The Empress E-Book

Gigi Griffis

• Herausgeber: Swift Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 349

Beschreibung

THE DAZZLING LOVE STORY BEHIND THE EPIC NETFLIX SERIESThe Empress is a dazzling reimagining of the courtship between one of history's most iconic and beloved couples: Sisi and Franz of Austria.The year is 1853, and sixteen-year-old Elisabeth "Sisi" of Bavaria has been very clear: she will wait for the sweeping, head-over-heels kind of love the poets speak of, or she will have no love at all. It is not her fault Mother refuses to listen. After all, just because her older sister Helene has chosen the line of duty, and is preparing to marry Emperor Franz of Austria, does not mean Sisi also needs to subject herself to such a passionless, regimented existence. Sisi knows there is more to life than corsets, luncheons, and woefully unfashionable dukes … if only someone would give her the chance to experience it firsthand.Meanwhile, in Austria, the Emperor is recovering from an assassination attempt that left him wounded and scared. In a bid to keep the peace, Franz has recommitted himself to his imperial duties-and promised to romance the pliant Bavarian princess, Helene, at his upcoming birthday celebration. How better to unite the country than with the announcement of a new Empress?But when Sisi and Franz meet unexpectedly in the palace gardens, away from the prying eyes and relentless critique of their families, their connection cannot be denied. And as their illicit conversations turn into something more, they must soon choose between the expectations of the court, and the burning desires of their hearts…Epic, captivating, and deliciously steamy, The Empress is a remarkably contemporary tale of falling in love and finding one's voice.FOR FANS OF THE CROWN, A VERY BRITISH SCANDAL AND BRIDGERTONRAVE READER REVIEWS?????'Wow read in one sitting really gripping and so well written. Really enjoyable read totally recommend' - Netgalley reviewer????'A fast-paced, witty romance with likeable characters. It reads like The Handmaiden meets The Great with similar plot points of Bridgerton … fun and playful' - Netgalley reviewer????'This is a fun and playful historical read with plenty of spice. I really liked the writing and the characters and after reading this I am excited for the series' - Netgalley reviewer????'A romantic, light story … Gigi Griffis delivers an easy-to-read romance … The more modern tone and manner in fact lend to the book's digestibility ... an enjoyable read' - Netgalley reviewer

Leseprobe

SWIFT PRESS

First published in Great Britain by Swift Press 2022

Simultaneously published in the United States of America by Zando 2022

The Empress ©/™ Netflix 2022. Used with permission.

Inspired by the Netflix series The Empress

The Empress is a work of fiction inspired by history. Aside from the well-known historical figures, historical events and real locales featured in this work, the use of which is not intended to change the fictional nature of the work, all other names, characters, places, dialogue, and incidents are used fictitiously.

Text design by Pauline Neuwirth, Neuwirth & Associates Cover design by Evan Gaffney

Cover photo © Thomas Schenk

Bird © val_iva / Adobe Stock

Knife engraving © channarongsds / Adobe Stock

Botanical engraving © OlgaKorneeva / Adobe Stock

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 9781800752528

eISBN: 9781800752535

For my sisters, by blood and choice: RJ, Natalia, Sarah, and David

On the wild waves of the North Sea Beloved,

You lay stretched out;

I have consumed you bit by bit, Covered in salt and foam.

—THE DIARY OF DUCHESS ELISABETH OF BAVARIA

1853

ELISABETH’S MOTHER WAS PANIC AND FURY, A WINDSTORM of skirts and schnapps, rampaging through the house loud enough to wake the dead.

“Sisi!”

Elisabeth hated that nickname, and her mother knew it. It was a child’s name—and her mother’s excuse to treat her like one.

“Sisi, where are you?” Mother’s voice was closer now.

Elisabeth was hiding behind an elegant sky-blue floor-to-ceiling curtain. The curtain matched the rich blues of the plush chairs in the sitting room where she was hiding, which in turn matched the rich walnut of the wood floor, which matched the richness of her mother’s tastes. The rest of the house was similar: baby-blue archways and doorways, jewel-toned bedcovers, warm wood floors laid with rugs, everything swirling with flowers or twining with vines.

Elisabeth’s eight-year-old sister, Spatz, slipped behind the curtain beside her, conspiratorial. Elisabeth wiggled her eyebrows at her tiny, wide-eyed sister and pressed a finger to her lips. But Spatz didn’t need to be told to be quiet. She knew the hide-from-Mother game well by now. They all did. Only Helene had recently become very serious and stopped playing.

