It had seemed like the right solution—telling her to get some rest. Not because he wanted her to leave. All Franz had wanted the entire day was to be near her. But she was upset, and his mother was upset, and allowing things to escalate in front of everyone was out of the question. These were the kinds of upsets that needed to happen in private, be dealt with behind closed doors.

Not for the sake of the priest. Franz didn’t know exactly what the man had done, but Franz had no love for him. No need to defend him.

It was Elisabeth, Mother, the family, he was worried about. There was already too much unrest outside the palace. Too many ways Maxi was creating enemies within it with his own scandals. Franz couldn’t allow anything that made that worse, made them more enemies, made things more dangerous for them all.

But Elisabeth had ignored his hand. And that meant she didn’t understand.

The thought worried at the edges of his conviction. Had he been wrong? And if he wasn’t wrong, could she still forgive him? Perhaps even more importantly: Could she change?

Franz ran a finger across the rough iron rail of the balcony, bit his lip. He loved that Elisabeth spoke her mind, that she was so perfectly herself. He loved that she’d shown him how to be himself again. But could they find the balance? He wanted her to be herself, and he needed her to know when to handle things in private, how to hold her words back—not forever, just for a little while.

He pressed his finger harder against the rail, as if he could push the worry into it and leave it behind him. Maxi had accused him over and over of ruining Elisabeth, trapping her. But this was the first time Franz wondered if it was true. Would he break the magic in her by needing her to learn to hold her tongue? Would he ruin the things he loved about her by asking some of them to stay secret, to be just for the quiet moments between them?

He could hear the party in full swing behind him, piano music seeping out the balcony doors, glasses clinking together in celebration. And he knew he couldn’t stay away long. Part of keeping the peace was not allowing public upset, and part was showing his smiling face, shaking hands with generals and ministers, accepting congratulations.

Franz almost wished he and Elisabeth could trade places—his mother suggesting he was too tired and her staying to shake hands and make nice.

He took a deep breath and tried to press the worries to the back of his mind. There was nothing he could do now. He couldn’t leave; he couldn’t call her back. He could only accept a parade of matching congratulations and try not to wish that he was holding her instead.

FIFTY-SIX