AN: Hello again to everyone! Thanks for reading and reviewing the last chapter. I'm particularly happy to have the children thrown into the mix, and you will definitely see them more in later chapters.

In the meantime- do enjoy this next installment! We get a lot of Maria/Georg alone time.


Georg did not wish to sugarcoat the matter. He was a fool. He had given Maria bits and pieces of their story without ever making them sound like their story. He had smoothly bypassed the fact that she was the twelfth governess, that they had stopped looking for another one after her because no one could replace her, that she had left for the abbey at the end of the summer fully expecting to return as the lady of house, that the children indeed went back to school after that summer, but sullenly, with less spring in their step, a palpable sense of disappointment about them.

It was plain as day that, when reckoning came and he would have to confess all that he had lied about, he would have to grovel in inexplicable quantities for her forgiveness. He was digging a hole for himself, and it was slowly but surely becoming deep, too deep that it may be impossible for Maria to even want to have anything to do with him after this. The guilt was consuming.

But along with the guilt was an even stronger reminder of how much he loved the woman. She had reminded of the things he had overlooked, things he was very sadly mistaken about two years ago: that she was wise beyond her years, that her youth and innocence were not qualities he should thought as disadvantageous, that what little she knew of the world outside dampened not her determination for the things she wanted.

Maria possessed a strength of character that was nothing short his equal, faith in things she did not know that far surpassed his own cynicism, and an infinite capacity to love without question or thought. In the few days, stolen moments, and little conversations he had had with her since their unexpected reunion, something in his heart had melted and solidified all at once. The part of his heart that was hard with the opinion that Maria was not a suitable part of his family had all melted away, not for any fault of her own but only because of his own doubt, yielding to a concrete and strong-willed determination that there was no one who could ever come close to Maria.

She offered everything she had to give of herself, which she thought was not much but was actually more than Georg would ever have given to anybody. She offered them with bright, trusting eyes, and he had looked at what she had to give and thought she was better off offering them to someone else. Someone who could give in equal measure. He thought he couldn't. There was a part of him that was fearful about giving all of himself to another woman, only to be left with heartache. He realized now that he could give in equal measure, if only he had discarded the doubt and allowed himself to revel in his own capacity to love someone. It had been difficult after losing Agathe, but Maria had somehow held the key that set his captive heart free. He only had to be courageous enough to love fully again.

Could Max be right? Could this truly be their second chance? He could scarcely believe it was possible for do-overs, but here they were now. He only had to make things right.


The day prior, Liesl had come in for the final fitting of the dress before the tedious task of embroidering the flowers came. The dress suited her. The neckline was a fair compromise between father and daughter, and it made her seem old enough to be taken seriously but young enough to enjoy all that the world could offer. Maria beamed proudly from behind her as she tried twirling in her dress at the fitting room, the skirt billowing around her like a cloud.

Now came the task Liesl had sincerely requested.

White.

Forest green.

Yellow.

Perhaps a touch of raw umber.

Perhaps some grey for depth.

Maria pulled out the threads from the drawer and nodded in satisfaction. Edelweiss was not too complicated a flower to sew, and she was confident she could make them look lovely on the dress.

She sat at her work desk, checking the sketch pad Ingrid had used to detail the placement of the flowers before she carefully took Liesl's dress from the hanger. Deftly, she threaded the needle with white, gently set the dress on her lap, and began.

Embroidery was something that calmed her. It was a job that required little thought, only the skill of her hands and the grace of her fingers. It was something her mother had taught her as she helped her embroider Maria's kerchiefs for school. The repetitive motion was relaxing, conjuring memories of afternoons sitting next to her mother, a song or two playing from the phonograph her father owned, the crisp mountain air filling their home. There were moments these days Maria felt she would forget the details of her memories with her parents. They slipped like grains of sand between her fingers sometimes that she had to concentrate extra hard to remember the exact shade of her father's eyes. She was so young when she had lost them that the memories may as well have been dreams, invoked by an active and longing mind desperate to escape the hell that had become her uncle's home.

She spent the entire morning working on the flowers—she would get to the leaves and the other details soon enough. By the time her lunch hour came, she was only done with part of a panel, white petals embossed over the organza—but her work was exquisite. Frau Muller wasn't exaggerating when she said Maria was a skilled seamstress. She also wasn't exaggerating that it could take up to six more weeks to finish the detail.

