During the day, she's as focused as the keen edge of a blade. Hunt for clues, find those that wronged her, take back what's hers, somehow free her father of his stone prison... The mantra rings in her mind, solid and grounding.
But at night, when she slips back onto the Wale, aching with exhaustion, her hands scored and red from too many slips on rooftops, the doubts come rushing in.
Was I ever a good empress?
Did I do enough to catch the Crown Killer before Delilah stole my throne?
Was I too distracted by Wyman?
Why didn't I see the conspiracy forming underneath my nose?
Do I even deserve to have my throne back?
She knew from an early age what being empress would mean—stability of rule, peaceful shores. But she thought her nighttime training sessions with Corvo made her a different empress: she'd been on the streets, she was more than just an idle noble sitting on a chair. She'd been smug, complacent, willing to wile away a weekend with Wyman and his clever, clever hands instead of seeing to the needs of her people.
She felt a stab of guilt and loneliness. Her inattention wasn't Wyman's fault... she wished he was here, even though she'd told him to stay away. He'd crack some joke, make her smile even when it felt like the last thing she could do. But... would he let her do what needed to be done? Wyman was old-fashioned in some ways and practical. He'd be more likely to try to raise an army to oust Delilah, but Emily didn't want that, didn't want the bloodshed and horror that a prolonged civil war would bring to her country. No, it was best done quietly. She had to prove to her people that she was competent; that she could be trusted.
Since starting her crusade, she'd come to some painful realizations: she really had little idea of how average citizens waged their lives. Some were barely eking out a living, cringing in reflexive terror every time a noble walked by. They lived in terror of blood fly infestations, of piracy, of the Crown Killer. She was supposed to be empress of both commoner and noble; of rich and poor. She was supposed to take care of these people.
Corvo loved her, but his focus had been too narrow, perhaps. In training her to survive an assassination attempt - not that it had done much good when Delilah stepped through the doors - had he missed conversations among her court that would have led to the coup conspirators? Could he have gotten wind of Delilah and dealt with her pretensions before disaster struck?
Emily sighed and turned over in her bunk.
She should do better. She would do better, when she had her throne back and Corvo was freed. She was already trying to be the empress her people could count on, not the empress they would fear.
Or she would die trying.