The harbor at Trieste glittered under a waning afternoon sun.
Gulls wheeled above sleek modern ships whose lines spoke more of military power than leisurely cruising; but the vessel tied at the private quay was fitted for luxury all the same.
It bore no national markings beyond a discreet Tyrolean pennant snapping in the salt wind.
On the docks, stevedores loaded crates of fine wines, silk-lined trunks, and towering hampers of delicacies.
The Grand Prince of Tyrol's household, sprawling, illustrious, burdened with titles that spanned half of Europe, was preparing to sail for Lisbon.
Bruno himself stood on the wide promenade deck, arms crossed, a small amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He watched the organized chaos with the calm of a man who had commanded armies across continents; and found far more unpredictable storms in his own children and grandchildren.
Below on the pier, the family assembled in waves:
