Franz turned toward the doors as they opened, and his mother walked into the room. She was imposing as always, in a black dress with a tall, stiff collar. As usual, she filled every spare inch of space with her quiet power.

“Mother.”

She hinted at a curtsy and a smile. “Your Majesty.”

He stepped forward to kiss her hand, relieved that his own was no longer shaking.

“I hear you’ve been out already. Did you sleep at all, dear?”

He shook his head. He hadn’t slept a full night since the day they gave him the scar. He wondered if he would after the execution, knowing he’d struck back at the revolution that wanted him dead. But no use bothering his mother with all that; she wouldn’t understand.

“You look perfect, Franz.” Sophie motioned to the door, and he fell into step beside her as they walked into the gleaming marble hallway, their feet tapping loudly, echo bouncing off the high ceilings.

Some days his mother would stop to admire the details of the palace—the portraits of their predecessors lining the walls, the intricacies of the stone columns—but not today. Today, she was all business. She turned midstep, looking seriously at her son. “This won’t be a pleasant morning, but you will have to get used to it.”

Franz held her gaze. “I believe there are things one never gets used to.”

An hour later, Franz and his mother stood in a square fitted with gallows. Five men waited steel-faced and dirty on a rough wooden platform, nooses hanging behind them. Franz stared at their hands, the fingernails soot black and plum purple, some of them missing. Had they always been like that, he wondered, or had his guards done it? The thought turned his stomach. Didn’t meeting suffering with suffering only yield more suffering?

“Show them your face.” His mother’s voice broke through his thoughts. “There are times when a ruler must show his strength.”

Franz tried to keep his expression calm as he tore his gaze away from the men’s hands and focused on their faces. Sweat beaded inside his collar, underneath his hat, and dripped hot and then shockingly cold down his neck and spine. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, but the breaths still came quickly, and his heart beat hard inside his chest. His upper lip was tingling again and he knew—even if no one else around him did—that he was on the brink of passing out. It happened sometimes, when the memory of that day rushed in. The numbness would creep in, his vision would narrow, and then: darkness. So far it had only happened when Franz was alone. Please, God, he thought, don’t let it happen now.