Prologue: Johannes

My mother and her closest friend, Queen Anneliese of Palladia (or Auntie Anneliese as I've always known her), were both born on New Year's Day of 1744, at exactly two in the morning. (I know the time because Mama's mother, though dead, had an obsession with astrology and recorded her birth time. I know Auntie Anneliese's because her mother is still alive, and she told me.) They got married on the same day and were crowned queens of their respective kingdoms on the same date (meaning that they were, unfortunately, unable to attend one another's coronations).

They also became mothers on the same day. Mama says it was fate, I say it was a direct result of their wedding nights being on the same date. But no matter how or why it happened, on the 19th of May, 1763, Rosella Du Châtillon and I came into the world, tied to one another for the rest of our lives.

Even if we hadn't shared a birthday, Rosy still would've been my best friend. She and I were always the pranksters in both of our families, and always caused mayhem whenever we were together. We put buckets of flour on top of doors, pinecones on chairs, and frogs in pockets.

I remember the summer we were both three, and our mothers told us about how Mama once pretended to be Auntie Anneliese, so we decided to give each other identical haircuts and switch clothes to trick our parents into taking the wrong child home. It didn't work, obviously, because Rosella had always taken after Anneliese in looks, and I have always resembled my father most. I don't know why that never occurred to us, but are we not all a little stupid at three years old?

When we were four, and we actually started to speak it well, we decided to only talk to each other in Latin. Although I spoke French fluently and Rosy was proficient in German, it didn't feel fair for one of us to have to work harder to communicate with the other. And also (we didn't know at the time that my father, Julian, and Anneliese spoke Latin as well) it was a way to have a secret language that was just for the children, for all the adults spoke mostly in French for my mother's benefit. Once Brigitta, Genevieve, and Derek were old enough to be allowed into our little clique, they only spoke Latin too. The five of us were best friends and would be best friends forever.

The worst day of my life was the day Rosella died.

That likely isn't accurate. The day I found out Rosella died was the worst day of my life. For all I know, the day she actually died I was playing with Brigitta as I always did, while Anna ran after us on her chubby toddler legs, begging to be included.

There are very few moments of my childhood I can recall with absolute clarity, and that play out in my mind as though watching one of the operas that Dulcemia is so famous for. It feels unfair, that all of the good moments are hazy and blurred together, but that terrible day is one I will never forget.

Mama was sitting in the parlor with all of us, turning the pages in Brigitta's sheet music as she played the pianoforte, while Anna tried to play all the wrong notes beside Brigitta, who kept swatting her hand away.

Mama's hand tightened on the sheet music as she took a deep breath and said with forced patience, "Anneliese, why don't you go sit on the sofa with your brother and I'll help you practice next?"

I looked up from my book as Anna obeyed, hopping off the bench and making her way over to me, sitting on the opposite edge of the sofa with her arms folded and a pout on her face. If Mama or Papa called Anna by her full name, she always listened to them. No one called her Anneliese unless they were really and truly annoyed with her, which, knowing her, was often.

"Erika, Liebling, there was a letter for you on my desk." My father called out as he walked into the parlor, holding a letter with the Palladian seal on it. As soon as my mother saw the wax imprint of a rose, she practically skipped over to Papa with girlish giddiness.

This happened often. Queen Anneliese wrote to my father about trade agreements and other matters of state. But our Auntie Anneliese wrote to my mother about everything else. The letters for Mama would frequently get mixed up with my father's other correspondence with our allies.

We all loved hearing from her just as much as my mother did. Anneliese would confirm the dates of when we'd see the Du Châtillions next, or sometimes have a flower from Uncle Julian's garden pressed between the pages (Anneliese's letters to my mother were never shorter than two sheets of paper).

Brigitta stopped playing, and Anna's bad mood was immediately forgotten as we all bounded over to Mama to listen to her read aloud. Even Papa lingered to hear what Auntie Anneliese had written.

"Oh my God," Mama whispered, covering her hand with her mouth.

"What, Mama?" Anna asked, tugging on my mother's hand, "Mama, what?"