The thought made Elisabeth’s eyes close involuntarily. Her sister had scolded her just yesterday that she needed to grow up. “You sound like our tutor,” Elisabeth had replied, unable to keep her disappointment from spilling out. Now Helene had given her the silent treatment for half a day.

“Si-si!” her mother shouted again, pronouncing each syllable of her name separately as if that would draw her out of hiding.

Elisabeth knew Mother wanted to do something with her hair. She could picture the next two hours of her life: Sit still, Sisi! Don’t fidget, Sisi! Let us yank your head in every direction and stab you with pins, Sisi! Even when she tried to do what her mother wanted, it was never enough. Every breath was a fidget. Every accidental wince a complaint. Elisabeth had tried—really tried—the last time a duke came calling about an engagement, but in the end, it still turned out the same: with her mother angry and the duke gone.

Today, she’d rather hide.

Elisabeth rubbed a thumb against the thick, silky fabric of the curtain, a breeze tickling at the back of her neck through the open window behind her. All three girls had climbed out that window time and time again in games of hide-and-seek—and whenever they needed a fast escape. Though she supposed Helene wouldn’t stoop to climbing down the trellis and into the grass any longer, now that she’d lost her sense of adventure. Now that she was supposed to marry the emperor.

It was worse than that, Elisabeth realized, because Helene would be unadventurous and distant and gone. Marrying the emperor meant moving to Vienna. And leaving Elisabeth behind with—

“Where are you?” Her mother’s question was followed by a frustrated, almost animal noise, and it was so startling, so close, that Elisabeth jumped and Spatz put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Mother had managed to come into the room without them hearing—a feat with her normally heavy footsteps.

Elisabeth regained her composure, winked at her sister.

“For heaven’s sake, Sisi. The duke will be here any minute!”

The duke. Mother’s great hope for Elisabeth’s future and one of the most pompous humans in existence. Mother was hoping he’d propose today; Elisabeth was hoping he’d fall off his horse on the way.

Another set of footsteps rushed into the room. A maid, for certain. Helene wouldn’t stoop to rushing anymore.

“She isn’t even dressed yet? That can’t be!” Mother said.

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. Any minute was an exaggeration. The duke wasn’t due for several hours. She smiled at Spatz, raising an eyebrow. Neither of them were anywhere near dressed— both in white nightgowns, bare feet, hair wild and not yet brushed.

Emboldened, the sisters peeked around the curtain. The maid was holding Elisabeth’s dress for the day—ruffled and glamorous, decked out with ribbons, but so stiff with starch that it looked like it could stand on its own. Perhaps that was the answer to the day’s woes: the dress could stand in for Elisabeth. She doubted the duke would notice if it didn’t have a real woman in it. In fact, he might think it an improvement.

They watched as Mother clutched dramatically at her side and leaned heavily on the poor, put-upon maid, who struggled to support both her and the stand-alone dress.

Despite her nerves, Mother looked perfect, as usual, her own dress a deep shade of green with a plunging neckline and puffed sleeves. A floral necklace drew the eyes to her delicate throat and perfect bone structure. Mother’s hair was honey hued and her features elegant, a stark contrast to the dark locks and playful faces of Elisabeth and Spatz. Helene, on the other hand, had inherited her mother’s golden tones and graceful movements, and she had also now adopted the propriety to match.

Sensing that Mother might turn at any moment and catch them, Elisabeth and Spatz darted back behind the curtain. And as the older women took their conversation into another room, Elisabeth turned to Spatz, clutching her side in an exaggerated impression of her mother. “I’m bleeding to death on the inside, and all because of that child! Bring me some schnapps!”

Spatz giggled, hand to mouth.

They could still hear Mother’s shrill voice, farther away now, this time pointed at Helene, who must have chosen this unfortunate moment to leave her room and come into the hallway. “I won’t allow things to go wrong—not again, not at the last minute.”

That was the problem, though: the duke had been wrong from the very first minute, his attentions unwanted before he stepped through the door. But no matter how nicely Elisabeth said so, no one seemed to hear her.

Spatz looked at her older sister, curious. “Mother says he wants to propose to you.”

“Well, he can propose all he likes,” Elisabeth answered, leaning in, conspiratorial, “but I don’t want him.”

She smiled wryly, ruffling Spatz’s mussed brown hair. Spatz looked like Elisabeth had at her age: aquiline nose, pale skin, cheeks rosy with mischief. The only difference was their eyes: Elisabeth’s a mysterious color somewhere between blue and green, Spatz’s the liquid dark brown of a forest floor after the rain.

“But why not?”

Elisabeth poked her sister and whispered in mock horror, “Did you see how he dresses?”

On their first meeting, over a very awkward dinner, the duke had worn a collar so ruffled that it made him look like a turkey. Of course, much worse was the way he’d gone on and on about himself through dinner and then placed a proprietary hand on Elisabeth’s knee under the table. But Spatz didn’t need to know that part. The costume would be what was memorable to the youngest duchess.

Spatz rolled her eyes at the reminder.

Then, more serious, Elisabeth brushed a loose lock of hair from her sister’s face. “I don’t love him, and I want to make my own decisions.”

Spatz nodded sincerely, but before she could ask another question, the telltale noise of a carriage rattled across the gravel drive and through the open window behind them. Elisabeth’s eyebrows rose in surprise. She’d thought Mother’s wails of any minute had been hyperbole. As usual. But now the duke had arrived—and was descending from his carriage. Elisabeth could see flashes of him through the trees between the window and drive. Her supposed beloved: his skin pale, his mustache curled, his expression ridiculously self-satisfied for a man dressed in the largest plumed hat Elisabeth had ever seen. She watched him until he disappeared around the corner of the house.

Elisabeth turned away from the window, took her sister’s little face in her hands, and leaned down to look straight into her inquisitive eyes. “I want a man who satiates my soul. Do you understand?”

Spatz nodded, then shook her head and giggled.

“I want that for you, too—one day.” Elisabeth kissed her sister on the forehead, Spatz’s skin warm and dry and scented with the honey and tea their soaps were made with.

“Sisi!” Mother’s voice was closer again. Too close.

And so, before her mother could find her and march her to her doom, Elisabeth lifted her skirts, climbed over the windowsill, and dropped into the dew-cold grass.

As she slipped around the corner of the house, she heard her mother screech again. “Where is she?”

And Spatz, dear, lovely Spatz, answered so seriously: “She said she wants a man who satiates her soul.”

Yes, little sister. Elisabeth would have a great love or no man at all. It was the line she’d drawn in the sand, and she would not cross it.

FRANZ LOVED EVERYTHING ABOUT FENCING: THE COLD air raw on his throat, his shoulders drawn tense as a bowstring, the sweet smell of the wet grass, and the way the world narrowed in on itself until all that was left was focus— movements and countermovements. It was the one time he felt completely right in the world, completely certain. The one time he wasn’t surrounded by people asking him to consider this alliance or that nobleman or some pretty girl who would make a quiet, obedient empress. Everyone needed something from him, and Franz was exhausted.

Fencing was how he forgot about all that, how he could— for a few moments—be simply Franz. Not the emperor. Not a Habsburg. Not a source of money, support, heirs. Just a man with a sword proving himself with his wits and training against the backdrop of a royal garden—all tall shrubs and bright white stone paths. Alone except for his opponent and Theo, his personal valet, standing to the side.

“Ah-ha!” His opponent made a triumphant noise, lunging into an opening Franz had left him. But as usual, the opening had been by design. Franz parried the blow and went in for the kill.

“Ah-ha yourself,” he returned, confident that his sword was about to hit its target.

But no. His opponent blocked the blow easily, attacking back with vigor. “What now?” A familiar voice rang through the other man’s mask. “Can’t win them all, can we?”

Surprise and irritation flinched through Franz, bunching his muscles. He’d thought he was practicing with the fencing master—the lack of conversation a normal part of their peaceful routine since Franz had asked him to skip the formalities. But this voice was not the low, calm cadence of the fencing master. It was too sharp for that. Sharp enough that it could only belong to Franz’s little brother: Maxi.

But since when was Maxi back at the palace? The least reliable Habsburg had been away for months doing who-knows-what with who-knows-whom. Franz had sent him on a scouting mission to Italy, but he’d neglected his correspondence again, so there was no telling where he’d actually been.

Franz tightened his jaw. Of course, Maxi would come out to needle him at the one time Franz could just be. Maxi couldn’t just leave him alone. And today of all days—when Franz needed his composure more than ever.

Franz’s feet moved urgently, almost without permission, as he lunged forward. Maxi would be unbearable if he won the match. Winning was suddenly more important than good form.

The swords clashed, the two brothers locked in a complicated dance: two steps forward, back, back, forward, back. Franz pushed, attacked, almost stumbled. And then—

He had him. Finally, Franz’s épée found its mark at Maxi’s heart, the dulled tip denting the cloth on his brother’s chest.

“Match.” Franz stepped back, breathing hard, and lifted his mask.

Maxi’s shoulders dropped and he let his mask fall to the grass, casually running a hand through his sandy-blond hair. Maxi appeared unfazed, and Franz wished that he could look so carefree. If Franz didn’t know Maxi better, he’d think his brother didn’t care about the loss. But Maxi always cared. They both did. Competition was the lifeblood of young men. That’s what their mother believed, and it’s how she had raised them. Now neither of them could stand to lose.

