She’d told the carriages to stop so that she could relieve herself, but really she just wanted to walk into the woods for a moment, breathe in the earthy, leafy smell, and escape. Exiting the carriage had been a relief, like a deep breath after being underwater.

The carriage with Helene and Mother in it felt as small as a matchbox—full of disappointed hopes and razor blade silences. Spatz was also there but was wisely keeping silent. And the carriage with her father carried its own disappointments: that his wild child was becoming someone else. She’d told him it wasn’t so, but his disbelief sat heavy in between their jokes. His uncharacteristic seriousness prodded at her comfort. She wished he could be her ally always, not just when it suited him.

Her feet crunched over fallen leaves and rough stones until she couldn’t see the carriages anymore, couldn’t hear the hushed conversation in one or her father banging around looking for a cigar in the other. She pressed her back against a pine, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. She wished they were in Vienna already, wished that she were in this grove with Franz, a story from his childhood on his lips, his letters turned to real conversation.

Each one had made her love him even more. His most recent story was about the time he’d tried to free all the horses in the stable at Bad Ischl when he was ten years old. He’d gotten it into his head that horses deserved to run wild, and he’d managed to free a good half dozen before one of the stable hands caught on. It took a whole day for them to corral the last two obstinate mares who’d managed to get halfway up a steep mountain trail.

He said he’d never seen his mother so furious. Not because of the horses. But because there was an important delegation in town and Franz had made Habsburg look ridiculous. It was funny now, but he’d felt awful then. Hot with shame for doing the wrong thing and hotter still when Sophie chastised him for crying.

“Will you hurry up?” Papa’s voice traveled through the trees, shattering the moment.

She’d almost forgotten where she was.

She smoothed a hand across her skirts and pushed away from the pine. When she emerged from the trees, Papa was leaning out the carriage window, a cigar held lazily between two fingers. He took a puff. “That was probably the last time you’ll piss in the woods.”

“Papa, please.” She raised an eyebrow. “You mean, it was the last time you’ll piss in the woods, Your Majesty.” He had jokes; she had better ones.

He grinned. “That’s my girl.”