Standing up to stretch her legs, she rolled her neck to ease out a kink that had formed on the right side, something that used to always happen when she was far too concentrated on a task.

Without preamble, Frau Muller's head appeared through the door, a kind smile on her face.

"It's lunch time, Maria," she reminded, knowing full well that her assistant could be so caught up in a task, she could forget to eat.

Maria returned the smile. "Thank you, I'll just put the dress back on the hanger."

Frau Muller nodded. "You have a guest. He's been waiting for an hour for you to get off for lunch."

Maria's brows furrowed in apparent confusion. "A guest?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "I told him I'd get you at 12, while you were busy with the embroidery, but he insisted he'd wait until your actual lunch hour."

"Who is it?" Maria asked, still trying to wrack her brain for someone patient enough to wait for her.

"It's Herr Von Trapp."


"You really didn't have to wait for me, Captain," Maria said as the waiter pulled the seat out for her at a café just a few streets from the shop.

"I was in town and thought you might appreciate the company," he said, smiling at her—that devilishly charming smile that often had Maria swooning.

The truth of the matter was that he did seek her out, craved for her company, as if he was trying to find answers to the questions that plagued his mind. He was looking for clues, a sign to tell him it was a good idea to pursue her. And it would only happen if he had her alone, without the distraction of the children. It took a lot of mental coaxing and a bit of cajoling from Max to make such a step, and now here he was. It seemed terribly out place, and he was certain Maria felt uncomfortable with the suddenness of this move. In fact, he himself was surprised by his own calculation, or lack thereof, in such a pursuit. But before his mind could comprehend, he was already at the shop and telling Frau Muller he would wait for Maria's lunch hour, at which point it was impossible to back out.

He hoped it would not seem too forward, and that in these proverbial leaps of faith, he would find some of his answers.

"Me?" she questioned.

He nodded. "We're good friends, are we not?"

"In my past life," she said with a raised brow.

"And in this life," the Captain confirmed. "Relax, Fraulein. It's only lunch." He tried to sound casual even though he felt as nervous as a sailor on his first real assignment.

Maria licked her lips but nodded shortly, eyes squarely on the menu the waiter had handed to her.

If she was surprised that he was at the shop at all, she was even more surprised to hear that he had waited. It meant he came specifically for her. To see her. To spend time with her. What in the Lord's name was this man up to?

She was caught off guard, flustered and perhaps maybe forced to spend her lunch hour with him. It wasn't a chore so much as it was… an unexpected time to keep pretending. It wasn't part of the plan to have to pretend today. She woke up this morning knowing full well she did not have to keep up any pretenses, and she was infinitely blindsided by this latest move from Georg.

But she wouldn't lie. The effort had touched her, and she was grateful for his company. Even Frau Muller seemed enthused by none other than Georg Von Trapp waiting on her best assistant, and told them Maria was allowed an hour and a half from the shop. This was clearly a lie—with debutante ball season, she could really only spare 30 minutes. But Frau Muller nearly pushed her out the door that it was difficult to insist otherwise. She had staunchly ignored the suggestive grin Ingrid had given her from behind the counter, her mind fully preoccupied with the shock and panic at once again seeing Georg at an inopportune time.

He had chosen a small café away from prying eyes, tucked in the smaller streets of the Alstadt. There was schnitzel on the menu. With noodles. And Maria ordered it without realizing the Captain was giving her a nostalgic look.

"How is the dress coming along?" he asked, breaking the silence. "Liesl told me that it had fit her perfectly yesterday."

"Oh, yes. I'm glad the dress itself has come together nicely. We're working on her special request now."

"The flowers?"

"Yes indeed."

Georg nodded. "Liesl would be pleased to see how it progresses. Would she be allowed to come from time to time to see it?" he asked tentatively, trying his best not to betray the careful hope in his tone. Of course, what he meant to say was this: was he allowed to come from time to time to see her?

"She's welcome to," she replied shortly. "Marta and Gretl's dresses are also coming along nicely. I made sure to make Marta's dress a nice shade of pink."

"That's very sweet of you," he commented with sincerity, Maria's thoughtfulness for the children still ever present despite the time away from them.

