1939
Lucerne, Switzerland


Maria was humming to herself, lost in her own world as she twirled around in little circles, causing the skirt of her dirndl to flare slightly with every propelling twist. If this was any other woman, Georg would have thought this was madness. But she wasn't just any other woman. She was his wife, and she was wonderful.

Today, she happened to be trying on a dress she had just finished sewing, and though it was meant to be chiefly utilitarian, the final flare she had added to the dress was a wonderful, deep blue sash which she had tied off at the hip in a large bow.

"Too bad the dress isn't white, or it would match your song!"

Maria's eyes flew open and she turned quickly, hand clutching at her racing heart. Upon realizing that her husband had simply come into the bedroom fresh from his shower, she sighed and let her shoulders sag with a smile.

"Oh, Georg, it's only you," she said.

"I should hope it's only me, otherwise we'd have quite a problem!"

She gestured at the dress. "What do you think?"

"It's wonderful," Georg said. "Perfect." She had crafted it with a dark, teal green skirt of some sort of heavy fabric he would never remember the name for, and it fell just shy of her ankles. The bodice, she had fashioned from a white, blue, and green striped bolt of material she'd found in the back room of the seamstress shop she worked at, and as ever, she had cleverly manipulated the paneling to make it visually interesting, finished off with one of her favourite blouses underneath.

"Most importantly," she said, moving toward the mirror and craning her neck so that she could see the lacing running down her back, "it's warm and comfortable. Although too warm for right now!" She gave it another once-over, then nodded with satisfaction. "It's done."

"Come here," Georg beckoned with a chuckle. "I'll do you, you do me."

Grinning wickedly, Maria complied, stepping toward her husband with hands outstretched, glad to run her fingers through his rapidly-drying hair. He let her do this for a moment before kissing her and turning her around to loosen her corset.

"Tell me something," he said, nimble fingers slipping up under each lace and pulling outward gently.

"Yes?" Maria asked, wriggling her shoulders slightly as his touch caused shivers to run down her spine.

"Where ever did that little song come from?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, love…"

Leaning close to murmur into her ear, he supplied, "Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes."

"Oh! Of course, how silly of me!"

Georg had paused in his task, awaiting an explanation.

She shrugged. "It's nothing grand… it's quite sad, actually."

"Try me." Georg undid the buttons at the base of her spine, then turned her around so he could push the garment from her shoulders.

Pulling at the bow so as to untie it, Maria said, "Oh, when I was a child, I was wildly frightened by thunderstorms, and on top of that, my parents fought often. When I was small, I would cry until I was red in the face and inconsolable, but getting boxed on the ears at age five taught me to be quiet even though I was terrified."

"So it was a coping mechanism, song?"

"Sort of." Maria stepped out of the new dress and hung it up before pulling her blouse over her head and tossing it carelessly to the floor, to be replaced by the nightgown her husband was holding out to her, ready to be slipped over her head. She kissed him in thanks as she straightened it over her lithe frame and settled on her side of their bed.

"Curiouser and curiouser," Georg said lightly, joining her and taking her hands in his.

"I had a cousin that lived with us for a while to help my father with our farm. He was my best friend. He wasn't a blood relative, my aunt and uncle adopted him, but I loved him fiercely. He was ten years older than I, and I idolized him."

"Is he responsible for cultivating that voice of yours?"

"Yes," Maria said, smiling warmly. "He was an amazing singer. One night, when things were especially awful, he came into my room and cradled me, humming and naming all these wonderful things. No logical connections, just… things that made me think lovely thoughts and sent the darkness away for a while."

"You adapted it a bit?"

"Yes," Maria nodded. "From that point on, if the yelling started or a thunderstorm kept me awake, I would take a piece of paper from my little desk and start writing lists of things that made me happy. I found myself humming the tune he did that night, and would sometimes put words to it, but that was really the extent of it."

"That was the extent?" Georg repeated, an incredulous expression on his face.

"Yes," Maria laughed slightly, "within a few years I learned to think of thunderstorms as a comforting conversation of nature with itself, and anyway it drowned out anything else I didn't want to hear from elsewhere."

"So, this came to be a fixture for my children… how?"

"Reflex and instinct, I suppose," Maria mused. "They were upset by a thunderstorm, as I told you, and ever since Sebastian comforted me that night, it has been my salvation to think of things I like… and, children respond well to music, so combining the two, his melody came to my mind and within minutes it had spiraled into what you interrupted."

"Hmm. I don't know that I interrupted so much as you nearly knocked me flat!"

"What possesses an upright man to simply walk into his governess's sleeping quarters unannounced?"

"An open door," Georg quipped, "and lots of noise."

"Sounds like a metaphor."

"Good night, Maria," Georg chuckled, kissing the top of her head before turning out the light.