The veranda overlooked the bay.
Even from here, miles inland, the scent of sea salt and eucalyptus drifted through the summer air.
Parrots chirped in the trees beyond the whitewashed columns, and the gardens of the estate bloomed with tropical color, far from the gray stones of Paris, and farther still from the throne that might have been his.
Henri, Count of Paris, stood in a linen suit with his hands clasped behind his back, the breeze tugging gently at the edges of his cuffs.
Beside him sat his wife, Isabelle of Orléans-Braganza, her gloved hands folded in her lap, eyes shielded behind modest sunglasses.
Before them: a modest gathering of press, French, Brazilian, even a few Spanish correspondents.
Drawn not by politics, but by symbolism. For in a world unraveling, the words of forgotten kings had become relevant once more.
A microphone crackled.
Henri stepped forward.
He did not smile.
