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Back The Empress Save as PDF
Chapters (68)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1853
  4. PART I
  5. ONE
  6. TWO
  7. THREE
  8. FOUR
  9. FIVE
  10. SIX
  11. SEVEN
  12. EIGHT
  13. NINE
  14. TEN
  15. ELEVEN
  16. TWELVE
  17. THIRTEEN
  18. FOURTEEN
  19. FIFTEEN
  20. SIXTEEN
  21. SEVENTEEN
  22. EIGHTEEN
  23. NINETEEN
  24. TWENTY
  25. TWENTY-ONE
  26. TWENTY-TWO
  27. TWENTY-THREE
  28. TWENTY-FOUR
  29. TWENTY-FIVE
  30. TWENTY-SIX
  31. TWENTY-SEVEN
  32. TWENTY-EIGHT
  33. TWENTY-NINE
  34. THIRTY
  35. THIRTY-ONE
  36. THIRTY-TWO
  37. THIRTY-THREE
  38. THIRTY-FOUR
  39. THIRTY-FIVE
  40. THIRTY-SIX
  41. 1854
  42. PART II
  43. THIRTY-SEVEN
  44. THIRTY-EIGHT
  45. THIRTY-NINE
  46. FORTY
  47. FORTY-ONE
  48. FORTY-TWO
  49. FORTY-THREE
  50. FORTY-FOUR
  51. FORTY-FIVE
  52. FORTY-SIX
  53. FORTY-SEVEN
  54. FORTY-EIGHT
  55. FORTY-NINE
  56. FIFTY
  57. FIFTY-ONE
  58. FIFTY-TWO
  59. FIFTY-THREE
  60. FIFTY-FOUR
  61. FIFTY-FIVE
  62. FIFTY-SIX
  63. FIFTY-SEVEN
  64. FIFTY-EIGHT
  65. FIFTY-NINE
  66. SIXTY
  67. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  68. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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.

TWO

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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?”