Standing off to one side, Helene was Elisabeth’s complete opposite. No mud-caked bare feet. No words uttered in haste. Elisabeth’s heart stretched across the space. Néné, I miss you. Where did you go?

Elisabeth opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it, not sure what to say. It was pointless, anyway. Mother had made it quite clear she had no interest in Elisabeth’s opinions.

Mother was standing at the far window, beside the alcove where Elisabeth often tucked herself away to daydream and write. With its view over the grounds, it was the perfect place for verses about love and wanting, mountains and skies—but now it was full of her mother’s anger. It beat off her like a glowing coal.

Mother turned sharply, crossing the room to Elisabeth and leaning in close. “That’s two counts and two dukes you’ve driven away. They were very good men!” She practically spit the words.

No matter how many times her mother said things like that, the unfairness took Elisabeth’s breath away. The first duke had undone his trousers while they were eating cake. The second count believed women should speak one word for every ten words from a man. Was that what her mother thought good men were? Mother condemned her own husband for being just like the first duke. The hypocrisy—and the double standard—were stunning. Dukes and counts could behave as badly as they wanted; Elisabeth would be the one punished, the one blamed.

“I have an ulcer, you know,” Mother continued, less statement and more accusation. “The doctor said it could burst and then I’ll bleed to death on the inside. All because of you, Sisi.” Mother stepped back and leaned heavily on the back of a chair.

Elisabeth was always the source of Mother’s pain. For having the audacity to not want men who were rakes or self-important or twice her age. Perhaps also for not wanting what her mother wanted, for not being who her mother was. She’d had enough.

“My name is Elisabeth,” she answered slowly, deliberately.

Mother stared at her, face shifting from shock to fury. She lifted her skirts and crossed the room in barely a breath, raising her arm. Elisabeth could feel the passion and violence of the slap before it came. As if Mother was slapping her not just for today, but for all the offenses Elisabeth had ever committed in her life. Elisabeth braced herself for not just the hand, but the disdain, the rage, the disappointment.

Except—

Helene stepped forward, her breath shaky.

“Mother,” she whispered, holding out a glass of apple-red sherry. “A refreshment, perhaps?”

Mother lowered her arm, took the sherry, and pointed it at Elisabeth. “Why can’t you be like your sister? If she’s unhappy with something, what does she do?”

Elisabeth stared at Helene, willing her to say something, to give her the answer.