“Why did we pack mourning clothes anyhow?” Elisabeth couldn’t stifle her curiosity.

“Uncle Georg died. We’re stopping by on the way home,” Mother answered.

Elisabeth’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Who is Uncle Georg?”

“That doesn’t matter right now, Sisi!” Mother shook her head like it was obvious that Elisabeth shouldn’t care about the poor, dead uncle she’d never heard of.

“So … all we have are yesterday’s dirty clothes?” Helene was on the edge of tears.

Elisabeth tried to sound comforting. “What you wear won’t matter, Néné.”

“Of course it matters!” Helene’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp. “He is the Emperor of Austria, and it’s his birthday.”

Elisabeth quieted in surrender.

Mother fanned herself, speaking to the shaky maid. “Be so kind as to bring me a glass of sherry.”

Elisabeth picked up her own mourning dress from where Mother had tossed it beside her on the bed. She’d always regretted that it was reserved for funerals. It was a pretty thing, not too itchy or stifling like so many things her mother stuffed her into.

Trying again to be helpful, she spoke up. “I read that in London and Paris, all the artists wear nothing but black.”

Apparently, no one else in the room found the information comforting because Mother narrowed her eyes. Beside her, Helene tightened her fist around her own dress and looked up sharply. “You don’t understand!” A pause, then, “Go, leave us alone.”

Elisabeth blinked fast, hurt. She was just trying to help, and now Helene was banishing her. Could she never say the right thing? Well, fine. Let them fret and cry over a thing they could do nothing about. If a man’s love was as fragile as two missing dresses, his love wasn’t worth having at all. If they couldn’t see that, they were the ones who didn’t understand.

Elisabeth rose from the bed and slipped into yesterday’s dress. If she was banished, she might as well explore.

It was early, the sky still orange and pink with sunrise. Preparations for the emperor’s birthday party were well underway, and as Elisabeth wandered into a dining room, servants busied themselves around her. A redheaded girl dusted the grand piano in a corner. Two older women were sweeping on either side of the room. And the smells of fresh bread and mixed spices drifted in from a nearby kitchen, making Elisabeth’s mouth water.

As she stepped farther into the room, a young man caught his foot on the edge of a cream-colored Persian rug and stumbled, scattering fruit from a three-tiered silver display across the floor. He bowed as she rushed forward and stooped to help him collect the oranges, lemons, and peaches, gently putting them back in place.