Maria smiled at him shyly, peering from behind her lashes and then looking swiftly back down at the table.

"We haven't spoken of compensation," he continued, clearing his throat.

"Compensation?" Maria questioned, brow furrowed in confusion as she looked up at him.

"For the dresses," he clarified with a small gesture of his hand.

Maria frowned. "Frau Muller will do that for you," she explained, but he shook his head.

"I don't mean Liesl's dress," he corrected gently. "I mean Marta and Gretl's."

"Oh!" she exclaimed as comprehension dawned on her face. She shook her head emphatically, unable to even stomach the idea of receiving compensation for dresses she volunteered to make for Marta and Gretl. "You've already sent in the material. That's all there is to it, really."

"Maria, I insist," he insisted. "The children's dresses are taking your free time, and that's scarcely a fair trade off."

Maria shrugged off his concern. "They're such dears, and little girls' dresses don't really take much effort. It's not a problem, I assure you."

"I can't accept that," Georg said as he shook his head. "I insist on giving you what is due."

"And I insist that you simply leave the matter," she replied with an air of finality. The reality of it was that he was already giving her what was due—time with the children, more time than she deserved or hoped to ever have at this point. "If there's one thing you must know about me Captain, which I'm sure you do seeing as we were good friends, is that I can be stubborn as mule."

"Indeed," Georg said under his breath, a hint of amusement.

"And since I've decided I shan't be taking any financial compensation for the dresses, then you should know that I won't be changing my mind."

The truth was that she could certainly use the extra money. Living in Salzburg was expensive, and she and Ingrid had been masters of finding bargains for just about everything. But she wasn't about to take the Captain's money, and certainly not in this capacity. It felt wrong to take financial compensation for dresses specifically for Marta and Gretl. Why, those girls were practically her daughters! Who would do such a thing for their daughters?

"It's a little too generous of you, Fraulein."

"You can say 'thank you' and leave it at that," she replied cheekily.

Georg paused, sensing the mischievous twinkle in Maria's eyes that so often came along when she knew she had won an argument. With a half smile, he conceded. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

"Good boy," she teased, smiling up at him before their food was served.

She lifted her fork to mix her greens, unaware of the Captain's quiet gaze on her. He watched her with rapt fascination—subtle, of course, but intense. There was something so tenderly ordinary about sharing a meal with Maria, bits and pieces of memories and conversations over trips into town flitting through his mind. They had run multiple errands together to prepare for the wedding, and had sat at a café or two to rest their feet. The ordinariness struck him unexpectedly, awakening in him a longing for even more moments like this with her.

Startling out of his thoughts unceremoniously with the realization of the inappropriateness of his thoughts, he took a sip of his water and started eating.

"Have you been working for Frau Muller's long?" he asked, trying to make conversation over their shared meal, breaking what he sensed would become an awkward silence between them. He could feel Maria's nervous energy, even though she tried her best to hide it. And since he was the one who had put them both in such an obstinate situation, it was his burden to ensure she was as comfortable as possible.

"As long as I can remember," she smiled sweetly.

"Of course," he chuckled. "And… are you well at Frau Muller's?"

Maria thought about the question for a second. "Frau Muller is kind," she responded honestly. "And she believes in all her girls. She's given Ingrid and I free rein over a few dresses. I suppose it's a wonderful environment to keep learning."

"I'm glad she treats you well."

"She treats us like her children," she agreed, noting with a bit of gratitude how blessed she was to have been graced with mother figures in the absence of her own mother.

The Reverend Mother, with whom she still regularly corresponded, was a stalwart presence in her life, a guiding light that led her straight to the path which was meant for her (that is, not to be a novice at Nonnberg). And Frau Muller—she'd taken her under her wing with enthusiasm, counseling her on other more worldly things the Reverend Mother may not have been able to.

"Frau Muller is patient with me," she continued. "I have multiple faults—"

"Oh, like always being late?" he teased lightly.

Maria blushed, recalling that day she had unwittingly chosen the bench right next to his parked automobile. "Yes, among many others," she replied, recovering slightly. "But she knows potential when she sees it, and sees me as more than a nuisance. I'm grateful to her, really."