“You haven’t been neglecting your training, Brother.” Maxi’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I see rumors of your demise were overblown.”

“It’s nice to see that those rumors sent you rushing back in concern for my health all those months ago.” The edges of the comment were sharp. Franz knew better than to be hurt by Maxi, his unreliability all too familiar. But he was hurt. Franz had been on his deathbed, and his brother hadn’t come home.

Maxi waved a hand, dismissive. “Alas, I was delayed, and anyway, you rose from the ashes like the damn phoenix, like I knew you would.”

It was true. The doctors had been shocked by how quickly Franz recovered. A knife to the neck, yet he’d been out of bed, walking, exercising, and governing long before the doctors thought he would.

The truth was he’d had to. If he hadn’t gotten out of that sickbed, he would have fallen apart. The skin at his neck may have stitched itself back together, but the tears in his mind hadn’t. A noise or smell, a trick of the light, could send him straight back to hell. Every day he felt the blade go in, felt the life leaving his body, felt the hate behind the act. The only cure was constant motion, perfect control.

Franz rolled his shoulders, shaking the thoughts away. Today of all days, he couldn’t afford to dwell. He hoped it looked like he was just stretching. He couldn’t let Maxi see any hint of weakness.

“Your Majesty. It’s time.”

Franz turned to face Theo—in the past few months, his confidante—the one person in the palace who knew his secrets and laughed at his jokes. They didn’t do more than exchange a small nod now, but even that action made Franz feel steadier, supported. He didn’t know how he would have gotten through those months without Theo.

Franz let his eyes wander past Theo to the palace in the distance. The white facade had softened to gold in the early morning light, the rooftops a metallic green: a beautiful exterior that hid something colder and harsher inside. He clenched his fist.

Maxi was watching him closely, so Franz shook his shoulders again, tried to smile. It felt wrong, his face out of practice.

Maxi retrieved his mask and turned to follow Theo up the hill. Franz walked close behind—slowly, reluctantly. Leaving the garden set his heart racing, his sense of danger spiking. He reached down to run his fingers over the silk-soft petals of a rose to remind himself where he was.

You’re not dying, Franz. You’re not in danger.

You’re only going to an execution.

NOW ELISABETH WAS THE WINDSTORM. WILD AND free, her horse, Puck, gaining speed beneath her, breaking into a gallop. Her nightgown clung to her sides, and her hair bounced with the rhythm of the horse’s movement. Riding away from self-important dukes, away from mothers who tried to pinch her into a smaller shape—lacing her soul into a corset. She would not shrink, not for anyone.

She knew she would fall in love one day, and that love would make her more expansive, not less. She’d written poems about it, her favorite lines etched deep in her soul. As she and Puck cantered through the forest and leapt over meandering streams, she recited them to herself:

In deep, rocky gorges In bays wreathed in vines The soul always seeks Only him.

Only him. Elisabeth knew with her whole heart that she would know him when she found him. Her soul would reach across the gap and recognize his right away. She knew he was not the pompous duke, so now, she rode. Away, away, away. Windstorm, hailstorm, tempest. Climbing up into the hills where low shrubs, rolling fields, and mirror-bright lakes spread out below her in every direction.

She only wished she could take Helene out into these hills with her, bring her back to herself. They could forage for berries, soaking their dress hems in dew. Lay out under the stars at night. Live, breathe, and stop trying to fold themselves into some other shape—and for what? There was nothing worth losing yourself over: not your mother’s whims, not even an emperor. That’s what Elisabeth had told her sister last week after Helene accidentally mislabeled the forks during etiquette lessons: If he doesn’t love you for you, then he doesn’t deserve you. If you had to be prim and proper all the time, know every fork by name . . . wouldn’t you just suffocate in the box they forced you into?

Besides, Elisabeth had heard the talk. There’d been an attempt on the emperor’s life. Her heart twisted in her chest at the thought that the engagement might put Helene in danger too.

Elisabeth urged Puck on faster, tightening her hands around the reins. She was a wild thing, untamable in the way of a storm or a fire. She’d never let herself become what Mother wanted her to be: a girl without hope, without dreams, without love. She would find her great love one day, and they’d be untamable together.

Today, Puck was the only one who understood that feeling. Her beloved horse was the only one who truly knew her, knew what it was to be free. She felt a rush of affection for him as they crested a hill, and she softened the pace. She was on a ridge, a steep, rocky drop on either side, the sun a pink-yellow orb in the distance.

