This means more than you can imagine.”
“I’m glad you like it. You can come to the estate and spend time in this tree house whenever you feel like it. It’s yours.”
Is this an overture?
“Careful,” I warn him. “I might take you up on that offer.”