"A nuisance?" he questioned curiously, a brow raised slightly in that way that meant he was in need of some intense clarification. For how could anyone see Maria as nuisance? That was nonsense!

But he schooled himself after a moment's thought—he himself had seen her as exactly that when she first walked into his home and had the audacity to walk into the undisturbed, dusty ballroom without permission. She defied his orders at each and every turn, which infuriated him, but really was to his benefit.

She confirmed with a slight nod. "It seems my ways are… a little unconventional," she replied a little self-deprecatingly. "And in this society, it isn't always easily accepted. Being tardy is only one thing—but I'm outspoken and too honest, it seems such a thing makes me appear ill-bred."

Georg startled at that, his fingers accidently losing grip over his fork, which clamored over his plate. Maria could only stare back in shock.

"I'm sorry," Georg apologized, wiping the corners of his mouth hastily. "But did you say… ill-bred?"

Maria nodded, unperturbed, as if she had accepted the adjective as fact. "I grew up on the mountains," she explained. "I suppose it's the truth. I don't have the upbringing most of the people in town have.

"That is… absolutely ridiculous. Why, I've never heard a more preposterous thing!" He felt a surge of protectiveness, a need to shelter her from the world which he once told her she needed to know more of. Oh, it was dizzying, all these confusing feelings!

Maria shrugged off the Captain's reaction. Over the years, she had come to believe all of the belittling ways she had been described. For one, she never thought she was anything special to begin with. And then after all that Georg said when their engagement was called off, all the gossip that went around with the distinguished naval hero marrying the help, it seemed she went from zero to negative rather quickly. It was unlike her, for she had always thought herself to be confident, and worth far more than people thought. But burden upon burden, word upon word had been thrown at her, and it was difficult to keep from being affected until she ultimately believed all that they had to say.

"I don't know the world like most people do, especially not the world that requires me to be a certain way," she said, feigning oblivion to the true meaning behind her words. What she meant to say, of course, was that she did not know the world where she was expected to be a Baroness, Lady of the Manor, wife to a decorated war hero. Those were far beyond her grasp, out of her league, and in the time since their broken engagement she had come to believe that she was foolish for ever thinking she could be a part of such a world.

"But Frau Muller—she's an angel, really," she continued. "She didn't raise her brow when I told her I had little formal education, or when she found out I was a bit of a handful," she chuckled. "She simply ushered me in and made me feel like I belonged."

It was truth she held on to. Frau Muller did make her feel like she belonged—a belonging she craved for and once thought could be found in the home of Captain Von Trapp. She didn't have much of a family life, but Frau Muller's affection seemed enough for her at this point. A widow without children, she treated her assistants as though they were her own.

"You belonged at our home too," the Captain said a little gruffly. "The children… they thought you hung the moon and stars." So did I, he wanted to say, his heart aching at the short glimpse of Maria's burdensome insecurity.

"That's kind of you to say," Maria answered, genuinely touched. "But with the children not in need of a governess, it seems that belonging was only temporary now, wasn't it?"

"There is a place for you at our home anytime you so wish, Maria," he assured her with a gentleness that was usually reserved for only the children. He meant this too. But how could he even begin proving all this to her? Where would he even begin making amends?

The intensity of Georg's stare made her blush a little more, such that a short thank you was all she could manage to say before she turned her attention back to her meal.

"I think you give yourself too little credit," Georg continued. "And it wouldn't do you good to overlook all that is wonderful about you."

"There's not really much," Maria replied unsurely. "After all—my fiancé left me right before our wedding. That must make me excruciatingly ordinary."

Georg's eyes set ablaze at that. "Your fiancé was a madman," he said with a conviction even he was surprised by. "What fool would leave such an extraordinary woman such as yourself?"

Maria blinked, startled by the force behind Georg's voice. "Well, I…"

"He's not worth it, Maria. He's not worth hurting over. In fact, he's worthless, period," he insisted, knowing in his heart it was true. He was not worth it. What he did—there was no way it could ever be justified. And yet here he was, still hoping, was he not?

"He was probably just frightened," Maria said uneasily, in her pain still quick to defend Georg. She did not take kindly to anyone who spoke badly about Georg or the children. And she did not take kindly to Georg speaking badly about himself, above all. She knew he could be extremely hard on himself, perhaps to a point of injustice, and she always longed to ease the self-loathing that was peering through at such times.

