Read The Empress Chronicles for Free Online Page A

bigger version of himself, standing tall and deepening his voice before answering. “You are quite a good horsewoman, Duchess,” he said. “And you have the arm of a cricket champion.”
    This made me all the prouder, though oddly, I was suddenly aware of the layers of grime upon my person and wished for a fan to cover up some of the more unseemly smears of dirt. I searched my mind for a social grace. “What brings you to Possi?” I finally managed.
    “I’m readying some equipment. Your father and I are bound for Cairo by way of Munich. There are some materials we require for the Herzog Palace,” he said. Then, after a moment where he opened his mouth and closed it again, and then opened it a second time, he added, “And some poorly treated laborers we wish to liberate.”
    Of course. He was a revolutionary. He and Papa were adventurers. Coconspirators. Before I could stop myself, I ventured, “May I come too?”
    With that, Count S. gave a deep belly laugh, and I felt my cheeks grow as red as the jacket in which I’d seen him last.
    “What is so amusing, Count? I am certainly a good enough rider and, as you just witnessed, I am quite strong.”
    The count held up both hands this time, behaving as though I was armed with a thousand curry brushes and ready to strike. “As much as we would enjoy your company, Duchess, I sense your future going in another direction.”
    I was baffled by this. And angry, truth be told. Who was this arrogant fellow to proclaim my future? It was as if he’d received an invisible telegram from the archduchess herself, she of the gray hair, dull eyes, sharp tongue, and gnarled fingers. But I knew better than to pick a fight. Especially after inflicting injury. The count’s forehead was already darkened to gunmetal—a small lump rose from its center like a mythic beast. “Very well,” I said. “I suppose there is nothing left to say but enjoy your trip. And give the duke my regards.”
    I pivoted with the intention of leaving, but Count S. reached for the tattered and dirty arm sleeve of my pinafore. He turned me ever so slightly to him and he recited,
The gallant would gladly have made a meal of them,
but as he was unable to succeed, says he,
They are unripe and only fit for green boys.
    I knew not what was meant by “ green boys ,” for the count’s eyes were blue, and my quizzical look must have incited this impudent man to add, “Elisabeth, the fox who cannot have the grapes is inclined to decide they are sour. Do not worry. Your time will come.”
    I yanked my arm from his grasp and out I strode, like Mummi before me, completely aghast at the stupidity of men.

Chapter Five

    Dad and his girlfriend stare at me through plastic grins during our tea party. It’s as if they’ve discussed in advance how to handle the transition with the OCD psycho teenager, and the script calls for welcoming smiles and neutral expressions. I want to tell them it’s all right. They can just be themselves. I’ll be fine. I just need to adjust.
    I want to tell them that, but it isn’t true.
    I don’t feel all right . I miss Mom. It is as if there’s been a disaster—an earthquake, a tidal wave—and I was relocated to a school gymnasium because my real home was destroyed.
    In this temporary place, a cat meows. I smell mouse droppings.
    In this filthy granola kitchen, I picture ants crawling around the counter, and that conjures grime.
    And so on.
    I take deep, cleansing breaths and semi-listen to their chatter:
    Dad: Let me get your things upstairs.
    The Girlfriend: And then we’ll let you settle in.
    Dad: While we go about the afternoon chores.
    The Girlfriend: And then I’ll make your favorite dinner.
    Dad: Lasagna.
    The Girlfriend: We don’t eat wheat, but that doesn’t mean you can’t.
    Dad: We don’t want you to feel …
    The Girlfriend: Like we’re pushing you.
    Dad plus The Girlfriend: Our home is your home.
    They’re like wind-up toys. I smile politely. A whiff of cat urine