She closed her eyes, reveling in the tickle of sun on her skin, the smell of forest pine in the air, the strength of Puck beneath her. If only all of life could feel like this—so lived in, so real.

But then, unexpectedly, the world tilted. Puck bucked beneath her, and Elisabeth flew through the air, righting herself just enough to fall on her hands and knees. She gasped at the impact, her knees throbbing with it, hands clutching at the grass as if those fragile green stalks could anchor her to the earth.

When she looked up, Puck was disappearing down the ridge path, wild from whatever spooked him.

And then she saw it: a grass snake. This one wasn’t poisonous, but Puck didn’t know that. He hated snakes like she hated dukes. They’d both flee before the bite came.

“Puck.” Her voice was resigned. He was far away now. But never mind that. What mattered was that they were unhurt. She’d retrieve Puck, and all would be well. Better yet, she’d have quite the excuse for why she wasn’t at the house for the duke’s visit.

“All will be well,” she repeated quietly to herself as she followed the horse’s path down the hill. There Puck stood, on the edge of a pond with the sun gleaming off his chestnut coat. How beautiful he looked. How she loved him.

But then he turned—and all was not well.

Her father was asleep when she walked into his bedroom— but he wasn’t alone. Not one but two women lay beside him, neither of them Elisabeth’s mother. The room was elegantly decorated, like every room her mother had touched, but strewn with wineglasses and empty bottles. As she slipped into the darkness, Elisabeth stepped gingerly over the clothes that should have been on the two women—but were most certainly not. Her father was entangled in arms and legs, breasts, and the contours of exposed thighs. The hills and curves that comforted her father were not the same ones Elisabeth sought out.

The room smelled of sex, stale wine, and cigar smoke. Elisabeth’s nose wrinkled involuntarily as she stepped up to the foot of the bed and was greeted by the nipples of a third woman she hadn’t immediately seen.

And this was why Elisabeth refused to marry for anything less than love. She didn’t want a life like her mother’s, pretending not to notice that her husband was entertaining other women in her own home. And she didn’t want a life like her father’s, constantly seeking comfort from outside his marriage because he’d never loved her mother one day in his life.

It wasn’t the sex that bothered her. She hadn’t been with a man yet herself, but her father’s reckless behavior meant that she knew a lot about it. She wasn’t a prude; she wasn’t afraid. She just hated the way it underscored the lack of love between her parents—two people who were supposed to love each other first and foremost.

But Elisabeth didn’t have time to dwell this morning. Puck was injured. Besides, it wasn’t the first time she had encountered her father in this state, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last.

She spoke into the darkness. “Papa? I need your help.”

Groggy, he opened his eyes. As usual, his look was brazen rather than sheepish. Her father, the rake.

“Puck’s injured,” Elisabeth whispered.

Her father didn’t answer—only sat up and began to untangle himself from the snarl of limbs on the bed. Elisabeth turned away. She’d seen enough already.

When he moved into her line of sight, Father was dressed and carrying both a cigar and his rifle, two things he was rarely without. He motioned for her to lead the way out of the house.

“What happened?” he asked once they were outside.

“Something with his leg . . . he doesn’t want to walk.” Elisabeth was relieved to hear that she sounded steady. Certain.

“We’ll have a look.” Father picked up the pace, then smirked as he realized what day it was and turned to look at his middle daughter. “I thought you were getting engaged this morning. Aren’t your mother and the duke waiting for you?”

Elisabeth gave him a sideways glance.

“I’m curious to see what absurdity he’s wearing today.” Father raised an eyebrow at her, and she laughed, if a little sadly. Papa was a strange and fickle ally, but he at least understood how ridiculous her suitors were.

“You could stop it, you know,” Elisabeth replied. “You could send these dukes away.”

He waved a hand, dismissive. “You know these affairs are your mother’s business. Nothing to do with me.” It was the same answer as usual. Sure, Father would teach them to ride and laugh heartily at their antics. But when it mattered, he never stepped in. Elisabeth didn’t know why she kept hoping for something different.

Then, finally, they were there. Puck stood before them holding one leg up off the ground. He was breathing much heavier now, chest trembling, eyes wild. He looked much worse than Elisabeth remembered. She glanced at Father as his eyes narrowed, his lips turning down. Her heart trembled. This was her fault. She had taken Puck out to feel the freedom of wind on her face and now—

Now the foolish duke would be the end of them both.

Father stepped forward, examining Puck’s leg.

“It’s broken,” he said, more irritated than sad. Puck might be a friend to Elisabeth, but to her father, he was property. Another thing to be replaced.

Tears brimmed in her eyes, but Father shook his head. “His leg is broken, Elisabeth. You know what we do when a horse breaks a leg. He won’t be able to run; you won’t be able to ride him.”

