Sophie’s reputation was blade sharp and steel strong, and everything about her appearance suggested the same: her spine straight, her expression shrewd, not a hair out of place. She was the wicked queen of fairy tales, the siren that lured men happily to the drowning deep. She was power itself, a beauty made of stone and ice and walls you wouldn’t dare try to scale.

Behind her, two boys descended the staircase, presumably her sons: one in his early twenties, stuffed uncomfortably into a uniform already dark with sweat, the other still a boy, maybe nine years old and a little ridiculous in his miniature uniform. He hugged a pretty doll with bright-green eyes and a dress made up of hundreds of hand-tied bows. If Elisabeth was guessing correctly, based on portraits she’d seen and her mother’s descriptions, the older boy must be Ludwig and the little man Luziwuzi. Which meant the rakish character was Maxi.

Sophie reached the bottom of the stairs and smiled. “Maximilian, what a nice surprise. You made it after all.”

He reached for her hand, kissed it.

“Welcome, my beautiful boy.” The look on Maxi’s face flashed raw, vulnerable. A contrast to his rakish grin just moments ago.

Elisabeth felt a familiar pang, a realization that she shouldn’t be witnessing something so personal. She ducked back behind the curtain and pressed her hands to her hot, embarrassed cheeks.

“And who is this?” Sophie’s voice echoed in the hall.

“The enchanting Francesca, Baroness of … something.”

Elisabeth smiled. He was funny, Maxi. Maybe they all were. Maybe she’d misjudged the imperial family, thinking they were more like the dukes she’d met. But the dukes had everything to prove, where the royal family did not. It made sense that they’d be more capable of jest.

“I thought the Italians hated us at the moment.” Another joke, this time from Sophie.

“The baroness came along on a whim. I couldn’t send word,” said Maxi, as Elisabeth peeked around the curtain once again.

“Oh, darling, I don’t mind. What you do is not important.” Sophie’s tone was indulgent, but the look on Maxi’s face suggested that the words were a blow. Elisabeth knew what it was to not matter to your own mother. She felt for him.

“Wherever is Franz?” Sophie asked, glancing around. To Sophie, perhaps this was an innocent question. But to Maxi, it was clearly a dismissal, another way of saying that what he did wasn’t important. That his mother’s mind was with her other child.

Maxi’s voice was bitter and quiet when he answered. “He’s probably suffocating under his mistress’s skirts.”