With growing frustration, Georg twisted his way through the crowded cafe, maneuvering his children toward the great oak table in the rear room. Groaning, he thumped Kurt lightly on the back of his head and tugged at his shirt; the boy had knelt beside a large gray dog, scratching beneath its jeweled collar as it stretched languidly against the cool floor.
The table - the largest in the restaurant - sat separately from the rest of the commotion, though only through large batwing doors, which stood widely open and offered little cover against the clamor. It was not nearly as isolated as he'd like, but it would suffice. They all moved inside the room, eyeing the neatly set plates and cutlery.
It was far too crowded - and swelteringly hot. Every window had been thrown open, and ice buckets and electric fans worked tirelessly against the beating sun. Chattering patrons occupied nearly every seat in the establishment: men with jackets off, ladies with shiny pink faces. Nevertheless, Elsa had insisted on dining at the newest, most sought-after restaurant in Salzburg.
Exasperated, he settled into a seat at the head of the table, plonking Elsa's innumerable shopping bags onto the glossy floor beneath him. His hands were damp with perspiration, and he rubbed at the grooves in his palms.
Unsurprisingly, the stiff material of the oval-backed chair did nothing to soothe the aching in his spine, and the incessant din of the restaurant's patrons only worsened his agonizing headache. There was a black and silver flower vase adorning the center of the table, and Georg motioned for it to be removed; the fusty, drunken perfume of the nosegays was as maddening as the heat itself, and certainly rich enough to magnify his headache to an impossible degree.
For the afternoon's entirety, he'd been dragged from shop to shop, made to give his opinion on leagues of expensive outfits whose differences were hardly discernible. He'd tried to be reasonable, murmuring his approval when prompted and listening politely to the crucial distinctions between various shades of red - he'd smiled until his jaw ached, though as the hours dragged on he could've mistaken violet for canary yellow.
Elsa had ruined one outfit when she fell into the damned lake, yet she was ending the day with nine practically identical replacements.
And then, of course, just as they'd been about to break for lunch, she'd misplaced her glove. A lacy little thing - a gift from her sister. They'd spent about an hour searching, frantically retracing their hellish odyssey through all of Salzburg's fashion district, only to find it stuffed neatly inside the inner pocket of her bag, exactly where he'd suggested she look.
She'd laughed. He had not.
Odyssey indeed, old man, Georg sneered. Only, rather than a looming cyclops and an angry sea-god, Georg had been bested by savage saleswomen and a wispy white glove.
He couldn't for the life of him understand why Elsa found such a trip necessary in the first place (her clothes already filled two sizable closets at the villa), but he supposed it was the least he could do to make up for her little tumble into the water.
Even still, he found himself growing more and more miserable as the lengthy day progressed.
The children gathered around the table, and Georg groaned, anticipating the inevitable game of musical chairs as they claimed their seats.
"Oh, where do I sit?"
"No, I want that chair!"
"But I want to sit beside Fraulein Maria!"
"Children," he gave a low warning, "sit down, please."
They quieted, exchanging furtive glances as they noted his dangerous mood.
Without further fuss, they settled down, admiring the pleasant ambiance of the restaurant. In any other circumstance, it would've been charming. Sing-song voices drifted and swirled like cigarette smoke through the building, dissolving in a simmering hush. The numerous tables, lined with delicate lace tablecloths, sported complimentary candied almonds in silvery compotes. Flickering shafts of sunlight reflected from the central chandelier in pools of bright sentimental gold. The whole place seemed dazzling, lit up like a small ballroom.
Still, Georg squirmed, blinking against the light. As children, he and his brother had spent hours in the garden, playing games with a magnifying glass and oblivious trails of ants, angling the glass just so, until the smell of char wafted lazily upwards. They'd found it fascinating - how quickly they would burn. Now, as the sun bounced off the dangling chandelier, pouring relentlessly into his lap, Georg felt his heart flame within his chest.
Through the opened windows, the birds whistled with something akin to lunacy, and the ice-man was making his rounds. The captain stiffened militarily. Noises, even tiny ones, were beginning to jerk on his nerves. His neck felt sticky with sweat, and his fingers had begun to thrum spasmodically against the tabletop.
