Cover

Dedication

For my sisters, by blood and choice: RJ, Natalia, Sarah, and David

On the wild waves of the North Sea

Beloved,

You lay stretched out;

I have consumed you bit by bit,

Covered in salt and foam.

—THE DIARY OF DUCHESS ELISABETH OF BAVARIA

1853

1853

PART I

ONE

ELISABETH’S MOTHER WAS PANIC AND FURY, A WINDSTORM of skirts and schnapps, rampaging through the house loud enough to wake the dead.

“Sisi!”

Elisabeth hated that nickname, and her mother knew it. It was a child’s name—and her mother’s excuse to treat her like one.

“Sisi, where are you?” Mother’s voice was closer now.

Elisabeth was hiding behind an elegant sky-blue floor-to-ceiling curtain. The curtain matched the rich blues of the plush chairs in the sitting room where she was hiding, which in turn matched the rich walnut of the wood floor, which matched the richness of her mother’s tastes. The rest of the house was similar: baby-blue archways and doorways, jewel-toned bedcovers, warm wood floors laid with rugs, everything swirling with flowers or twining with vines.

Elisabeth’s eight-year-old sister, Spatz, slipped behind the curtain beside her, conspiratorial. Elisabeth wiggled her eyebrows at her tiny, wide-eyed sister and pressed a finger to her lips. But Spatz didn’t need to be told to be quiet. She knew the hide-from-Mother game well by now. They all did. Only Helene had recently become very serious and stopped playing.

The thought made Elisabeth’s eyes close involuntarily. Her sister had scolded her just yesterday that she needed to grow up. “You sound like our tutor,” Elisabeth had replied, unable to keep her disappointment from spilling out. Now Helene had given her the silent treatment for half a day.

“Si-si!” her mother shouted again, pronouncing each syllable of her name separately as if that would draw her out of hiding.

Elisabeth knew Mother wanted to do something with her hair. She could picture the next two hours of her life: Sit still, Sisi! Don’t fidget, Sisi! Let us yank your head in every direction and stab you with pins, Sisi! Even when she tried to do what her mother wanted, it was never enough. Every breath was a fidget. Every accidental wince a complaint. Elisabeth had tried—really tried—the last time a duke came calling about an engagement, but in the end, it still turned out the same: with her mother angry and the duke gone.

Today, she’d rather hide.

Elisabeth rubbed a thumb against the thick, silky fabric of the curtain, a breeze tickling at the back of her neck through the open window behind her. All three girls had climbed out that window time and time again in games of hide-and-seek—and whenever they needed a fast escape. Though she supposed Helene wouldn’t stoop to climbing down the trellis and into the grass any longer, now that she’d lost her sense of adventure. Now that she was supposed to marry the emperor.

It was worse than that, Elisabeth realized, because Helene would be unadventurous and distant and gone. Marrying the emperor meant moving to Vienna. And leaving Elisabeth behind with—

“Where are you?” Her mother’s question was followed by a frustrated, almost animal noise, and it was so startling, so close, that Elisabeth jumped and Spatz put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Mother had managed to come into the room without them hearing—a feat with her normally heavy footsteps.

Elisabeth regained her composure, winked at her sister.

“For heaven’s sake, Sisi. The duke will be here any minute!”

The duke. Mother’s great hope for Elisabeth’s future and one of the most pompous humans in existence. Mother was hoping he’d propose today; Elisabeth was hoping he’d fall off his horse on the way.

Another set of footsteps rushed into the room. A maid, for certain. Helene wouldn’t stoop to rushing anymore.

“She isn’t even dressed yet? That can’t be!” Mother said.

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. Any minute was an exaggeration. The duke wasn’t due for several hours. She smiled at Spatz, raising an eyebrow. Neither of them were anywhere near dressed—both in white nightgowns, bare feet, hair wild and not yet brushed.

Emboldened, the sisters peeked around the curtain. The maid was holding Elisabeth’s dress for the day—ruffled and glamorous, decked out with ribbons, but so stiff with starch that it looked like it could stand on its own. Perhaps that was the answer to the day’s woes: the dress could stand in for Elisabeth. She doubted the duke would notice if it didn’t have a real woman in it. In fact, he might think it an improvement.

