“Did you make this yourself?” he asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you.” He gave her a slight smile.

Franz tucked the handkerchief into his front jacket pocket and resumed walking. Helene followed in silence. Did he actually like the gift? She hadn’t expected raptures—of course not. But she wished she could read more on his face. It was a kind face, if indecipherable. She thought she could love that face if only they could break through this silence.

Perhaps Sisi had been right all along. Helene had thought she was doing the right thing—growing up, taking her responsibilities seriously, keeping her opinions to herself. She’d sided with Mother, and at first it seemed she’d been right. Her reward: a promise of empire and engagement.

But now the promise looked flimsy compared to the life she’d given up. Coming here was supposed to make her larger, more important, more loved; instead, she was smaller. How could Franz fall in love with her? She barely liked herself. She’d filed off her sharp edges and all that was left were nerves.

“Have you been here before?” Franz asked, finally.

Helene panicked. Did he mean the palace or the gardens or somewhere else entirely? All she could think to say was no, hating that she didn’t have a better contribution.

“Well, do you like it here?” he tried again.

Helene decided he was talking about the gardens.

“Yes, it is very beautiful.” She searched for something more substantial to say but found only the tightness in her gut, her throat. Mother had told her not to talk too much, but Helene couldn’t help but feel like she was disappointing Franz.

“I’m glad.” He was all politeness, smiling a little at her.

The heat of the day sat heavy on her skin as they walked on in silence. Sweat dripped cold down the small of her back, gathered in her armpits, beaded across her forehead. She tried to swipe at the beads surreptitiously before they released into her eyes.

Seeing the movement, Franz reached across the space. Helene’s heart stopped. Would he touch her now?

But no. In his hands: the handkerchief she’d so studiously made for him. For a moment, she wondered if he was returning it, and her chest tightened in embarrassment. They hadn’t even had their spark yet, that moment promised in Sisi’s poetry, that recognition of soul to soul. And he was already seeing her sweatdrenched, already having to offer her the insult—or kindness—of a handkerchief.

She took it and dabbed at her forehead, simultaneously relieved and embarrassed. She didn’t know whether to tuck the cloth away or return it to Franz, so she just folded it discreetly into her hand.