Parallel Lines
Ugh— parallel lines. Slept like a rock.
Stretching as I glanced to the side, Joseph was still lying there.
What time is it now?
6 a.m. It was past the time when Joseph should have already risen and started his work.
Is he sick or something?
Careful not to wake him, I gently placed my hand on his forehead.
No fever....
"Joshe..."
Wait a second.
I brought my hand to my mouth and exhaled.
Haa—
Is my breath okay...?
What about the rest?
It's natural to sweat after sleeping all tangled up.
This won't do.
Showing him this grubby side of me—love fades eventually if you're not careful.
I slipped quietly out of bed.
Carefully tilting the water pitcher on the washstand, I poured some into the basin.
Quickly washed my face with the cold water, gargled with saltwater, and meticulously wiped down my body with a towel. Only then did I finally relax.
Final check in the mirror!
Lips a bit dry?
I pulled out some balm and moisturized them.
Mm, perfect.
'This is my prettiest moment.'
Oh right, almost forgot. Perfume on the right hand.
After spritzing on the perfume, I tiptoed back to bed and flopped down beside Joseph.
"Josha, time to get up."
"Mm..."
"Josha, it's 6:30."
"...6:30?"
His voice still thick with sleep, he stared blankly at me before bolting upright in a panic.
"Where's Grüne?"
"No idea—I just woke up too."
Joseph rang the bell by the bed.
Ding-a-ling.
No sooner had the sound rung out than the bedroom door flew open.
As if they'd been pressing their ears to it all night, Count Grüne and the valets burst in.
"Your Majesty, are you coughing? The time...!"
Behind him, the male valets holding Joseph's clothes were about to pour in...
"Grüne."
At Joseph's call, Grüne turned around.
Men daring to glimpse the empress in her nightgown— that was the gravest of offenses.
The valets backed out, still bowed at the waist.
As if nothing had happened.
While the commotion unfolded at the door, Joseph swiftly pulled the covers up over my shoulders.
"Idiots, the lot of them."
Tsking his tongue, he cleared his throat awkwardly, clearly embarrassed.
Aw, how cute—
I peeked out just my eyes from under the blanket and grinned.
Truth be told, I was used to prying eyes by now, so it didn't faze me. Nightgown or not, it covered everything anyway.
"Count Grüne!"
A familiar voice called from outside the door.
"No, Countess Esterházy. Surely you knew better."
"That doesn't mean you barge in! I seem to recall this happening before, Count Grüne."
Had this happened before?
I glanced at Joseph, but he looked clueless too.
Moments later, Esterházy and the maids entered and tidied up with practiced efficiency.
"Your Majesty, we've prepared your attire in the adjoining room."
...Was that really necessary?
He cupped my cheek and slowly drew his face closer.
'All set now.'
Gargled, lips balmed.
Mwah.
Our lips brushed lightly and parted.
"I'll be back."
"See you later."
The door clicked shut, footsteps fading away.
Only then did I let my rigidly held posture collapse, flopping back onto the pillow.
Seeing his face light up as he left—worth every bit of the effort.
I wanted to sleep more, but there was too much to do.
With the maids' help changing clothes, I sat at the desk.
First up: the report from the Thurn und Taxis ducal family.
Ever since the dissolution of the Holy Roman Empire cost the Thurn und Taxis family their postal monopoly, they'd thrown themselves into railways and transport. Still, their intelligence network remained formidable.
'Prussia's already laying tracks for military use, while we're treating them like toys for noble jaunts or freight hauls.'
Following this timetable, moving troops to the front would take forever.
I took up the quill and drew thick red lines along the routes to Bohemia—especially the depots near Königgrätz.
"Tell them to shorten the freight intervals on these lines. Excuse? Expanding Hungarian grain shipments. Foreign capital's flooding that way anyway."
"Understood. And this—one from Baron Rothschild of Vienna."
Esterházy handed over the second document.
Anselm von Rothschild, Baron.
With no end in sight to the American Civil War, Manchester factories are shuttering. Bohemia reaps the benefits, drawing capital like mad.
London investors seek stable supply chains. Willing to buy more bonds if northern rail expands.
Top-tier intel, no doubt.
Frankfurt, London, Paris, Vienna.
One could call them a banking dynasty rooted in the four key cities—but the real prize was their info monopoly.
And leveraging that through the court for concessions. Naples used to be on the list too; who knew?
The next page covered Paris.
French Ministry of Finance: Fiscal Strain Worsens After Mexico Empire Bond Failure
French Garrison in Rome: Phased Withdrawal Planned
Predictable. Napoleon III of France was all bluster.
He'd boasted of crowning Maximilian emperor, but behind the scenes, he was strapped for cash.
'No money means pulling troops from Rome.'
Once France retreats from the Papal States, only our Austrian forces remain.
France stirring Italy up for another war, classic move.
"Pass this to His Majesty too."
Joseph was diligent to a fault.
Reading every report, hearing every bureaucrat, following every rule—he often missed the golden hour.
Tell him now, and we might have countermeasures ready by the time Sardinia musters forces.
Using my intel sparingly keeps it effective; overuse looks like a power play.
I rose and sat before the mirror.
"Your Majesty, how shall we dress you today?"
"Subtly elegant—like I didn't try, but perfectly natural."
As the maids bustled about, Königseck began her report.
Rumors whispered among Vienna's nobility.
"First, quite a heated debate at Princess Schwarzenberg’s salon last night."
Schwarzenberg. Nothing good there.
"Some called Archduke Maximilian's departure an honor, but more said it was cold between brothers."
Joseph versus his mother, huh.
"Next?"
"Some ladies welcome the changes Your Majesty brought, but lament you've been away from Vienna too long—treated like a guest."
'Empress too focused on Hungary, neglecting family harmony.'
Why hadn't the lady of the house mediated?
How am I supposed to mediate those two?
I have pride, but so do Mother Sophie and Joseph—mountains of it.
Salon gossip evaporates like smoke anyway.
Neither Joseph nor I cared for high society.
Still, gestures matter—show we listen.
"Tell them I'll attend this afternoon's opera opening. And send an invitation to the Archduchess."
Esterházy's reflection in the mirror... like a decade-old grudge finally lifted.
Nearly ten years knowing her now.
We were in sync.
Catering to Mother Sophie, humoring me. How awkward must it have been when I jetted off, leaving her in the middle.
Empress personally tending to her mother-in-law and society? Bliss for the chief lady-in-waiting.
So what if it looks like I'm bowing my head.
I'm a pro.
Delivering the performance the audience craves—that's my specialty. Right now, my audience is Joseph and Vienna's people.
"Let's go, Esterházy. We're late."
Pander a bit to Mother, reassure the nobles, bolster Joseph's position.
That was the queen of inner palace duties—the empress of this empire—schedule for the day. Or so I thought... where did my stage experience go?
"Empress, your attire."
Again, right off the bat.
"Vienna's society gathers there. Your outfit is far too plain."
"I judged comfort over pomp was needed now."
"...So you deliberately dressed near-mourning?"
"Not mourning, but concern fits. An empress grieving her departed brother-in-law sways opinion better."
"If Vienna's nobles mock you, it's your fault alone. Tarnishing imperial dignity carries heavy blame."
"I'll bear it."
Conversation over.
Just reconfirming our parallel paths.
Mother turned and stared ahead.
"Let's go."
She stepped off first.
The old era's symbol, armored in dazzling jewels—Mother.
The new era's, in simple dress—me.
Like oil and water that never mix, we walked side by side at a fixed distance. At least we weren't fighting like before. Small mercies.