Maria smiled at him faintly, blue eyes boring into blue eyes with kindness and sincerity. "I can understand that. Marriage… marriage is a significant commitment. I wouldn't call him worthless."

"No?" he asked in confusion, not even bothering to hide the disbelief on his face. Maria had always been too forgiving for her own good, but was he really hearing her correctly?

"No," Maria confirmed with a short nod, sounding surer than a moment ago. "He may have made mistakes but he… he's only human. And I could understand how marrying someone as… spirited… as me could be daunting," she chuckled softly, fiddling with the edge of her table napkin as she spoke. "It's painful Captain, you see, but I suppose, if I'm being honest… I understand."

She found, as she said the words, that they were not untrue. In the deepest recesses of her heart, no matter how much she ached over what had happened, she could not blame Georg for anything. She understood what she could not give, who she was not, where she fell short, and the long-term consequences of her inadequacy—it was not Georg's fault entirely. It was society.

She hated with a passion that society had dictated the way their relationship went, but it was what it was and in certain echelons of it, one was expected to conform. Georg and the children—they were part of a world that had expectations. While Georg was usually never one to be forced to do anything he did not like, she understood that a matter as significant as a marriage was would have consequences that went beyond the both of them.

He stared at her in amazement, her words washing over him like the quiet absolution he came for. For a quick moment, he was unsure if she was even real.

A beat.

Resounding awe.

No one else on the planet except himself and Maria.

Here he was, the wretched sorry excuse for a man, who hurt her beyond comparison. And here she was, admitting that although she probably had not forgiven him… she understood. She was, in a way, liberating him. And although he knew it should have felt like heaven, the kindness was also crippling, compressing, maddening. He wished she would be angry—he deserved it rightfully. But she was being the exact opposite, the sincerity dripping from her every word, reflecting in her blue eyes, he found it was hard to breathe.

No woman he knew would ever come close to Maria's kindness. No heart was as big and compassionate as hers. Truly, he was not deserving of her. But he would be damned if he did not start making amends, so he could one day be.

"You… understand," he repeated dumbly.

She looked at him big, generous eyes, almost as if she could read his thoughts. "It was a long road to understanding," she reassured him self-consciously, not wanting to appear as if she were a saint. It was quite clear she wasn't, and such a transgression would probably require 1000 Hail Mary's. "But if I ever encountered him again… if I ever sat in front him and was given to chance to say something to him… I would say that I understand, and mean it."

It may have seemed like a subtle jab, but Maria knew that everything she was borne of complete honesty. With the benefit of hindsight, she did understand, probably more than anybody ever gave her credit for. Including herself. It didn't stop it from being hurtful or unfair, or from her feeling other things like anger and maybe a hint of resentment, but the depth of her generosity was astounding even to her.

She said those words not just to reassure him, but to give herself a bit of closure as well. She would admit it was not the best time for such a conversation, but she had been dwelling in a lot of destructive emotions that it was certainly time to be the bigger person, so they say.

He stared in a bit of a daze.

Maria. Maria had always been wise beyond her years, a wisdom borne of… oh he didn't know what anymore! At every turn Maria had surprised him—as his governess, as his fiancée, and now as his "friend".

When Georg said nothing, still mesmerized and lost in thought by how Maria had seemed larger than life before, but ever larger now, Maria smiled at him.

"Forgive me for boring you with the details of my life," she said flippantly. "I didn't mean to."

He shook his head. "No, no—I, uh… I'm honored that you would share your thoughts with me," he said truthfully. And honored that he could ever be the object of her love.

"Yes, well…" she continued, sparing another meaningful look into Georg's eyes before she gestured to his food. "Finish your food now, Captain. Schnitzel isn't very good when it's already cold."

The following day, a small basket of flowers arrived for her at Frau Muller's, with only a short note accompanying it.

You are the entire world combined.

Your friend, Georg

The rest of the week, Maria pretended his words did not affect her so.


It was disconcerting to Maria, how Georg could be magnificent and deceitful all at once.

Although, she shouldn't have been surprised.