They watched as Mother clutched dramatically at her side and leaned heavily on the poor, put-upon maid, who struggled to support both her and the stand-alone dress.

Despite her nerves, Mother looked perfect, as usual, her own dress a deep shade of green with a plunging neckline and puffed sleeves. A floral necklace drew the eyes to her delicate throat and perfect bone structure. Mother’s hair was honey hued and her features elegant, a stark contrast to the dark locks and playful faces of Elisabeth and Spatz. Helene, on the other hand, had inherited her mother’s golden tones and graceful movements, and she had also now adopted the propriety to match.

Sensing that Mother might turn at any moment and catch them, Elisabeth and Spatz darted back behind the curtain. And as the older women took their conversation into another room, Elisabeth turned to Spatz, clutching her side in an exaggerated impression of her mother. “I’m bleeding to death on the inside, and all because of that child! Bring me some schnapps!”

Spatz giggled, hand to mouth.

They could still hear Mother’s shrill voice, farther away now, this time pointed at Helene, who must have chosen this unfortunate moment to leave her room and come into the hallway. “I won’t allow things to go wrong—not again, not at the last minute.”

That was the problem, though: the duke had been wrong from the very first minute, his attentions unwanted before he stepped through the door. But no matter how nicely Elisabeth said so, no one seemed to hear her.

Spatz looked at her older sister, curious. “Mother says he wants to propose to you.”

“Well, he can propose all he likes,” Elisabeth answered, leaning in, conspiratorial, “but I don’t want him.”

She smiled wryly, ruffling Spatz’s mussed brown hair. Spatz looked like Elisabeth had at her age: aquiline nose, pale skin, cheeks rosy with mischief. The only difference was their eyes: Elisabeth’s a mysterious color somewhere between blue and green, Spatz’s the liquid dark brown of a forest floor after the rain.

“But why not?”

Elisabeth poked her sister and whispered in mock horror, “Did you see how he dresses?”

On their first meeting, over a very awkward dinner, the duke had worn a collar so ruffled that it made him look like a turkey. Of course, much worse was the way he’d gone on and on about himself through dinner and then placed a proprietary hand on Elisabeth’s knee under the table. But Spatz didn’t need to know that part. The costume would be what was memorable to the youngest duchess.

Spatz rolled her eyes at the reminder.

Then, more serious, Elisabeth brushed a loose lock of hair from her sister’s face. “I don’t love him, and I want to make my own decisions.”

Spatz nodded sincerely, but before she could ask another question, the telltale noise of a carriage rattled across the gravel drive and through the open window behind them. Elisabeth’s eyebrows rose in surprise. She’d thought Mother’s wails of any minute had been hyperbole. As usual. But now the duke had arrived—and was descending from his carriage. Elisabeth could see flashes of him through the trees between the window and drive. Her supposed beloved: his skin pale, his mustache curled, his expression ridiculously self-satisfied for a man dressed in the largest plumed hat Elisabeth had ever seen. She watched him until he disappeared around the corner of the house.

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

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?”

Surprise and irritation flinched through Franz, bunching his muscles. He’d thought he was practicing with the fencing master—the lack of conversation a normal part of their peaceful routine since Franz had asked him to skip the formalities. But this voice was not the low, calm cadence of the fencing master. It was too sharp for that. Sharp enough that it could only belong to Franz’s little brother: Maxi.

But since when was Maxi back at the palace? The least reliable Habsburg had been away for months doing who-knows-what with who-knows-whom. Franz had sent him on a scouting mission to Italy, but he’d neglected his correspondence again, so there was no telling where he’d actually been.

Franz tightened his jaw. Of course, Maxi would come out to needle him at the one time Franz could just be. Maxi couldn’t just leave him alone. And today of all days—when Franz needed his composure more than ever.

Franz’s feet moved urgently, almost without permission, as he lunged forward. Maxi would be unbearable if he won the match. Winning was suddenly more important than good form.

