Alek plays his part in the funeral, says the right things, acts appropriately mournful, but can't quite manage to forget that the old man in the coffin is the one who caused his family so much pain.

Now Franz Joseph is dead, and Aleksandar Ferdinand will be emperor.

He says the right words. He doesn't believe them. It's all too surreal: that the man is gone, that the work of securing the throne is finally over, that he will leave here and return to preparing for his coronation.

Surreptitiously, he looks for a friendly face among the sea of black-clad mourners. Volger is nearby, but that hardly makes a difference. He scans further. The flicker of bright yellow hair is easy to spot, even as far back as propriety and protocol dictate that she stand. Deryn meets his eyes and he feels worlds better.

It's not until long after the funeral services have concluded, and he's trudged through the ceaseless rounds of political glad-handing (that intricate dance of reciprocal, empty politeness and promises) that he's able to go to her. Volger trails behind with his customary air of disapproval; as is also become customary, Alek ignores it.

To his surprise, Deryn's amongst a small crowd of people, all of them affiliated with Archduchess Marie Valerie. That's good; she hasn't been much welcomed in Vienna, particularly by Alek's relatives.

Something Alek will have to change, now that he's able.

As Alek approaches, Deryn is just making her farewells to a stout, matronly woman. Upon closer inspection, Alek recognizes her, although he's never met her in person - and he won't today, either; the woman gives him a graceful bow and a sad smile before she's gathered up by Valerie's people.

Alek offers his arm to Deryn, who takes it, and they proceed homeward. Even though he's intensely curious, he determines not to ask: it's none of his concern, after all.

But Volger has no such compunction. The count at least waits until they're well on their way before he asks, "Why were you talking to Katharina Schratt?"

Deryn looks at Volger askance. "Because in Glasgow, we reckon it good manners to answer someone who's talking to us. She seemed nice enough, and one of the archduchess' ladies introduced us. Was I supposed to ignore her?"

"No," Alek says, thinking of Deryn's abysmal standing in Viennese society. Her reputation can't possibly get any worse, and besides - "Valerie has welcomed her with open arms; that should be good enough for anyone."

Volger is not mollified. "What were you talking about?" he demands.

"This and that," she says, shrugging with a shade too much nonchalance. Alek's certain she's being vague only to torment the count, but he has to check.

"You do know," Alek says, "that Katharina Schratt is – was – my granduncle's mistress?"

She blinks. "Aye, that explains a few things – particularly that one thing."

"You didn't know," Volger says, managing to make three words sound like the ultimate in derision.

"I'm learning fast as I can," she retorts, "but no one bothered to tell me about barking mistresses!"

Alek gives Volger a look and lays a hand on Deryn's arm to stop the bickering – although sometimes he thinks he's the only one who doesn't enjoy it.

"What one thing does it explain?" Alek asks.

Deryn adjusts his grip so that she's holding his hand. "She said an emperor always has admirers, when what he really needs is a friend."

"Bah," Volger says, succinct in his scorn.

But Alek is struck by the sad wisdom of it.

He thinks, albeit unwillingly, of that bitter old man they laid to rest today: empire crumbling, wife murdered, son a suicide, and the heir to his crown the only child of a man he loathed.

And the late emperor's one true friend, Katharina Schratt – who had loved him faithfully, and been loved by him, for thirty-three years – was not with him when he died, because Franz Joseph would never deign to consider making a common-born mistress an imperial wife.

There but for the grace of God and Deryn Sharp might have gone Aleksandar Ferdinand.

"Amen," he says, and kisses her hand where he holds it in his own.

.

.

.

Note: Katharina (an actress) was sometimes called "the uncrowned empress of Austria". She was, by all accounts, a kind and caring lady with no political aspirations whatsoever. But thirty-three years, people! That's just ridiculous.

Empress Elisabeth was assassinated in 1898; Crown Prince Rudolf killed himself - and his mistress - in 1889.