Lifting his hand from the table, he signaled a passing waiter, aiming to put an end to the interminable outing as quickly as possible.
The waiter was a tall, lanky man: gray-haired and respectable looking. Still, in his sour mood, Georg disliked the suspicious curl of his lip.
"May I help you, sir?"
The captain looked at him with active malevolence - get me out of here.
After he ordered, he risked a glance towards the fraulein. She was seated at the far end of the table playing some odd game with his youngest daughter. From her pocket, she produced a crumpled sheet of paper, flattening it out with her palm against the hard tabletop. He watched as she scribbled a pen expertly across the paper's surface. Though he couldn't quite make out the drawing himself, it sent little Gretl into peals of laughter.
He groped around vaguely for his water glass, sipping absently as he tried to work out the meticulous details of their little game.
At a loss, his astute eyes began to wander. Her hair, copper-blonde and cropped short, was tousled - from her hands, he was sure; there was no wind in this godforsaken heat. Presently, she ran a long, thin hand through the fringe of it, tucking the stray strands away from her large eyes. Her fingers fell to the table, where they toyed with the ribbon of a certain pink box.
Georg scoffed irritably. What kind of a nun -
Unexpectedly, she caught his gaze and narrowed her eyes in fierce accusation. He felt a blistering air of self-righteousness emanating from the opposite end of the table.
Georg's forehead puckered between his eyebrows. He gave a stiff shrug, shock coursing through his veins at having been caught staring. What?
You know what, idiot, her shrewd eyes flashed fiercely.
There was no uneasiness in those eyes. They were cold and hard, like she was staring down the barrel of a gun.
Georg wrapped his fingers around his chin and looked darkly at her. I am not in the mood.
Her answering scowl made his skin prickle more than any shout could've done.
She took the box in her hands, then, and he straightened.
"Georg? Are you listening to me?"
Startled, the captain's eyes turned slowly until they came to rest on the aggrieved woman beside him. He smiled sheepishly.
"Hmm?"
"Oh, Georg, I wish you would pay attention," Elsa lamented, frowning in a way that made his ears burn.
Her hands, in their lacy gloves, clasped a flat leather handbag in her lap. Her platinum hair, loosely dragged back from her pretty face, shimmered in the vibrant lights of the restaurant. She sat proudly upright, stubbornly forging through the discomfort and heat of the day, though the vexation in her face was evident. Her lipsticked lips set closely together, and he could tell she was fighting the urge to openly glare at him.
He lifted her papery hand, pressing it gently to his mouth. He'd been a pathetic host, he knew. For God's sake, one outing was the very least he could do.
"I'm sorry, darling. I have a bit of a headache, that's all. What were you saying?"
It was true. The blood pumped thickly in his temples, and he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyelids. He could almost feel the smoke rising from his head. Reflexively, he looked to the governess, half expecting to find her bearing a fiery magnifying glass and a self-satisfied grin.
Elsa huffed, lifting herself a few inches from her chair, smoothing her skirt and settling down again. "I said that we really ought to do something...something big while I'm here in Salzburg, don't you agree?"
"Something big?"
"Well, yes, you know - like a party!"
For the first time since her arrival, her eyes were vibrant and looking at him with unbridled excitement. She'd been bored in Salzburg, surely disappointed in the meager welcome she'd found there. Georg squeezed her hand, contorting his face into a tight smile.
A party. They'd attended several of these events together in Vienna, though his memories were blurred and muddy courtesy of Elsa's bottomless champagne deposits. He could remember, vaguely, stumbling through a bewildering and ever-changing swirl of people, clinging desperately to the bedazzled arm of Elsa Schraeder, his only life-raft in the raging waters of their aristocratic world.
He felt the muscles clench in his throat. She wanted a party. She deserved a party. God, but he couldn't.
