“Everything. I’m in the same jar, half dead already.” Maxi’s tone was sharp, a blade’s edge disguised as a joke.

“Please, you’ve got more freedom than anyone at court, including me.” Franz went in for the kill, but Maxi blocked him. Thrust, parry. Thrust, parry.

“I’ve got nothing.”

“That’s both dramatic and untrue, Maxi.” Franz frowned, blinking sweat out of his eyes under his mask. Maxi found an opening: two touches.

Maxi spoke again, his voice strained. “You can still stop this.”

“You sound like Mother.”

“So, you’re going to wreck her for your own selfish feelings?”

Anger rose in Franz’s throat, but he didn’t answer. Was Maxi jealous again? It was hard to tell. Maxi had joked about marrying Elisabeth back at Bad Ischl. He’d made sly comments about her along the way. He’d flirted—shamelessly. And now Franz knew he’d been writing her letters. But then again, Maxi always flirted shamelessly. And he had a history of wanting what Franz wanted—just because Franz wanted it.

Frustration bunched in Franz’s muscles, and he pushed harder, abandoning his form and footwork as he attacked, blocked, attacked again. The touches built up, the rapiers smacked together with a metallic shudder shaking its way up Franz’s arm every time.

And then Maxi was inside his defenses again, the final touch denting the uniform at the center of Franz’s chest.

“Match.” Franz could hear Maxi’s grin even through the mask. “I guess you don’t always get what you want.”

Franz pulled his own mask off, thrust out a hand to shake. Trying—yet again—to be the bigger man.

Never beholden to such attempts himself, Maxi swatted Franz’s hand away with his rapier, turned, and marched toward the palace. Franz watched him go, wishing the fencing match had made him less unsettled instead of more.

The irritation of his match with Maxi and the news about the letters couldn’t stand up to the thrill of the day. By the time Franz returned to his rooms, his nerves were the butterfly kind. Elisabeth was on her way, drawing closer to him every second. His excitement was an almost physical thing, lifting him so high he could barely feel his feet touch the floor.

He took out the braid of Puck’s hair—her precious gift, sent to him in her final letter. “To think of me until I get to you.” She had sent a poem too:

Cheerfully,

I blow the sea air on you,

In the center of your heart;

Very soon then,

Forget

The world together with its pains.

He would forget. Today was the perfect day to do so. To forget Maxi’s jabs and Mother’s disapproval. To start anew.

Theo interrupted his thoughts with a cough, and Franz turned to face him. “Your Majesty, it’s the countess again. Should I take care of it?”