The swords clashed, the two brothers locked in a complicated dance: two steps forward, back, back, forward, back. Franz pushed, attacked, almost stumbled. And then—

He had him. Finally, Franz’s épée found its mark at Maxi’s heart, the dulled tip denting the cloth on his brother’s chest.

“Match.” Franz stepped back, breathing hard, and lifted his mask.

Maxi’s shoulders dropped and he let his mask fall to the grass, casually running a hand through his sandy-blond hair. Maxi appeared unfazed, and Franz wished that he could look so carefree. If Franz didn’t know Maxi better, he’d think his brother didn’t care about the loss. But Maxi always cared. They both did. Competition was the lifeblood of young men. That’s what their mother believed, and it’s how she had raised them. Now neither of them could stand to lose.

“You haven’t been neglecting your training, Brother.” Maxi’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I see rumors of your demise were overblown.”

“It’s nice to see that those rumors sent you rushing back in concern for my health all those months ago.” The edges of the comment were sharp. Franz knew better than to be hurt by Maxi, his unreliability all too familiar. But he was hurt. Franz had been on his deathbed, and his brother hadn’t come home.

Maxi waved a hand, dismissive. “Alas, I was delayed, and anyway, you rose from the ashes like the damn phoenix, like I knew you would.”

It was true. The doctors had been shocked by how quickly Franz recovered. A knife to the neck, yet he’d been out of bed, walking, exercising, and governing long before the doctors thought he would.

The truth was he’d had to. If he hadn’t gotten out of that sickbed, he would have fallen apart. The skin at his neck may have stitched itself back together, but the tears in his mind hadn’t. A noise or smell, a trick of the light, could send him straight back to hell. Every day he felt the blade go in, felt the life leaving his body, felt the hate behind the act. The only cure was constant motion, perfect control.

Franz rolled his shoulders, shaking the thoughts away. Today of all days, he couldn’t afford to dwell. He hoped it looked like he was just stretching. He couldn’t let Maxi see any hint of weakness.

“Your Majesty. It’s time.”

Franz turned to face Theo—in the past few months, his confidante—the one person in the palace who knew his secrets and laughed at his jokes. They didn’t do more than exchange a small nod now, but even that action made Franz feel steadier, supported. He didn’t know how he would have gotten through those months without Theo.

Franz let his eyes wander past Theo to the palace in the distance. The white facade had softened to gold in the early morning light, the rooftops a metallic green: a beautiful exterior that hid something colder and harsher inside. He clenched his fist.

Maxi was watching him closely, so Franz shook his shoulders again, tried to smile. It felt wrong, his face out of practice.

Maxi retrieved his mask and turned to follow Theo up the hill. Franz walked close behind—slowly, reluctantly. Leaving the garden set his heart racing, his sense of danger spiking. He reached down to run his fingers over the silk-soft petals of a rose to remind himself where he was.

You’re not dying, Franz. You’re not in danger.

You’re only going to an execution.

THREE

NOW ELISABETH WAS THE WINDSTORM. WILD AND free, her horse, Puck, gaining speed beneath her, breaking into a gallop. Her nightgown clung to her sides, and her hair bounced with the rhythm of the horse’s movement. Riding away from self-important dukes, away from mothers who tried to pinch her into a smaller shape—lacing her soul into a corset. She would not shrink, not for anyone.

She knew she would fall in love one day, and that love would make her more expansive, not less. She’d written poems about it, her favorite lines etched deep in her soul. As she and Puck cantered through the forest and leapt over meandering streams, she recited them to herself:

In deep, rocky gorges

In bays wreathed in vines

The soul always seeks

Only him.

Only him. Elisabeth knew with her whole heart that she would know him when she found him. Her soul would reach across the gap and recognize his right away. She knew he was not the pompous duke, so now, she rode. Away, away, away. Windstorm, hailstorm, tempest. Climbing up into the hills where low shrubs, rolling fields, and mirror-bright lakes spread out below her in every direction.