Ride him. That was all Father saw Puck as: a thing to ride, a workhorse, nothing more.

When Elisabeth was little, he told her that you had to shoot a broken-legged horse because it couldn’t live a full life anymore. But that was just an excuse, a dispassionate business decision. Why did Father get to decide how Puck felt about the fullness, the potential of his life?

Father cocked his rifle and handed it to Elisabeth, its weight heavy and familiar in her hands. “Do it,” he said, nodding at the horse.

Elisabeth’s skin went cold, and her hands began to shake. Puck had been her horse, her friend, her comfort for more than ten years.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

“You caused the damage; you pay the price.”

Her father was so good at blame. Never mind his own flaws. Elisabeth bit the inside of her cheek.

“Puck isn’t damaged goods to be thrown out. He’s my friend.” She knew what her father would say, but Puck was worth fighting for. Even fighting a losing battle.

“He’s a horse, Elisabeth. Not a person. And you shouldn’t have even been out here.” He took the gun back, aiming it at Puck. Her poor, precious, wild, free Puck.

Elisabeth grabbed the barrel. “No, wait. It will heal. I know it.” It was a hopeless plea, but still she made it. If she said it out loud, maybe there was some small chance that Father would believe her. Or just forget long enough to let Puck live out his life in a cozy pen eating apples out of Elisabeth’s hands.

Father stood firm, his expression unmoved, and Elisabeth’s breath wound tight in her chest, stealing her words. Time seemed to narrow in on itself, slowing, quieting. The birds went silent, the breeze stopped—even nature taking a moment of silence for her dear, sweet Puck.

She went to Puck one last time, pressed her hands to his soft face, then pressed her cheek to the top of his nose. She willed him to read her thoughts. I’m sorry, Puck. I’ll miss you.

“Move, Elisabeth,” came the words behind her.

So she did. And then she wept.

IT WAS A GOOD THING THE HABSBURG UNIFORM WAS stiff as a tank, because Franz was shaking like a leaf inside it. He hated that he couldn’t stop. His only hope for composure was that no one else noticed. The collar on his shirt rubbed roughly against the scar on his neck—a constant reminder, but at least it was covered. He wouldn’t let those bastards see the marks their cause had left on him: the scar nor the shaking.

Franz was standing in his room, surrounded by an army of slick-haired, white-gloved servants who had spent fifteen whole minutes sealing him into his monstrous uniform. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his reflection—elegant, regal—in the gold-rimmed mirror to his left. But the room around him felt as stiff as the uniform today: the wallpaper drab, the rich umber of the heavy curtains unyielding. It was amazing how a room could reflect his own mood back at him.

The only person in the room less comfortable than Franz was the new valet, standing at attention by the mirror. Was the man even alive? He looked as stuffed as the taxidermy bear in the corner, which had been delivered that morning, compliments of the Russian tsar—a reminder of yet another thing someone wanted from Franz: military support.

“Theo, do me a favor.” Franz broke the silence.

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“Find out if the new guy is still breathing.” Despite the deadpan delivery, Theo smiled at the joke, and Franz felt a little better.

Franz took a deep breath and adjusted his collar. The new guy looked a little like Maxi—something about the eyes, the jaw—and Franz wondered where his brother was and if their mother would try to bring him to the execution. After their match, Maxi had—predictably—disappeared. Franz could never get away with that, but Maxi was free as a bird. Freer, even. Birds still had to build nests and feed their young. Maxi’s nests were built for him, and while Franz suspected there were a few screaming infants out there with his brother’s eyes, Maxi definitely wasn’t doing any feeding.

Franz could hear his mother approaching in the hall. She always walked with purpose, a habit he’d found useful when he was a boy trying to hide from his duties and that now gave him advance notice to stand up straight.

Countess Esterházy, his mother’s favorite companion, was rattling off the schedule in her clear, cool voice. “There is a short audience with the Bohemian delegation after breakfast, then you have a fitting for the winter wardrobe. But first, the execution.”

At that, the footsteps stopped abruptly, and Franz’s eyebrows flicked upward in surprise. It wasn’t like his mother to be hesitant in the face of an execution. Was she feeling some of the anxiety in his own heart?

But then the footsteps started again and the disgust in her voice aimed itself elsewhere. “Not another fitting. Postpone it.”

His mother: Archduchess Sophie of Habsburg, the pragmatist. People called her the only man in Hofburg Palace. It was meant as a slight on Franz, but it never bothered him. They weren’t wrong. She was the best strategist, the sharpest mind, in all of Vienna. She was almost psychic in her ability to know the right thing to do, to see danger before it struck. She’d even told Franz not to go out the day of the assassination attempt. She’d told him that there was unrest, that he was in danger.

