THE SETTING SUN CAST FRANZ’S SHADOW LONG ACROSS the marble corridor as he made his way to the party. To her. His Elisabeth. He hadn’t seen her since the dance, and oh, how he longed to. He wanted to tell her more about the railroad, hear her say again that she loved it. Loved it. Loved him. They’d have hours together at the party. Surrounded by people, of course. But hours in the same room for the first time in so many months. They would find stolen moments just between them, he was sure.

He was lost in those thoughts when he heard the moaning, the rhythmic sound of movement through a doorway to his left. He paused, glanced into the room.

It was a rarely used sitting room full of last year’s fashions: couches in pink and silver, curtains in dark purple with crestlike designs, the ceiling painted pink with white clouds. And against a windowsill, two figures intertwined. A woman pressed against the sill, throat tipped back, lips open to the heavens, an endless stretch of leg angled out from the side of her lover. A man—Maxi, Franz realized with a start—moving rhythmically against her in time with the soft moans escaping her lips.

Franz stepped back into the hall and away from the door, anger kindling. He’d just chastised Maxi for these kinds of casual affairs. His brother had driven one woman to death, another to madness, and did not even care enough to abstain for a single day. He’d be their ruin. Franz wanted to wring his neck.

Franz unclenched his fist, forced himself to breathe deeply. There was no reason to involve himself now. He’d only embarrass the woman. But he needed to keep a closer eye on Maxi. That much was clear. His brother was a bomb waiting to go off—still.

He passed the door quickly, hoping Maxi wouldn’t see him, and clenched his jaw all the way to the evening’s reception. But even there, Franz found no relief. He wasn’t two minutes and one sip of Riesling into an attempt to relax when his mother started in on the latest political disagreement. Oh, how Franz longed for Elisabeth to arrive and give him an excuse to dance or toast or just breathe for a few minutes.

“The officials sent word and they need your answer immediately: Are we keeping Hungarian as the official language of business in the eastern part of the empire?” Sophie was all business, her own glass of wine untouched.

She’d had a brief meeting with a Hungarian delegate before the party, scheduled another equally brief audience with Croatia after. He didn’t need to be in attendance, she assured him, since he’d previously asked her to help him minimize meetings on trivial issues so that he could focus on critical ones. But she did need his answers.