Georg was many things, one of the most complex characters she'd ever had the pleasure of knowing, and there was a moment in her life where all she wanted was to peel back the layers, get to know every facet of him, as if he were a mystery waiting to be solved. If she were truly honest with herself, a part of her still wanted to do that. But the lingering feelings of betrayal still came in waves sometimes that it was a challenge to concentrate on how she truly felt about the man.

But as time passed, and Georg made himself more and more present—at the dress shop, at lunch hour, on random afternoons, she found that the charade she had put up about never having remembered him at all was finally catching up on her. Because how could she ever deny that she had loved those eyes? That she had lived for the sound of his laugh, or the light caresses Georg made scarce these days?

She had made up the charade as if to build a wall around herself, a hopefully sturdy if not misguided attempt to protect her wounded heart. But instead of keeping others out, the charade bound her in, shut reality away, and wounded her even more.

Oh, but Georg was transforming before her very eyes.

Well, not transforming, per se.

She surmised he had always been used to showering those he loved with affection, gathering from the stories that had been told of her of the late Baroness Von Trapp. The Captain was often difficult to read, frugal with his affection except to those close to his heart. And if she well and truly did have amnesia, she wouldn't know that any of this would be out of the ordinary. But she knew—she knew Georg was rarely like this with anybody. He never went out of his way to please anyone, except for his children. And for him to be present at random times of the day, simply to bask in her presence? There were no words to describe what that did to her soul.

"Have you spoken to Captain Von Trapp yet?" Ingrid inquired as she prepared for bed, the room she shared with Maria now dim with but a single lamp lit at their bedside.

"We've spoken a lot."

"He's at the shop more often," she observed pointedly. "And there's a spring in your step."

Maria made a face. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." A spring in her step? Nothing was more absurd!

"There's no use denying it, Maria," Ingrid said knowingly. "You're falling for the man."

Well. Yes, that would be true- if she had ever fallen out of love for him in the first place. Maria could only whisper a prayer heavenward to beg for even more guidance.

When Maria didn't answer, Ingrid prodded. "Are you going to tell him?"

"Tell him what?"

"That you remember him!" she exclaimed in exasperation. "Or perhaps that you never forgot. Maria—this man, it's clear as day he's going out of his way for you. Really, there's absolutely no reason for him to be idling at the shop watching you sew flowers, unless all he wanted was the pleasure of your company."

"And?"

"And I think you're being terribly dishonest to him." One could always count on Ingrid to slap you with the hard truth.

"He's been dishonest with me too," she argued defensively, but it sounded flimsy. She was never one to give an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. It was just not her. Nothing in the realm of reason could justify what she had done, and was still doing. With a small hint of panic in her eyes, she turned to Ingrid. "Oh, what do I do? I've dug myself a hole, haven't I?"

"You need to be honest."

"I don't think I can be. It would devastate him!" A pause, and then, "Oh— Ingrid, what if I just pretend to have taken another tumble?"

"What?" Ingrid asked in horror, turning to look at Maria in disbelief.

But the horror was lost on Maria. "What if we just, oh, I don't know, go take a picnic in the Untersburg and we can pretend I fell from another tree. Or maybe I slipped on the sidewalk. I'm a clumsy girl, that's believable."

"Maria…" Ingrid started warily.

"And then I can emerge and just… remember. I'll remember everything and I can tell him and he'll never have to know I made up this whole thing to begin with."

"That's a terrible idea," she replied bluntly. "You're out of your mind."

"But—"

"Maria, surely one mistake cannot be corrected by another. How could you take communion if you've made not just one lie, but two!"

Maria looked forlorn, eyes pleading and confused, before she sighed heavily. "You're right," she said on a breath, shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Just tell him," Ingrid urged gently.

"How do I even do that? We've only just become friends again."

"The right time will come, surely it will," Ingrid reassured her. "But it does not do well to waste any more of it. The longer you stay in this sham, the more it will hurt. And I've got a feeling neither one of you would recover quite so quickly from that this time."

Ingrid gave Maria one last meaningful look before she turned the lamp down and turned her back.

Ingrid was right. She had to start working up the nerve to be honest.


He was trying to subtly pull out all the stops for her. Oh, he was trying to rein himself in, doing his best not to scare the poor girl who had no recollection of the past. But it would appear he was a lovesick schoolboy, obsessed beyond question, seeing as she had only really known him for a little over a month. But beyond the six weeks in Maria's cognizance was an entire summer together, and an entire lifetime they were supposed to spend in each other's arms, too.

