Elisabeth was strangely comforted, not by the words but by Sophie’s tone. There was something warm in it. Something that made Elisabeth feel that perhaps she’d misread what she’d heard before they left Bad Ischl. Perhaps Sophie could be her ally.

She and Sophie were alike in some ways. Or at least Elisabeth hoped they were. Sophie was bold and original, not diminished by court but confidently ruling it. Not losing herself to duty but bending it around herself. It was what Elisabeth aspired to be; she hoped Sophie could teach her how.

Sophie led her to a set of double doors and pushed them open.

“Your rooms,” she said with a flourish.

Wonder and awe rose up, nudging Elisabeth’s worries about Helene to the back of her mind. The rooms were perfect. In the outer room, blue wallpaper was trimmed with a mossy green that reminded her of forest walks back home. Paintings of startled deer and birds about to take flight graced the walls, hung between brass sconces. The green-and-blue Persian rug underfoot was thick and soft, like walking over a freshly laid flower bed. A gauzy curtain lifted itself gently in the breeze, revealing a garden view, all yellowing leaves and curling green vines.

Elisabeth was surprised to find that the room was also full of women—every one of them dressed in a similar style, with blouses buttoned up the neck, corsets trimmed in at the waist, skirts billowing out and brushing the ground. They curtsied in unison.

The only one she recognized was thin-faced, long-necked Esterházy in her gray jacket and beige high-necked blouse. She was smiling, but still she managed to look unhappy.

Esterházy introduced each lady, but there were too many details to remember. They were harpists and embroiderers, linguists, readers. From Italy and Romania, Germany and France. Worry knocked at Elisabeth’s heart when she learned sour, humorless Esterházy was to be her guide to the court, and the rest of these women were tasked with being at her side every minute of every day.

“And this is the Countess Leontine von Apafi of Transylvania, Your Majesty,” said Esterházy, now thankfully at the end of the lineup. “She is proficient in French and outstanding at reading aloud.”

Elisabeth’s interest piqued. Another reader—perhaps this was a person she could be friends with. The first name she could commit to memory.

“I brought my favorite books with me,” Elisabeth said excitedly. “Do you know Werther?”

Nervous laughter rippled through the group, and Sophie and Esterházy exchanged a knowing look. Leontine simply bowed.

Unsure why her question hadn’t inspired an answer, Elisabeth reached forward to shake the girl’s hand. “I’m Elisabeth.”

Esterházy gasped, and Elisabeth pulled her hand back, almost involuntarily, her heart contracting. She’d done something wrong—but what?