Life sheltered away from the rest of the family was incredibly dull. Brandis lectured Antoinette and me from sunrise until supper. The ogre thought this a great opportunity to train us as proper archduchesses. Antoinette and I, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to escape the confines of this sorry excuse for palace life. While Brandis droned on and on about long-dead relatives that I could not care less about, I kept my eyes fixed on the perfect spring weather that allured me from outside the window. The palace grounds were filled with lush green lawns and flowers of vibrant blues and pinks.

During the long evenings, we sat in the family parlor, which was called the Yellow Room, but in truth, the only yellow thing about the room was the upholstery on the cushioned chairs. Day after day, we stared at the same white walls with the same loops of ivy painted at the very top. There were no balls or concerts. No hunts. Our evenings were spent playing chess, reading, or inventing whatever new form of entertainment would keep us from going mad. That is, all of us but Josepha. While Amalia and Karl created elaborate battles with toy soldiers, Antoinette and I made up new card games. We did what we could to make the best of life in isolation, but Josepha was intent on sulking.

“This is no use!” Josepha exclaimed, slamming her book shut. “I can’t read another philosophy book or any more history.”

“All this studying will make you a better ruler,” Amalia said, looking up from the toy soldiers strewn about before her.

“What’s the point? I’m going to die anyway.”

All of our heads snapped up. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“I know I am going to die because of Maria Josepha,” she said with a sigh, as if we were supposed to know this already. “We share the same name, and that means we are going to have the same fate. I know it. She died of the pox, and so will I.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard,” I said.

“Oh, please!” Josepha’s face reddened. “You went to Mother and had us all call you Charlotte because you didn’t want to be connected to our dead sister. And you call me ridiculous?”

“That’s different. I didn’t want a secondhand name. If I shared the fate of our deceased sister Carolina, I would have died a long time ago.” It was a horrid custom, which I despised, that after the death of a child, the next born would be given the same name, as a way to remember the one that had passed. I was the third Maria Carolina. The first had died shortly after her first birthday of severe muscle spasms. The second, born in between Leopold and Johanna, lived barely long enough to be christened.