He found himself craving for her. Not in the physical sense, although her nearness was enough to send heat down his spine. But he craved her company, her wit, her sense of humor, her bright outlook on life even when things had gone awry in the past year. She had an unusual perspective on things, one that made him think, challenged his own beliefs. She was kind to everyone she met—clients at the shop (even those who bordered on condescending towards the amateur seamstress), wait staff at a café, the policeman in Alstadt, and everyone else she met along the way. Her way with the children was exquisite, and the kindness with which she viewed her ex-fiance was astounding. She was exuberant, radiating with a glow that seemed ethereal, and it seemed she was unaware of it.

She wasn't the same Maria, that was sure. He often saw a hint of sadness in her blue eyes, smiles that seemed force, conversations that seemed stilted. She walked a little less tall, her chin a little less high, and he often found that he blamed himself for the way Maria's youthful optimism and bright hope had been corrupted. For that was precisely it, she had been corrupted—by his hand, no less. He had wanted her to experience the world, not knowing that it was by his own doing that she would experience what he wished for her least: pain and suffering. She was imperfect when they met, but he overlooked all that because it was the way she marveled at the world that made her charming. But he eventually found fault in it, and he did not believe he could ever forgive himself for it.

But although she had changed, parts of her were still largely the same. Her spirit seemed… cracked, as expected, but unbroken. She viewed the world with careful eyes now, but the beauty of it was never lost on her. She spoke with more passion (if it were at all possible to be more impassioned than the young governess under his charge two summers ago), with more depth. He had never thought her stupid, not even once. But she had complexity to her now that made her all the more fascinating. It was amazing to compare who she used to be and who she was now, and even more amazing to realize he loved every version of her still.

He was aware it made him less of a man by hiding behind all the charming things he was doing now to woo her—the walks, the talks, lunch at the café, the occasional visit to the villa to see the children. He was deliberately showing her all of his best qualities, hiding behind them so he would not have to confront the fact that he had broken her. And that one day, he would have to admit to all of it. Such a massive matter could not be kept a secret for too long, after all. Soon, people would notice. And people would tell her. And wouldn't that make him even more of a fool if she found out from somebody else?

He was repentant now more than he had ever been repentant in his life. And he would spend the rest of his life serving his sentence, penance for all he had done wrong, if only to have her heart again. Multiple times in the past two years did the regret eat him, enough not to get him out of bed on some days. Enough that even the view of the mountains from the back terrace made him want to pull his eyes out. The regret had teared mercilessly at him, and who could he blame but himself? He was the coward. He was the one who singlehandedly ruined what could have been the best things for himself and the children.

If he had done anything good at all in his life, he hoped it would come back to him now, in this moment in time, in the chance to make things right with Maria.


On Maria's day off, she decided to do what she had not done in a while—take the train and hike up the half hour to her spot on the mountain. She found that being this high up was cleansing. It cleared her lungs and allowed her to breathe easier. But it cleared her mind too. As of late, it had been muddled, needing a serious cleansing all together.

Georg had been… wonderful. Between casual visits, friendly chats over a lunch or two, and caring inquiry into her well-being, she found herself swooning. Georg knew how to work his charm, and he was doing so maximally. But despite that, she could see through his eyes—that he was sincere about his efforts, and that there was nothing in his actions that would indicate he was just playing her.

Perhaps he had realized he wanted her too?

Perhaps.

But they had been lying to each other for a little over a month now.

Georg was understanding, a sincere listener, and always had a balanced point of view on things. They had had many conversations—about the children, about their thoughts on debutante balls and the lavishness of Salzburg's society, about the current political situation in Europe, about literature, and about some of the shop's more entitled clientele. They had even had profound conversations about God and spirituality, the sanctity of marriage and what it meant to be husband and wife, the values they each had when it came to certain matters, and about love. Those conversations made her feel alive, less like a country bumpkin who was off to marry a prince she knew nothing about. They made her feel like the intelligent, intuitive woman she was, the kind that people had overlooked when they were first set to be married.

