The train to Tyrol glided through the Alpine valleys beneath a brittle winter sky, the snow-draped peaks standing tall like ancient judges bearing witness to the choices of men far beneath them.
Bruno sat alone in the private compartment. The rhythmic thrum of the rails beneath him offered no comfort at all. There was no warmth in the landscape, no familiarity in its vistas. It was beautiful in the way that glass was beautiful—polished, cold, and easy to bleed against.
The seat felt foreign. The silence earned. He stared out the window, watching his reflection blur against the mountains, and thought of her.
Since the moment they departed, saying one last farewell, Bruno hadn't thought of her. Marie-Adélaïde. The Grand Duchess of Luxembourg.
The woman was a rarity, something he couldn't understand, comprehend, or even predict. For years she had chased him, and he had always thought it was for the same reasons that all other women had tried as well.