She only wished she could take Helene out into these hills with her, bring her back to herself. They could forage for berries, soaking their dress hems in dew. Lay out under the stars at night. Live, breathe, and stop trying to fold themselves into some other shape—and for what? There was nothing worth losing yourself over: not your mother’s whims, not even an emperor. That’s what Elisabeth had told her sister last week after Helene accidentally mislabeled the forks during etiquette lessons: If he doesn’t love you for you, then he doesn’t deserve you. If you had to be prim and proper all the time, know every fork by name … wouldn’t you just suffocate in the box they forced you into?

Besides, Elisabeth had heard the talk. There’d been an attempt on the emperor’s life. Her heart twisted in her chest at the thought that the engagement might put Helene in danger too.

Elisabeth urged Puck on faster, tightening her hands around the reins. She was a wild thing, untamable in the way of a storm or a fire. She’d never let herself become what Mother wanted her to be: a girl without hope, without dreams, without love. She would find her great love one day, and they’d be untamable together.

Today, Puck was the only one who understood that feeling. Her beloved horse was the only one who truly knew her, knew what it was to be free. She felt a rush of affection for him as they crested a hill, and she softened the pace. She was on a ridge, a steep, rocky drop on either side, the sun a pink-yellow orb in the distance.

She closed her eyes, reveling in the tickle of sun on her skin, the smell of forest pine in the air, the strength of Puck beneath her. If only all of life could feel like this—so lived in, so real.

But then, unexpectedly, the world tilted. Puck bucked beneath her, and Elisabeth flew through the air, righting herself just enough to fall on her hands and knees. She gasped at the impact, her knees throbbing with it, hands clutching at the grass as if those fragile green stalks could anchor her to the earth.

When she looked up, Puck was disappearing down the ridge path, wild from whatever spooked him.

And then she saw it: a grass snake. This one wasn’t poisonous, but Puck didn’t know that. He hated snakes like she hated dukes. They’d both flee before the bite came.

“Puck.” Her voice was resigned. He was far away now. But never mind that. What mattered was that they were unhurt. She’d retrieve Puck, and all would be well. Better yet, she’d have quite the excuse for why she wasn’t at the house for the duke’s visit.

“All will be well,” she repeated quietly to herself as she followed the horse’s path down the hill. There Puck stood, on the edge of a pond with the sun gleaming off his chestnut coat. How beautiful he looked. How she loved him.

But then he turned—and all was not well.

Her father was asleep when she walked into his bedroom—but he wasn’t alone. Not one but two women lay beside him, neither of them Elisabeth’s mother. The room was elegantly decorated, like every room her mother had touched, but strewn with wineglasses and empty bottles. As she slipped into the darkness, Elisabeth stepped gingerly over the clothes that should have been on the two women—but were most certainly not. Her father was entangled in arms and legs, breasts, and the contours of exposed thighs. The hills and curves that comforted her father were not the same ones Elisabeth sought out.

The room smelled of sex, stale wine, and cigar smoke. Elisabeth’s nose wrinkled involuntarily as she stepped up to the foot of the bed and was greeted by the nipples of a third woman she hadn’t immediately seen.

And this was why Elisabeth refused to marry for anything less than love. She didn’t want a life like her mother’s, pretending not to notice that her husband was entertaining other women in her own home. And she didn’t want a life like her father’s, constantly seeking comfort from outside his marriage because he’d never loved her mother one day in his life.

It wasn’t the sex that bothered her. She hadn’t been with a man yet herself, but her father’s reckless behavior meant that she knew a lot about it. She wasn’t a prude; she wasn’t afraid. She just hated the way it underscored the lack of love between her parents—two people who were supposed to love each other first and foremost.

But Elisabeth didn’t have time to dwell this morning. Puck was injured. Besides, it wasn’t the first time she had encountered her father in this state, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last.

She spoke into the darkness. “Papa? I need your help.”

Groggy, he opened his eyes. As usual, his look was brazen rather than sheepish. Her father, the rake.

“Puck’s injured,” Elisabeth whispered.

Her father didn’t answer—only sat up and began to untangle himself from the snarl of limbs on the bed. Elisabeth turned away. She’d seen enough already.

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