Stations of Marriage
Time passed relentlessly at the stations of marriage, and before I knew it, two months had slipped by since I arrived here.
“Your Majesty, no direct questions.”
Just before Sunday Mass, Esterházy recited my list of mistakes to me.
Ah… so she wasn’t just letting it slide.
“And sometimes you use formal speech with me—that’s not allowed either.”
Being empress is really tough.
“Today’s schedule is just attending Mass, so we’ll begin etiquette training with the remaining time.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Your Majesty.”
Ah, right. Emperors and empresses aren’t supposed to make mistakes.
Ugh, why is this so damn hard?
After the Mass ended—sincere as a cardboard cutout—I returned to find the drawing room transformed into an etiquette classroom.
“This is the knife for deboning fish, Your Majesty. It must never be used for cutting meat. This spoon is for consommé, and this one for soup. Note the subtle difference in depth.”
Anyway, I’d never get to use them properly matching Joseph’s pace.
Next up: walking.
This one I was a bit confident about.
Balancing a thick book on my head and circling the room without dropping it.
I could do this with my eyes closed by now—
Thud.
Huh?
“When wearing your outdoor attire, your gait always becomes disheveled.”
After the book hit the floor about five times, I offered a slight excuse.
“The corset’s uncomfortable.”
Honestly, this wasn’t an excuse.
My body weighs less than 50 kilograms.
Considering how long my hair is, it feels like there’s nothing but bones inside—do I really need a corset?
“Until I master etiquette, I suppose I’ll train in comfortable stays.”
No way.
I could endure anything else, but not this. My testosterone… well, whatever—it feels like it’s dwindling.
My waist is already under 50 centimeters; why cinch it tighter?
Much to my surprise, having drawn a firm line in my mind, Esterházy let it pass without argument.
“The Empress is not meant to follow high society.”
She said that and nothing more.
“I’ll need to meet with a designer, then.”
“I’ll summon one who leads the latest trends.”
Of course, stays were a relic of the past.
Designed to pair perfectly with muslin dresses, wearing an empire-style muslin gown with them would make the teenage empress look like she was dressing like grandmothers—ripe for gossip.
Fashion wasn’t mere taste, according to Esterházy. It was the most vital visual language, signaling power, wealth, and the ability to read the era’s currents.
Failing to follow trends would paint me as outdated, a provincial Bavarian bumpkin clueless about Viennese culture.
Sophie Archduchess wouldn’t miss that opening—she’d strike.
Wait—reading the era’s currents?
A bolt of insight struck my mind.
It wasn’t granny clothes; it was a rejection of revolutionary-era fashions after the winds of revolution died down and monarchy and conservatism regained strength.
As Esterházy said, it was visual information.
I couldn’t see her face as she bowed, but her silence was affirmation.
Clinging to uncomfortable garments that hindered labor signaled I didn’t need to labor—I had wealth and power in abundance.
“Your Majesty, dinner is ready.”
“…Not very hungry.”
Lately, my appetite was gone, and life felt so dull my will to live was fading.
“Shall we hold the coucher early tonight?”
“Yes, let’s.”
Esterházy seemed kinder these days. I needed to steadily expand my space like this.
Changing into comfortable clothes and lying in bed, I sank into thought.
It’s just like being in boot camp.
Acting 24/7, every word, action, even expression under constant control.
Maybe I need psychiatric treatment. Do they even have psychiatrists now?
At least alone with Joseph, it was comfortable…
Ah, whatever.
Tired. Gonna sleep.
The Empress dragged her exhausted body to bed and slowly closed her eyes.
Only after confirming Sisi’s breathing had evened out did Esterházy silently slip out of the bedroom and head to her office.
A small room attached to the Empress’s lavish apartment, yet every lady-in-waiting coveted it.
The Empress’s coucher was the busiest operational window between battles.
First task: the seating chart for dinner.
Her eyebrows furrowed faintly at the draft from the Foreign Ministry.
Tsk, placing those two ladies side by side? She took her quill, ruthlessly struck their names, and inserted an unrelated lady between them.
Second: discipline.
She summoned the young countess who’d just become a maid.
The very girl who’d smiled unwittingly that morning while assisting at the Empress’s breakfast, reacting to her joke.
“Ida.”
“Yes, Countess.”
“What is your duty?”
“To serve Her Majesty the Empress.”
“Wrong.”
Esterházy replied firmly.
“Our duty is to be the Empress’s backdrop. We are not her friends. We are the frame for her perfect portrait. Have you ever seen a frame more ornate than the painting?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Don’t repeat the mistake.”