"Is Auntie Anneliese having another baby?" Brigitta asked excitedly.

I stayed silent. Something was wrong.

"Oh my God," Mama repeated, louder this time, as she handed the letter to Papa. He quickly scanned it, eyes widening.

"Oh God," he said, looking at my mother. They were both white as a sheet, and Papa looked like he was about to cry.

Brigitta pulled on my shirt and whispered in my ear, "Ask what happened!" I just shook my head. I didn't want to know.

"Sit down, all of you," Papa said, wrapping an arm around Mama as they both sat on the loveseat across from the sofa. I immediately sat down, Brigitta next to me, holding my hand tightly. I remember it being painful, how tightly she was squeezing my hand, but I couldn't bring myself to tell her to let go. Anna even climbed up on my lap, looking at our parents with wide eyes.

"It's Rosella. She- she died." Mama said, struggling to keep her voice even.

"But dying is only for old people." Brigitta protested in confusion, looking at me for confirmation.

I knew that wasn't true. In the gardens, there was a row of white rose bushes Uncle Julian had sent, and under them, my parents had buried two babies, one who had lived a week and died, and one who came pouring out of my mother in a river of blood while we were taking a walk in the garden. But those deaths were losing something I never had. I never knew my brother Georg, I never knew if that baby would be a brother or sister.

But I knew Rosella. I knew her better than I did my own parents. We were bonded the way our mothers were bonded, and our children would be bonded that way too.

I didn't know how someone who was so utterly alive could just die.

But she had died. She was dead, and nothing would ever be the same again.

I remember that night, I went to my parents' bedroom. I wanted to sleep curled up between them like I always did whenever I had a nightmare. And I wanted to wake up tomorrow morning and that's all it would be. But just outside the door, I heard my mother say,

"I feel guilty, Dominick. Part of me feels like it was my fault."

"How is that possible?"

"She would always write me and send a gift after every miscarriage, and even though I love her, I was always so jealous. She's never had to struggle to bring a child into the world, and I always wished she'd understand. But not like this."

I'm sure my father would have said something comforting after that, but I didn't want to eavesdrop anymore. I walked in timidly, still too shocked to cry.

"Mama?"

I watched her hastily wipe tears away from her face and open her arms to me. I watched Papa duck his head under the bedclothes briefly, and come back up with red-rimmed eyes, blinking rapidly. It still felt like a dream.

I remember that my parents held me tightly that night. I was glad for the comfort then and did not consider it further, but now I look back and think that perhaps they needed me then just as I did. Perhaps they needed to remember I was still alive.

I remember the funeral. I remember my father going against protocol and demanding that he and I ride in the same carriage. I remember my parents' clasped hands in the seat across from mine. I remember Anna sitting still for the first time in her life, instead of running around wreaking havoc like she usually did.

I remember having trouble telling Mama apart from Auntie Anneliese that day, because they were both wearing black veils, obscuring their face and hair. I remember the first time I cried since Rosella's death was when I wanted my mother and couldn't tell her apart from the woman she was devoting all her energy to supporting.

I remember one of them picking me up and carrying me to the nursery while I sobbed into her shoulder. To this day I still don't know which one it was.

Genevieve was all alone in the nursery, sitting quietly on the floor in a black dress that looked too grown up for her to be wearing. Her skirts were spread all around her, and the high neck of her frock made it look like she was lost in a sea of her own grief.

She didn't seem to notice me. "Gen?"

"I'm the Dauphine now," she whispered, looking up at me, "everyone has been calling me that today, before saying they're sorry for my loss."

I sat down beside her, shoving the petticoats aside.

"Mama says she's in heaven now."

She nodded. "My maman said the same thing," she looked down at the floor again, tracing the patterns on the wood with her finger, "do you think she misses us?"

I shrugged. I didn't think people were allowed to be sad in heaven.

"Maybe she'll meet Georg," I wonder aloud, earning a tiny smile from her. I couldn't help smiling too, proud that it had been me who cheered her up.

"I hope so. That way he won't be too lonely in heaven either."

I don't remember the rest of that day. All I remember is that I held Genevieve's hand the entire time.