It was his fault for not listening. For only taking a single guard. So, if his decision to listen to her made people gossip, well, he would bear it. He owed her that much.

Franz turned toward the doors as they opened, and his mother walked into the room. She was imposing as always, in a black dress with a tall, stiff collar. As usual, she filled every spare inch of space with her quiet power.

“Mother.”

She hinted at a curtsy and a smile. “Your Majesty.”

He stepped forward to kiss her hand, relieved that his own was no longer shaking.

“I hear you’ve been out already. Did you sleep at all, dear?”

He shook his head. He hadn’t slept a full night since the day they gave him the scar. He wondered if he would after the execution, knowing he’d struck back at the revolution that wanted him dead. But no use bothering his mother with all that; she wouldn’t understand.

“You look perfect, Franz.” Sophie motioned to the door, and he fell into step beside her as they walked into the gleaming marble hallway, their feet tapping loudly, echo bouncing off the high ceilings.

Some days his mother would stop to admire the details of the palace—the portraits of their predecessors lining the walls, the intricacies of the stone columns—but not today. Today, she was all business. She turned midstep, looking seriously at her son. “This won’t be a pleasant morning, but you will have to get used to it.”

Franz held her gaze. “I believe there are things one never gets used to.”

An hour later, Franz and his mother stood in a square fitted with gallows. Five men waited steel-faced and dirty on a rough wooden platform, nooses hanging behind them. Franz stared at their hands, the fingernails soot black and plum purple, some of them missing. Had they always been like that, he wondered, or had his guards done it? The thought turned his stomach. Didn’t meeting suffering with suffering only yield more suffering?

“Show them your face.” His mother’s voice broke through his thoughts. “There are times when a ruler must show his strength.”

Franz tried to keep his expression calm as he tore his gaze away from the men’s hands and focused on their faces. Sweat beaded inside his collar, underneath his hat, and dripped hot and then shockingly cold down his neck and spine. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, but the breaths still came quickly, and his heart beat hard inside his chest. His upper lip was tingling again and he knew— even if no one else around him did—that he was on the brink of passing out. It happened sometimes, when the memory of that day rushed in. The numbness would creep in, his vision would narrow, and then: darkness. So far it had only happened when Franz was alone. Please, God, he thought, don’t let it happen now.

All around him, people jeered, their voices rising in an unintelligible roar. It was making the feeling worse, making it harder to track his breathing. Beside him, his mother nodded at the police chief.

“Nooses!” the chief shouted, and Franz nearly jumped as men scrambled to place ropes around necks.

Franz reached up to his lapel and detached one of the medals pinned there, slipping it into his closed fist, letting the jagged edges push into his palm. Focus, Franz. Feel the sharpness on your skin. You’re here now. You’re not back there. If he told himself enough times, maybe one day his body would believe him and stop tingling then screaming its way into the past.

“You have been sentenced to death on charges of lèsemajesté and seditious conduct, theft, and high treason,” the police chief continued. “Only His Majesty the Emperor has the power to pardon those who have been condemned to die.”

Franz pressed the medal harder into his fist, tightening his hand around it, the sharp edges slicing through skin. He stared straight into the eyes of the revolutionary in the center: a leader in the movement that had tried to kill him.

None of these men were the one who’d plunged in the knife. But they were all a danger. They had planned it. They had sanctioned it. They were the unrest of the people sharpened into a weapon, striking at the heart of Habsburg.

Franz held his gaze.

“Do the condemned have anything to say?” the police chief asked, and the crowd went silent. Franz’s heart shrieked in his ears.

“You sit in your palace while we live in filth.” The man in the center was the one to speak. “We have no food. We have no supplies. We have no way to get the things we need. And you ignore our suffering. You ignore your people.”

Franz forced his face to stay stony, composed.

“Your Majesty,” the man added, mockingly, with a slight curtsy, awkward with his head still in the noose. “You can kill us, but it won’t make a difference. The people will rise up against you.”

A chorus of yeses echoed ominously through the crowd. Franz focused on his breathing, the feeling of pin against palm, blood pooling sticky where it rubbed too hard.

It was another confirmation of what Franz wished he could forget: He was still in danger. Another knife or, perhaps this time, a revolver, a sword, a hundred fists from a hundred angry men, their voices rising like the ocean. His mother exchanged a glance with the police chief and Franz knew she was as surprised as he was by the crowd’s reaction. The crowd should have been on their side, but instead they were cheering for the men about to die.

