Tyrol lay golden under a high alpine sun, the rolling meadows and forested slopes painted in hues that seemed almost too vivid to belong to Europe's simmering century.
Here, far from Berlin's choking foundries and the brittle intrigues of Saint Petersburg, the world felt deceptively simple.
Children laughed in courtyard gardens. Horses pulled gilded carriages to waiting pavilions. A family estate was just that; a home, not a headquarters.
Or so Bruno might have wished.
But necessity took precedence over his wishes. And his family estate was far more than just a mere home.
It was a palace so grand that Versailles would weep in its ashes over its opulence, and yet fortified to withstand a siege or even an aerial bombardment deep within its bones.
He stood before the full-length mirror in the master bedroom, frowning as Heidi smoothed the heavy dark wool of his tunic.
