Papa was there, and Sepp, and Lotta. Lotta, with flour on her arms, stretched dough for the apfelstrudel at the kitchen table until it grew so thin a love letter could be read through it. Pippa sat on a low stool by the oven, solving mathematical puzzles. The warm air smelled of cinnamon.
Papa’s voice rose, steady and grave, reading aloud from Mary Wollstonecraft’sA Vindication of the Rights of Woman, a book banned in Austria for its radical ideas. Metternich would have a fit if he knew Papa had owned the book and read it not only to her, but to anyone who wanted to listen, cover to cover.
“I wish to persuade women to endeavour to gain strength, both of mind and body.” His finger tapped the page.
The words tangled with the crackle of the oven. Then, his eyes lifted to her, shadowed and stern. “Butlook at you now. Methinks you have forgotten what I taught you.”
“I have tried, Papa!” she cried. “I try so hard. But the house is gone, and the money, and I am nothing but a maid in the palace, of the lowest status. Everything you taught me sounded so nice and true, liberty and equality for everyone. But reality just isn’t like that. There are social differences that can’t be bridged. Like Klemens. Oh, Klemens… I can’t rely on him, either.” A sob rose in her throat. “Because he is not who he said he was. He is so high above me, it is sacrilege for me to even speak to him. What can I do, Papa? What can I do? There is nothing I can do.”
He frowned. “What have I educated you for, my Poppy? Why do you drift like a leaf upon a stream? Use your mind, Poppy. Use your mind.”
“Use your mind.” She gasped, the words still ringing as she woke.
“Wake up, wake up!”
“Ng.” Pippa tried to shake off the hand tugging at her shoulder.
The hand kept shaking her. "Yes, yes, wake up quickly and use your mind!"
Pippa jerked upright, staring at Henni, who breathed a sigh of relief that she was finally awake. “Did you have a nightmare? You were thrashing and talking in your sleep.”
“A nightmare,” Pippa gasped. It had not been a nightmare, exactly, but a dream of home, of a time long gone. Her hands wandered to her wet cheeks.
But Henni pulled the blanket off. “Youmust rise and get dressed and hurry to the Archduke’s chambers. He has summoned you.”
“What, now? What time is it?”
Henni handed her, her dress and cap. “Now. It is nearly three in the morning.”
Pippa scrambled out of bed so quickly, she tumbled over her blanket. She dressed in haste and rushed along the corridors.
She crashed into his antechambers and took a minute to gather herself and steady her breath. There were no other servants there. With a frown, she forced herself to walk slowly to the bedroom and entered after having scratched at the door.
He sat on the scarlet settee in front of the window, watching how the raindrops pattered against the windowpane.
He wore breeches and boots, but he had taken off his coat and necktie, and the shirt hung open, revealing his chest. His hair was rumpled, and there were dark circles under his eyes.
Pippa swallowed, eyeing him nervously. How was it possible that a man looked so utterly beautiful and degenerate simultaneously?
She stepped further into the room and made a quick curtsy.
He looked up. “Ah, there you are. I’ve had a deuced time trying to get out of my clothes.”
Pippa drew herself up stiffly. “That is why you have a valet, Your Imperial Highness.”
“He’s sleeping.” He picked at his cuff, trying to undo it himself.
Pippahuffed, placing her hands on her hips. “I, too, was sleeping.”
“Were you now? How unfortunate. Did you have sweet dreams?” He looked at her, interested. “Did you dream about me?”
She threw him a stare so dark that a chuckle escaped his lips. “If looks could kill. There.” He held out his arm. “Help me with this. This infernal cufflink won’t unbutton.”
She stepped up to him and took his wrist. The cufflink was round and gold, and the ever-present imperial double eagle was imprinted on it. She lifted his wrist with a frown and tilted her head, attempting to uncuff it, trying to push it through the buttonhole of the shirt, but somehow it refused to slip through.
“Maybe you have to slide it the other way,” Klemens suggested, pointing with the finger of his other hand.
She slapped his hand away. “I can’t see anything if you cover it with your hand.” She tried again to wiggle the cufflink through the buttonhole, this way and that way, then turning his wrist around, with concentration, the tip of her tongue tucked out of the corner of her mouth.
