Elizabeth took the glass jar and examined it carefully.
It was small, about the size of her palm, sealed with a brass clasp and labelled Spare Corgis.
At the bottom, just visible through the glass, a miniature scene was taking place: three luminous Corgi shapes chasing each other across a small, bright lawn.
"Spare Corgis?" She looked up at Henry.
"Shake it three times," he said, "then wait two seconds."
She shook the jar as instructed. A golden-brown mist rose from the base, condensed, and became a Corgi puppy approximately the size of a fingernail.
It turned a small circle in her palm, tilted its head back, produced a sound that was technically a bark, and wagged its tail at her.
Then something at the bottom of the jar appeared to attract its attention, and it turned to look.
Elizabeth raised the jar and peered closely into it.
The miniature scene at the bottom was unfolding in slow, perfect detail: a tiny snowy owl descended from somewhere above, landing with great dignity on the rim of the jar, and before it could find its footing, the first Corgi running full tilt bumped into it headfirst.
Two small points of light rolled into a compact bundle, and the remaining Corgis converged from all directions.
A few seconds of silence settled over the Garden Room.
Then Elizabeth smiled.
A genuine, warm, unhurried smile, the kind that deepens the lines at the corners of the eyes and makes the shoulders move slightly.
She looked across at Philip and held the jar out to him.
"Philip. Look."
Philip took it, shook it, watched the Corgi roll briefly in his palm before returning to the jar, and raised his eyebrows with considerable appreciation.
"Where did you find this?" he asked Henry.
"Two students at Hogwarts made it. The Weasley twins."
"Weasleys?" Charles said. "The red-haired family?"
"Yes, Father. They're in Gryffindor, but they are genuinely talented," Henry said.
Philip turned the jar over in his hands, examining it from several angles and muttering to himself. Then he looked up at Henry.
"Could this work for a bulldog?"
"I beg your pardon, Grandfather?"
"A spare bulldog," Philip said, with complete seriousness. "My dogs have been losing a great deal of fur recently. I'd like a spare on hand, in case one of them goes entirely bald."
Diana laughed.
Elizabeth looked at her husband with an expression of completely fond exasperation.
"Philip."
"I'm asking a reasonable question."
"I'll find out for you, Grandfather," Henry said.
The second set of gifts was for Philip. Henry carried two small flowerpots wrapped in burlap from the corner of the room and set them on the low table in front of his grandfather.
Philip looked at them with the wariness of a man who has received unusual things before.
"And these?"
Henry unwrapped the first pot.
Inside was a small, rather unremarkable-looking sapling, barely the height of a palm, with four thin and entirely bare branches. In the warmth of the Garden Room it looked, if anything, slightly forlorn.
"A Four Seasons Tree," Henry said.
Philip studied it for a moment.
"You've brought me a dead sapling from Hogwarts?"
"It's not dead. It's dormant."
Henry picked up the small spray bottle he had prepared, and misted the base of the sapling. The whole room watched.
William and Harry, from their corner, had stopped moving entirely.
A moment later, a tiny green shoot appeared on the leftmost branch, unfurling slowly into a single thin, translucent leaf with water droplets still beading along its edges.
Philip's eyebrows rose slightly.
Henry pointed to the branch beside it, where the leaves were already a deep, full green—larger and thicker, the veins clearly visible.
"Summer."
He pointed to the branch on the far right, where the leaves had begun to yellow at their edges and curl with the dry, receding quality of late October.
"Autumn."
Finally he touched the base of the sapling very gently, and the yellowed leaves drifted from that last branch, leaving a small twig covered in the faintest coating of frost.
"Winter. And then it begins again."
The room was quiet.
Everyone watched the cycle continue, the branch that had been winter sprouting new green; the branch that had been spring deepening toward summer; summer edging into autumn; autumn releasing its leaves into frost.
Philip looked at it for a long time.
"It's considerably more interesting than that clock in my study," he said finally, in a tone that made clear this was high praise.
The clock in question was a George III piece of considerable historical importance, which he had long since stopped finding interesting.
"Will it keep going like this indefinitely?"
"Yes. Water and sunlight are all it needs. It won't grow taller, won't flower, won't fruit. It simply lives and turns with the seasons."
Philip reached out and touched the frost-covered winter branch with one finger.
The cold was real, a small, particular cold, as though a breath of winter had come from somewhere distant and settled precisely there.
He was quiet for a moment. Then he looked up.
"Doesn't it rather resemble life?"
Henry had no immediate answer for this, and Philip did not wait for one. He turned to the second pot.
"And that one?"
Henry removed the burlap from the second flowerpot. This sapling was slightly taller, with thicker branches and fuller foliage.
What distinguished it immediately was that two of its thin branches were in constant, gentle motion, twitching back and forth with an air of mild determination.
"A Whomping Willow," Henry said. "A miniature one, pruned to about a foot tall, and the force has been calibrated considerably."
He extended his hand and let one of the branches strike the back of it.
It landed with approximately the force of a falling feather.
Philip looked at this for a moment.
"Who exactly is that going to hit?"
"It tickles," Henry said.
Philip held out his own hand.
The branch flicked against the back of it with a light, precise pressure, exactly the kind of thing that produces an involuntary desire to laugh.
He looked at the small tree, still twitching its branches with amiable persistence, and his expression became entirely unguarded.
"The Tickling Willow," he announced. "That is its name from this point forward."
He placed both plants side by side on the table next to him.
The Four Seasons Tree sat on the left, moving steadily through its quiet cycle of spring, summer, autumn, and winter.
The Tickling Willow occupied the right, its branches flicking cheerfully in the warm air, occasionally extending one in the direction of whoever happened to be sitting nearest.
It was abundantly clear that he was very pleased with both of them.
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Daily updates are back. 2 chapters per day. The temporary benefit will be over on patreon too, I believe i've made it up to y'all.
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