He hadn’t realized how much he cared about that particular gift of his brother’s until this moment. Maxi could have every heart in the palace, every heart in Vienna, every heart in Habsburg—except this one.

Franz knew it was unreasonable fear, but this was the tainted gift the assassination attempt had given him: any fear could be interpreted as life ending. The smallest drop of ink could bloom through water like an explosion.

Franz waited for Elisabeth in the ballroom, with its sun-bright circular windows two stories up, a lofty ceiling that curved into art at its center, and matching rose-gold chandeliers sparkling like raindrops.

In the moments between the window and the ballroom, his body had settled, but the agitation in his mind remained. What was Elisabeth doing walking through the gardens with Maxi in the first place? Hadn’t Franz told her enough stories about his brother that she knew the danger? Didn’t she know how foolish she made Franz look by traipsing around with his known rake of a brother?

Then the doors opened.

Her eyes were sparks, her face the sun from behind the clouds. The smile, the excitement, the quick steps. They were for him. Not Maxi. Him.

How foolish his fears looked in the brightness of that smile. He’d panicked over nothing. Maxi might want to hurt him, but his brother didn’t have that power.

Elisabeth stopped in front of him, curtsied, and Franz’s shoulders loosened, his heart speeding up again—this time with excitement.

They were together. Finally. Allowed to touch. Alone with only a couple servants and a pianist for company.

“Your Royal Highness.” The pianist stood from the piano and bowed to Elisabeth as she stopped before them. “If I may introduce myself … I am Johann Strauss, composer. I have composed a waltz in your honor for the dance after the wedding.”

Franz bowed slightly in recognition and the man returned to the pianoforte. Elisabeth’s face was all hope and brightness, and, as the music started, she stepped into Franz’s arms. She said nothing, but she didn’t need to. The excitement at the corners of her eyes, shivering through her body in his arms, said everything Franz needed to know. He counted out the beats in his mind—one, two, three, one, two, three—and swept her into the dance.

As they moved, Elisabeth leaned in close, her breath hot and cinnamon scented on his neck, his ear. “Our composer friend looks like he has a stomachache.”

She wasn’t wrong. Franz glanced over his shoulder, where Johann was bent over the piano as if playing it was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. So serious. So agitated. So animated.