“And everyone knows wrinkles are the worst curse in existence,” Sisi whispered, barely audible.

Mother must not have heard—thank God—because she only turned toward her sister as Sophie continued speaking. “And Helene, you are being too modest. You’re a beautiful, graceful girl, as polite and well-mannered as your mother has always said. Franz has no reason not to fall in love with you.”

The words were the comfort Helene needed. She settled into them like a favorite chair, letting her heart lift a little at the thought that love was just around the corner.

Coffee and cake were over, and Helene found herself deliciously, unexpectedly alone in the room she shared with Sisi, facing a vanity mirror with scalloped edges. She freed her hair from its braids, watching it fall in loose waves around her face, the tension easing across her scalp. The low lantern light of evening was flattering on her skin, softening her hair, her eyes.

How light everything seemed in this moment. How much easier it was to look at her face and feel peace after some time alone with her thoughts. She’d been tied up in knots over nothing. She’d let herself get so caught up in Sisi’s romantic ideas—love at first sight, passion like a tide pulling a person out—that she’d ignored her own convictions.

Whether Franz had fallen for her at first sight or not didn’t matter. Helene was the one who’d ultimately gotten it right: love was a tree you planted and nurtured and patiently waited on. Duty was the tide. What you owed the world, what you owed your family—those were the forces that swept you away.

She knew her next conversation with Franz would be better. She would be calmer. And they’d find their way to each other across the silences. She could picture it now: she’d be sitting in the tearoom, ankles crossed beneath pink lace and white overskirt now that the missing trunk had finally arrived. Embroidered vines would hug her tiny waist, a silver vine circling her throat as a necklace.

Franz would join her there, his eyes kind as always. Unlike reality, in Helene’s mind they could be alone. No one staring at them across a tree-lined path, no one interrupting their conversation. Helene hadn’t realized before just how much that had been part of the pressure. Not Franz, but Sophie, Mother. Wanting so badly for the women who’d chosen her to be proud.

Helene turned from the vanity and lay on the soft, cloudlike bed, closed her eyes. She imagined herself reaching for Franz, placing her hand on top of his as he sat down on a couch beside her. “Is something wrong, Your Majesty?” Her heart would flutter with the thrill, the boldness of asking such a vulnerable, direct question.

“Have your head and heart ever been at war?” the Franz in her mind would ask.