After lightly schooling the young maid, Esterházy turned to the pile of letters for the Empress.
Most were petty requests or flattery; she swept them aside ruthlessly.
One caught her eye: from the Empress’s mother, Duchess Ludovika.
Sentimental worries about her daughter’s health.
Esterházy noted ‘Potential for excessive emotional disturbance’ and set it aside.
When and how to deliver it was her call.
‘After dinner, before bedtime snack—right before being alone with His Majesty.’
Perfect for the lately melancholic Empress.
And finally, an anonymous letter with no text.
Inside: a crudely drawn guillotine.
She tucked it deep into an unrelated file folder without a second thought.
Such threats were routine. The key was ensuring the Empress never wavered from them.
Finishing her paperwork, she glanced at the clock and sipped her cold tea.
Today’s rebellion from Sisi—the anachronistic insistence on stays, and her grasp of how it would be perceived—brought faint satisfaction.
‘Worth teaching. No longer just tantrums—she’s truly becoming an empress.’
Then another possibility flickered through her mind.
‘…Is she, really?’
She reviewed Sisi’s recent behavior.
Nausea at unusual meals, rejecting routine dress as a given.
She’d always cut rest for more exercise but never skipped meals.
‘Yet suddenly, the Empress skips meals?’
And her more melancholic expression than usual.
‘Not homesickness or fatigue from clashing with the Archduchess…?’
Esterházy rose quietly and approached the small chest holding the Empress’s personal medical records.
Managing everything about the Empress included health logs.
She scoured every corner for the key info, but it wasn’t there.
‘Since arriving at Hofburg, Her Majesty the Empress has not menstruated once.’
Sixteen. Could be starting menarche, or just late.
Asking outright, ‘When was your last menstruation, Your Majesty?’ was unthinkable rudeness for a chief lady-in-waiting.
Esterházy returned the records silently.
Still too early for conclusions.
‘Could be irregular cycles… but.’
Requesting from Bavaria risked alerting them, but she lifted her pen anyway.
Bavaria, Possenhofen Castle.
The morning woke to winds from Lake Starnberg, distant hoofbeats, and the strains of a zither played somewhere in the castle by Duke Maximilian.
But that ambiance vanished sharply upon seeing the letter stamped with the Habsburg double eagle.
‘Sophie, what now with this letter.’
Duchess Ludovika pressed her throbbing temple, thinking of her sister—now her daughter’s mother-in-law—Sophie Archduchess.
Duke Maximilian entered, saying to his wife,
“Seeing that stiff eagle seal first thing sours my digestion.”
Max the Duke loved circuses, poetry, and drinking with commoners over empty formalities—a free spirit.
And Sisi took after her father.
“A letter from Vienna. From Countess Esterházy.”
Ludovika ignored her husband’s jest and read on.
Her brow furrowed deeper.
“What’s it say? Scolding our girl for riding too roughly?”
“No—it’s requesting Sisi’s health records from her time in Bavaria. Specifically, the date of her last menstruation.”
Max bellowed, unable to hold back.
“Madness! Doesn’t the Emperor know his own wife’s body? Why ask us?”
Helene had received the same letter already.
“I never liked Sophie Archduchess. Using you for her ambitions wasn’t enough; now she’s dragged Sisi in too.”
Maximilian harbored grudges against the Archduchess for Helene’s lost prospects and her endless complaints about Sisi.
“We couldn’t refuse the Emperor.”
Ludovika had felt more anxiety than joy sending her free-spirited Sisi to stifling Hofburg.
“At least she seems to be doing well.”
As Maximilian said, Esterházy’s letter brought news of her daughter thriving—unlike Sophie’s gripe-filled missives.
“Ludovika.”
Ludovika looked up at Maximilian’s tone.
“What if we visit? Not a single letter from Sisi—Sophie must be hounding her mercilessly.”
“We haven’t seen her since the wedding… but as Empress, frequent visits might be improper?”
Ludovika deflected diplomatically and jotted down an approximate date from memory.
Along with a nagging unease.
Your request for our daughter Sisi’s health records fills me with concern. Is she struggling to adapt to life in Vienna? My husband and I feel we must visit Her Majesty the Empress in person soon to set our minds at ease.
— Duchess Ludovika
In the end, her thoughts led to action.
‘She seems pregnant, so Countess Esterházy can’t refuse.’
Esterházy and Joseph Schoda were nearly certain after the letter from Bavaria.
“She… appears to be pregnant.”
“Pregnancy, indeed.”
For now, only the two of them knew.