The Aesthetics of Slowness
"Shit."
No matter how pitiful a face you make, what can't be done just can't be done.
"Joseph, I know this is standard procedure. But has it ever been pushed through this quickly before?"
"It's irregular, yes."
With funeral arrangements still under discussion, demanding an inventory of assets over his brother's well-being is as exceptional as Joseph says.
"But Leopold II's claim isn't legally wrong."
"I know it's legitimate procedure."
"Not that—it's already stipulated in the marriage contract that if Maximilian has no heir, the Belgian royal family assumes guardianship."
"That's a protection clause, not a plundering one."
"We can't afford to pick a fight with Belgium over Charlotte's dowry."
"It's not about the money."
"I know you're not after the wealth."
"Then...!"
Protect her.
"But Charlotte is a Belgian princess before she's an Austrian archduchess. With her brother stepping in to take her and manage her assets, our grounds to block it are weak."
I bit my lip.
Europe's royals still saw Leopold II as just a shrewd young king.
A bundle of complexes basking in his father's halo.
If the Congo existed already, he'd be penning op-eds in every European paper right now!
Was there really no way?
No way to expose that Leopold as a beast in human skin?
"...Joseph, I don't need the money."
"I know."
"So let's put it in trust with the Bank of England."
"What?"
"Before it goes to Belgium, let's file a claim ourselves."
Joseph pondered the law for a moment.
Austria led Europe in mental health care.
There had to be provisions for residency jurisdiction over patients and medical protections.
And Joseph could turn those into law faster than anyone.
"If the archduchess needs treatment, we must send her somewhere verified."
Paris, the pioneer in psychiatry, was obviously off the table.
We couldn't hand a patient to her abuser, leaving London or Vienna.
Belgium wasn't even in the league.
"...All right. I'll seek London's approval as best I can."
I brushed my lips lightly against Joseph's cheek.
"Good thinking. The British love playing Europe's moral arbiter."
Especially now, with Disraeli and the Tories temporarily holding London, obsessed with crafting an image of honorable empire.
The Liberals had been slamming us as a prison state, so the Tories would keep a polite distance while chasing profits.
To them, the tragic mad empress protected by devoted Austria against her greedy Belgian family was prime fodder.
We'd been mending ties diligently, but that didn't mean playing the fool.
In this low-interest era, parking a fortune in cash at the Bank of England? London's bankers wouldn't pass it up.
Leopold, no matter how you flap around, you won't crack the Bank of England's vaults.
That's your cousin Queen Victoria's turf.
*
Joseph's role in this crisis was simple: keep diplomacy with Britain intact to the end.
Everything else fell to me, the empress.
They'd laid the groundwork already.
Leopold was nothing if not diligent.
Stoking patriotism at home while painting the Habsburgs abroad as shameless for withholding Charlotte over money.
I didn't flinch and sent a single line to the papers Mother had introduced me to.
"The plans of the hasty will not prosper in the end."
Belgian news, usually low priority, now streamed to me first.
"From Brussels, Your Majesty."
I took it nonchalantly.
Faster than expected.
"Königseck, Foreign Ministry report come in yet?"
"A message from Count Buol has arrived."
I broke the seal on the document Königseck handed me.
Belgian Government Planning Delegation to London
"Banks?"
"Baron Rothschild sent market trends."
"Tell me."
"Belgian capital is starting to offload some Austrian bonds."
This was practically blatant.
They meant to drag it into a money fight.
"Who bought the Belgian bonds?"
"London absorbed some."
"Good. Build lines there."
London absorbed some, she said.
"Buckingham's reaction?"
"No official stance yet."
Hmm... No word from Buckingham yet.
"Limit medical reports to Belgium to Vienna Medical Society verified copies."
"We'll tighten verification."
"Charlotte's an archduchess; she follows court protocol. As empress, upholding court ceremony is only natural."
Every letter would pass court medical committee verification, get the court marshal's seal, then go through Foreign Ministry's official channels.
It annoyed me when it was used against me, but wielding it myself? Fun.
Moving an archduchess wasn't some noble's house shuffle. One paper could stall half a year.
Let's see who tires first—you or me.
Even delivering one letter took a week in this protocol hell. Welcome aboard.
And we had one more card.
"Hunyadi, have him pen an op-ed on Lombardy about this mess."
"Yes, Your Majesty. Understood."
Maximilian as viceroy had been exhausting for Joseph and me... but his personal character was spotless.
If Italian opinion swung our way, how would Leopold retaliate?
*
"Shit, Belgium's demanding a medical delegation."
"Accept them."
"You sure?"
"Of course."
Refuse, and they'd frame us as kidnappers holding her captive.
"Follow protocol to the letter. Protocol."
"Want to handle it yourself?"
"Me?"
"Mother approved too."
Hmm... Should I?
"Fine. My first delegation welcome. Meeting them personally as empress sounds perfect."
How many ceremonies would pile on with me involved?
My heart was already racing.
Meanwhile, we kept sniping through the papers, waging our opinion war.
*
"The Belgian delegation has arrived, Your Majesty."
"Let them in."
I slowly adjusted my hair ornament in the mirror.
Impatient bunch—barely two months in, and here already.
I'd figured half a year easy.
"Halt."
A scuffle sounded outside the door.
"What's the meaning of this? We come by order of His Majesty the King of the Belgians—"
The marshal who'd hounded me before was thoroughly on my side today.
"This is an audience with Her Majesty the Empress. How dare you enter the Hofburg's private chambers in trousers?"
"We're here for a medical investigation."
"This is a royal welcome ceremony."
After a full guard review, now medical? As if.
"You mean change clothes right now?"
The marshal didn't budge an inch, as if it were obvious.
"Next audience slot is Tuesday next week."
And that next Tuesday...
"Where are your decorations?"
"We're medical staff; we have none..."
"Then bring a decorated noble and reapply."
"We're under the royal medical committee. For treatment expertise—"
The marshal cut him off firmly.
"This is the court, not a hospital. Rules are rules."
The following week.
The Belgians stood before the court gates again.
A baron escort this time.
Some obscure Luxembourg branch noble.
The marshal eyed the baron up and down.
"Decorations?"
The baron fumbled at his chest in panic.
"From the Dutch court—"
"This was a Belgian audience request. Applications for royal kin are processed separately."
"But he's a noble!"
"Then it's reclassified as noble audience."
The marshal flipped a page.
"Noble waitlist is..."
He dragged it out, shuffling papers.
"Second week next month."
The delegation head flushed red.
"This is diplomatic rudeness!"
"Inquire with Foreign Ministry for diplomacy. Court handles protocol."
I watched from the window.
"Face already sour."
And we're just getting started.
They didn't quit.
Another audience request.
Perfect papers this time.
Decorations. Noble escort. Impeccable attire.
But.
"Medical diagnostic equipment requires prior clearance."
The delegation froze at the marshal's words.
"Equipment is standard for investigation!"
"Items entering court grounds undergo military security screening."
Scalpels, scissors, probes—sharp tools in medical kits.
The marshal nitpicked them as weapons.
"Military? You see these as arms?"
"Hofburg is both imperial residence and national fortress."
He confiscated the gear calmly.
"Screening takes the usual week."
I watched with my ladies.
"Checking Archduchess Charlotte's state? Still a ways off."
Wonder what excuse next.
Bank of England snares Charlotte's assets first? Our win.
Belgium whisks her away first? Theirs.
I read the Wiener Zeitung headline Ida held.
Joseph sees this and thinks I'm downright devious.