From the next room, a clipped scream sounded, and Elisabeth looked up from the floor and saw a bird had swooped in through the open door. Before she could react, there was an audible smack as it collided with the window on the far side of the room. It dropped to the floor, and Elisabeth’s heart fell with it.

Birds were some of Elisabeth’s favorite animals. Swift sparrow hawks. Elegant gulls. Cheeky songbirds. She felt a kinship with them, those freedom-seeking feathered things forever singing a song. This one had only wanted to escape.

Elisabeth moved toward the feathery bundle, lifting it gently from the tile where it now lay stunned. It was a tiny thing, brown-backed, white-bellied, with a collection of black-and-white feathers pointing straight up like a cowlick on its head. A crested tit, she thought, if her memory was correct. But the poor thing was injured, fluttering its wings in confusion, staggering like her mother after a few shots of schnapps. Then he went still.

Elisabeth took the bird, stunned but alive, out to the gardens, walking down paths bright with flowers and under trees swaying gently in the summer breeze. Behind her, the cheerful pink of the villa peeked through the leaves like the promise of a good day. Under her gown, she was secretly barefoot, reveling in the feel of cold, soft grass between her toes.

A horse whinnied to her left, and the sound shook her from her reverie. She had thought she was alone. But she could now see a man standing at a small stone fountain ahead, back turned, gently attending to his creamy, long-lashed mare.

Elisabeth watched curiously as he ran a hand along the horse’s neck, threading his fingers through mane, untangling and straightening it. He was tall—so tall—in his black riding breeches and polished riding boots. There was something endearing about the affectionate way he touched his horse. Something familiar about those broad shoulders, the blond hair. She wondered who he was.

And then he turned, and she knew—the strong jaw and dark eyes identical to the portrait her sister kept tucked away in her skirts.

Franz. The emperor.

He hadn’t seen her yet—only had eyes for his horse. He adjusted the saddle, then stepped forward and looked into his horse’s eyes, smiling as if they shared a secret. He whispered something in its ear, and it twitched both ears back at him. There was something familiar in the gesture, an intimacy. Elisabeth was almost embarrassed to be watching. Like she’d stumbled on him undressing.