The man continued, “I die for the people—”

The crowd roared its approval.

But then, midshout, the lever was thrown, the gallows opened, and the man’s words were cut off with a crack. Franz tried not to flinch, but he could feel that noise in his bones, his toes, his fingertips. Attendants threw the other levers in turn, the other revolutionaries following their leader into death.

The crowd fell silent. The attendants stepped down from the platform.

It was over.

BREATHE IN, BREATHE OUT.

Elisabeth stood outside the sitting room, repeating those words to herself and trying to calm her ragged breaths, the sick pounding of her heart. Puck was gone. Her nightgown was covered in grass stains and blood from holding him. Her face was tight with the salt of dried tears. And there was a ridiculous man behind this door who wanted to marry her. She’d started the day in good humor, despite it all, but she was too tired for that now.

Elisabeth stood in one of her favorite places in the house, all sweeping ceilings and stone steps stretching gently up to the second floor. The entryway was elegant in its simplicity, the one place her mother’s heavy fabrics and gold leaf hadn’t swallowed whimsy whole. The staircase’s wooden banister was carved with vines and roses, and slightly imperfect knots dotted the wood. It was like the outdoors had come dancing playfully inside. It usually comforted her. But today it felt oppressive: the entryway to a life she didn’t want.

She could hear her mother through the door. “Sisi will be here presently. Her morning prayers are so important to her.”

If she had the energy, Elisabeth would have rolled her eyes.

“This last summer has made her blossom and become even more mature. She is ready for marriage . . .”

Mother was babbling, as usual. Elisabeth hated how she had been reduced to whatever her mother thought a girl should be, not what she actually was. She wondered what it would take for her mother to call Elisabeth witty or wild or spontaneous. That kind of truth would probably make her mother’s ulcer explode on the spot.

“My daughter was blessed with a clever mind. But not too clever, of course.”

Elisabeth let out a weak, rueful exhalation.

“Above all else, she’s inconspicuous and will submit to your every will.”

Elisabeth turned away from the sitting room. Her mother could keep lying, but that didn’t mean she had to listen.

“Sisi!” Helene met her at the bottom of the staircase. “I think the duke is about to leave.”

Elisabeth took her older sister in slowly: her light hair perfectly pinned, her skin flushed pink, her dress well fitted in a playful yellow. A few months ago, Helene had hidden Elisabeth in a trunk when one of the counts came calling. But now she was firmly on Mother’s side. The side of duty, obligation. The loss carved into Elisabeth’s heart.

“I don’t care, Néné.” She said her sister’s nickname gently, her voice resigned.

Helene shook her head slightly. “But it’s been arranged. He’s here to get engaged.”

“You take him then,” Elisabeth replied, her words tired and thick with grief. She was a girl without a mother who loved her for who she was, without a sister to support her or a father who would intervene, and now no horse to escape with.

Before she could slip past Helene and up the staircase, the sitting room door banged open, and Mother and the duke spilled into the entryway.

Elisabeth turned to face them at the foot of the stairs, taking in the duke. Today he had chosen to match his yellow plume with yellow stockings, a yellow vest, and a purple coat. He looked even more ridiculous than last time.

Mother sucked in an audible breath at the sight of her, but Elisabeth only curtsied. “Duke.”

“Oh, here she is.” Mother’s voice was shrill, her eyes bulging even as she tried to pretend that her precious, marriageable daughter wasn’t covered in dried mud and blood and tearstains. “Sisi, you remember Duke Friedrich of Anhalt. The duke insisted on discussing something important with you . . .”

Mother motioned to the duke as if anything about this moment was romantic, as if he could possibly still want to propose. Elisabeth wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh, cry, or scream.

The duke paused for a long moment, and then he started to laugh—full-belly, shoulder-bouncing, shocked laughter. Elisabeth supposed it was better than a proposal, but still, he had some nerve.

“You’re laughing at me?” She couldn’t help herself. “While wearing that hat?”

The laughter died in the duke’s throat. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and—without even the slightest bow—he stormed away.

If looks could kill, Mother’s would have put Elisabeth six feet under. But she didn’t have time for more than a passing glare as she rushed after the duke, already spinning some story about how Elisabeth wasn’t quite herself.

“You can’t keep doing this, Sisi.” Helene sounded tired behind her, and Elisabeth turned to face her sister again. “We all look bad because of you.”

Was that all Néné cared about now? Elisabeth wanted her older sister to ask if she was all right, if she was in pain. To ask about what had happened this morning to leave her so filthy.

Elisabeth didn’t understand how a duke she didn’t want and an emperor Helene had never even met were more important than a brokenhearted sister in a bloodstained nightgown.