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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

And then Sophie’s voice—recognizable in its confidence, its sharpness—replied, “I’m not worried. Anything that doesn’t bend will break.”

Elisabeth went cold, the words sinking in, hard and dangerous. They were talking about her, she was sure of it. She was the wild grass, unbending. Elisabeth had hoped Sophie was on her side. But now her heart beat faster with the ominous words.

Elisabeth walked to the carriage, nerves fraying at the edges of her happiness. From an upper window, golden hair flashed in the sun—Franz. His eyes caught on hers.

Be careful, Franz. Take care of the heart I’m leaving behind with you.

She hoped they were strong enough to survive whatever was going to come next.

1854

1854

PART II

THIRTY-SEVEN

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HELENE WANTED TO BREAK SOMETHING. FRANZ HAD sent Sisi forty-four letters.

Forty-four.

Helene had received one letter before her supposed engagement—and only from Sophie. She laughed at her own foolishness. A man who’d been excited to meet her would have sent his own letters. A man ready for love would have sent forty-four of them.

Sometimes Helene tired of being angry. But then another letter would arrive, and her anger would spark anew. Each missive was a reminder of just how much she’d failed, of how her hard work had ended in disaster. Of how easy it had been for Sisi to get the thing Helene had spent months working and worrying and bending herself over backward for.

Helene had worked for love, and still it gave her the cold shoulder.

The only thing that made her feel better—if only for a few moments—was seeing Sisi’s expression when Helene refused to pass the butter, answer a question, or go for a walk. The only power she had left was to hurt, and she couldn’t stop using it.

Now Helene was standing in the hallway outside Sisi’s door, preparing to steal the latest letter. To torture herself with it while Sisi sat through French conjugation downstairs.

Helene gently pushed the door open, cursing the familiar creak for betraying her intentions to the whole house. She stepped into Sisi’s room and, as usual, it was like a storm had come through: the window was wide-open, spilling a scattering of leaves and feathers onto the sill and floor. Clothes in a dozen shades of black and white and eggplant lay in heaps on the rug. And the bed was a war zone—unmade and scattered with books, journals, poems, and the very thing Helene was looking for: the letters.

Not only Franz’s letters but also a half-crafted reply of Sisi’s. Helene could so rarely torment herself with those. They were sent off too quickly.