A shiver swept through Elisabeth like the tide kissing the shore. Champagne. Franz. It was like something from a dream, the kind of night that inspired poetry and art. And yet—it was also a danger. The kind of night she could be sent to the asylum for, the kind of night that could ruin Helene’s future.

“To your health,” the servant continued. “I bid you good night.” And then he backed out of the room, disappearing from sight.

The clock struck midnight, singing out in the distance.

Elisabeth held herself in a nervous hug, her thoughts spilling out before she could stop them. “So, you send for me in the middle of the night to drink Champagne with you?”

She was pleased to find her voice was steady, even as her heart crashed like a wave. He’d summoned her in the middle of the night. It meant something, though she wasn’t quite sure what.

“It’s my birthday,” he said, as if that explained it.

“I wish you a happy birthday, Your Majesty.”

“Did I wake you?” he asked, stepping closer, surrounding her with his usual scent of spring rain and cloves.

“No. I’m often awake at night.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“And why not?”

“I can’t imagine you sleeping more than a few minutes a day. You’d miss out on too much. And the world would miss out on you.”

Some of the tightness in her body loosened. It was true that she drank life in like she was a desert and it was rain. If she could help it, she wouldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t miss a star winking into life. Wouldn’t miss a sunrise.

“I’m surprised you’re not asleep, though,” she said. “I imagine running an empire requires rest.”

There was something raw in his expression, and he paused—deciding something—then said, “I don’t sleep much either … because of the nightmares.”

“Nightmares?”

“About …” Franz left his sentence unfinished, but the hand he brought up to his neck, to the scar peeking out from his collar, made it clear what he meant.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“You’ll think I’m insane.”

“Well, then we’ll be quite the pair since I too am, apparently, insane.”

His shoulders relaxed. He motioned to the settee, and they sat, inches apart. And, as if he couldn’t bear to hold them back any longer, all the things he must have been suppressing for months—nightmares, terror—poured out. He spoke of sweat and screaming, darkness swallowing his vision, of a body detached from its mind. And Elisabeth’s heart wrapped itself protectively around him—this man who was so many things at once: a strong emperor, a secret poetry lover, a vulnerable heart.

“And now. Are you here with me now?” she asked.

“Very much so.”