When Georg left her just mere hours before the wedding, she was broken. It was an ache that traversed deep into her bones and made her feel not at all human. And in the days succeeding the cancelled wedding, she felt lost, directionless, so excluded and isolated from society. Without a home, without a family, without anywhere to go to, she questioned God's will and why He had sent her to their home at all. She had told Georg before that she had a wicked childhood, a miserable youth, and it appeared to her that the misery was not about to end. She wouldn't go so far as to say she hated the man, because even in her darkest moments she knew she loved him. But she was confused, angry, disappointed—more furious than she had ever been in her life.

She felt so… substandard. As if she had been measured against some invisible scale, and she fell immensely short. But most heartbreaking of all, she felt like she wasn't enough. That she probably would never be enough. And it was that feeling of being wretchedly subpar that made her build walls around her heart, for never again would she give anyone the power to affect her so, to dictate her worth. It was what haunted her ever since Georg left her that night in the abbey.

Maria knew who she was. She had a teaching certificate under her belt, but beyond that, she had no achievements. She wasn't born into aristocracy, every penny in her pocket borne of sheer hard work. She didn't have a family title, or a family at all for that matter, and she was but the lowly governess to seven unruly but extraordinary children after she was a postulant at Nonnberg. She didn't have a debutante ball, a string of men waiting on her, or even a proper suitor to call herself knowledgeable on the matter of love and men. But despite all of these, she knew that the value of a person was found innately. That it did not matter in the eyes of God if she was decorated or well-bred. It didn't matter that she grew up on the mountains and had a most humble childhood. She knew she was kind and compassionate and so capable of loving, and that was what should have mattered.

She thought that was what the Captain thought too. She thought he didn't mind that she wasn't as worldly as women he was more used to. She thought that her capacity to love was the only thing that counted. Many a time he had made her feel like she was all that he needed, that it didn't matter where she came from, only that her future was sworn to him. And then he had pulled the rug from right under her feet, changed the melody of the song they were singing to, leaving her to question if anything about them was even real. Leaving her to question her own worth—what an idiot she had been, thinking she could become his wife, the entire world outside the villa all but forgotten.

While she didn't hate the Captain, she wasn't particularly fond of him either. At least not immediately after what had happened. She had taken great pains to ensure she would avoid his path, short of leaving Salzburg completely. She was determined to put the past behind her, to pretend like nothing was wrong, that she was whole despite knowing there was an emptiness in her that only the Captain and the children could fill.

When she saw him that day at the shop, she didn't believe it was possible for the world to implode, and yet, bloom flourishingly all at the same time. She had yearned so deeply for his nearness, but the very sight of him had also awakened the depth of her pain. It transformed from a dull ache to a sharp, stabbing agony that simply begged to be noticed. Her mind went completely numb, and she had summoned up such a preposterous cover story to give herself just a few moments of blissful ignorance, more time not to think about the pain Georg left in his trail.

She would have to admit that putting up with this… deception… was exhausting. It took all of her to keep her story straight, which was especially difficult considering she had always been so achingly honest to a fault. But she would also admit that putting up this charade, although it had led to some bitter denials on Georg's part, also allowed her to see Georg for who he truly was: human, flawed, but earnest and unbelievably caring.

Up here, on the mountain, things became clear as day. She had slowly found it in herself to forgive him. And while she may possibly never forget the pain, she may also move on from it, move forward, perhaps with him.

Or perhaps not.

But that could only be possible if she was honest. Lord help her—she was terribly certain if she did not possess the confidence necessary for such a task.


AN: End of chapter!

Well- you'll see that they're both really confused. Maria in particular is still battling with her emotions. There's a tug of war going in her between wanting to be honest and not knowing how to. Also between loving the Captain and still being mad at him for what he had done. I think Maria is interesting here because in canon, she's so kind and forgiving, and that plays complexly here in the context of Georg's betrayal. Her forgiving but unable to forget is making her terribly confused, especially since Georg has been nothing short of perfect.

You'll notice that there's a time element here. That some time has elapsed and Georg has been making tentative steps to test the waters, so to speak. I personally think it's adorable to see the Captain slightly out of his element- I hope you thought so too.

Please let me know what you thought of the chapter. There's a lot of angst coming your way soon. Been rewriting some of the stuff I'd already written to hopefully finish this story.

Thanks and love to each of you! Take care!

xx