It was like he’d read her mind, seen the thing she had so desperately needed Franz to see, and cared about it. She wondered, for the first time: What if she had fallen in love with Maxi instead of Franz? This boy who’d somehow released a hundred people from the confines of court. Who loved travel, who spoke his mind. Helene would have been free to love Franz, and—

No. Her stomach turned over. She hadn’t fallen for Maxi. Even toying with the idea hurt her heart. Her love for Franz was a precious thing, a poem, a song, a sparrow. Not a what if.

“Is Franz here?” She still needed to see him, to tell him how much he’d hurt her, how uncertain she felt.

“Not that I know of. I invited him, but he’s always busy, our Franz.” Maxi glanced around. “Is that a reason to leave?”

“No.” Elisabeth wanted to see Franz, yes. But she also wanted to revel in the freedom of this place, the euphoria of it. The release.

“Good.” Maxi’s voice was soft. “In that case, may I introduce you to my good friend, Franz Liszt?” He motioned to the pianist. “Maestro, this is our future empress.”

The man reached across the piano and kissed her hand, slowly, informally. And that was a relief, too. It was like court was one world and this was its distorted mirror. You still kissed a hand, wore a gown, danced to piano music. But here the kisses lingered, the gowns deconstructed, the piano transported you to another world.

“A song for you, Your Highness.” The pianist inclined his head, long hair falling loose over the shoulder of his embroidered collar. Then, with elegant, practiced fingers, he started to play.

The song was playful and somehow sad. It was the sun coming out to comfort you when your mother said your smile wasn’t pretty enough, your waist unseemly. It was romance and heartbreak in a forest grove. It was a window into her soul. Elisabeth wondered if this was the magic of a true musician: that they could see inside a person so completely.

As she watched the composer’s hands slide effortlessly across keys, Maxi leaned close to her ear yet again. “Down here, the music follows you, not the other way around.”

Her heart was full of the idea and the words themselves. It was poetry. And it had come from Maxi, of all people. Who would have thought both brothers had so much poetry in them?

Elisabeth longed for a cigarette. It was scandalous for women to smoke, and she felt scandalous in this space. She wanted to revel in it.

As if he’d read her mind, Maxi held one out to her. “Some relaxation for the bride-to-be. Or, if you prefer, there’s hookah. I got that one from Constantinople.” He motioned to a hookah behind them. “It’s made of real gold.”