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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

The hope in her eyes, the spark, sank into Elisabeth like a knife, guilt lodging in her stomach, her chest, her throat. Her beautiful, hopeful sister wanted reassurance, and only hours before, Elisabeth had been kissing Helene’s intended. Not only kissing him: wanting him. Which would mean disappointing Helene. No, disappointing was too kind a word. It would crush her. The words stuck in Elisabeth’s throat, and she tried to smile back at her beaming sister.

“You look perfect, Néné.” Elisabeth turned to the seamstress. “Could we do a fitting for my dress, too?”

If she couldn’t have the thing her heart wanted most, at least she could look her best while she watched the dream slip through her fingers. After the announcement, they were leaving—and then Elisabeth would find a way not to come back for Helene’s wedding. Or at least find a way to forget Franz in the months to come. Forget the way her heart had thrown itself against her chest, the feeling of being undone in front of another person, perfectly yourself and perfectly seen.

She knew she was lying to herself, knew she could never forget. But what she could do was stand tall as she watched the inevitable unfold.

Mother’s eyebrows rose in approval, Helene’s in surprise. The seamstress motioned for Elisabeth to step into the mirrored center of the room.

For the first time in her life, Elisabeth let her mother’s attendants fix her dress without complaint. Staring into the mirror, she thought she looked like a dream: all steel-blue curves and poppy lips. She’d never admit to her mother that she might have a point about the power and pleasure of dresses and hairstyles. But she was willing to admit to herself that she now saw why Helene bore the indignities of hairpins and rosewater facial serums and hair scrubbed through with raw eggs.

Elisabeth raised her arms, turned this way and that, twirled on command. “What do you think?”

“Spatz would say you were a wood nymph,” Helene said as the seamstress finished tidying up the cinched waist of Elisabeth’s steel-blue skirt.

Or a siren, Elisabeth thought, wryly, guiltily. Siren. Temptress. Her traitor heart calling out across the waves to her sister’s intended.

THIRTY-ONE

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HELENE’S DRESS WAS COOL AND FEATHERLIGHT against her skin. She twirled and a shimmering, sparkling quality danced around her with the motion. In this dress, with her slender figure, gold-blond hair, and teardrop earrings lightly dancing against her jawline, Helene was the most beautiful she’d ever seen herself. And this dress, this beauty, was the next seed she was planting toward eventual love. Perhaps it would even be the breakthrough: the moment when Franz started to fall for her.