Berlin moved with a rhythm all its own, trains roared like arteries of steel, ministers marched in and out of marble halls, and beneath the great Reichstag dome, Eva von Zehntner sat in quiet contemplation of maps that could decide the fate of millions.
She wore an elegant dress in the colors of House Zehntner, tailored flawlessly, not for ostentation, but to signal that she was her father's daughter.
Across from her, Prince Wilhelm, her husband, and the Kaiser's grandson, poured over diplomatic cables, his brow furrowed, his uniform crisp.
He looked every inch the Prussian prince. But next to Eva, he looked like a soldier standing next to a storm.
"De Gaulle is pushing again," Wilhelm muttered, sliding the latest communique across the table.
"French border patrols near Namur, artillery drills in Metz. They're not even pretending anymore. The Low Countries are panicking."
Eva didn't need to read it. She already had. Twice.