He'd always hated parties. Dreaded every bit of their gaudy pomp and circumstance. They'd been just bearable when he'd had Agathe to keep him sane. Of course, the extravagance of such events had never interested him, but they'd been an excuse to hold her close, to see her shiny gray eyes dance in her flushed face as he twirled her through the glittering crowd. They could face the evening together, hand in hand, finding amusement in the miserable mess of things.
God, Agathe. He could see her now, as if she were merely in the next room and not four years gone. Her heart-shaped face, the curve of her waist, the light curling mass of her hair. He'd loved his wife. Loved her immensely. To open the doors of his home, to navigate the merciless sea of Austria's elite without her…God, he could already feel himself drowning.
"Oh," he began, panic rising in his chest, "I really don't - "
"Father?" Marta whispered, tugging at his shirtsleeve. She reared her head up like a small badger, a spot of sun visible in her round cheeks. She frowned at her knife, comically large in her small hand.
He startled, his shaky train of thought derailed. "Yes, darling?"
"Will you help me cut my schnitzel?"
For what seemed like the thousandth time in recent weeks, Captain von Trapp lay awake, counting the divots in his ceiling. The streetlamps outside his window cast a pale sheen that cut through the heavy black cloak of night, and he flung his pillow hopelessly over his head. He lay there motionless for a while, his shirt stuck damply to his back, his body bathed in sweat.
He'd always had trouble sleeping, but evidently it was worsening. He'd been having the same nightmare on and off for a while now. It hung over him, waiting for him to drift off; in his bed, he'd slip uncertainly into a restless sleep, his mind floating past, free of order…and then the dream would pounce, grabbing him by the ankles and dragging him down with gruesome speed. Awful as it was, he could never remember the specifics of the dream when he awoke, only the bewilderment of being towed into a sightless, bare emptiness, and the struggles, the darkness, the terror.
Having conceded in his fight for sleep, he extracted himself from his bed, and soon found himself pacing the darkened halls of the villa, his mind racing.
The silvery moonlight drifting through the windows created an ethereal glow against the gloom, granting him just enough light to navigate the hall below. His mind sifted through the day's events, from the endless legions of boutiques to the episode with the fraulein and her bakery boy. His eyes rolled like hot marbles. He supposed he ought to apologize - both to the governess for his outburst and to Elsa for his inattentiveness.
He was never any good at apologies.
He paused momentarily to collect a stained dishcloth lying forgotten on the stair railing. Glad to busy himself with a task - no matter how mundane - Georg began his quest to the kitchens to deposit the cloth.
Turning briskly into the inky back hallway, he collided with a solid object coming from the opposite direction, eliciting a squeal of surprise.
"Fraulein?" he squinted through the darkness, just able to make out her wispy silhouette. "Are you all right?"
"Oh! I'm sorry. I was just going to make myself a cup of tea," he saw the slender shadow of her arm motion vaguely toward the kitchen.
"Tea? I can get that for you."
"What? Oh, no really, that's not - "
Georg breezed past her, disappearing through the kitchen's narrow doorway.
He heard the quiet whisper of feet against the tile as she made her way into the room. "Captain, thank you, but I'm more than capable of making my own tea."
He flinched at the sound of her voice. There was a hardness there, a bitter stain on the sunny lilt he'd grown accustomed to.
"Nonsense, Fraulein, I've already started."
Scouring the various cabinets for a tea kettle, Georg realized how little he'd familiarized himself with his own kitchen. He swore as he hit his head on a low hanging pan, throwing a mumbled apology over his shoulder to quell the scandalized gasp from the woman behind him.
How vast it seemed, the kitchen, so late at night: all those shadows. The cabinets seemed endless. Georg hadn't spent much time at all in the room since he'd bought the house. He wasn't much of a cook.
"Aha!" he announced triumphantly, spotting the distinct gleam of the copper kettle in one of the lower cabinets.
"Really, sir, I'd prefer to do it myself. Heaven forbid I let anyone do anything nice for me. I might give someone the wrong impression."
The captain's lips curled back from his teeth in a mirthless smile. He bit back the callous remark that bubbled from deep within his throat, shrugging evasively. She wasn't going to make this easy, but he hadn't expected anything less.
It was humid there, in the kitchen, but it was more than humidity that brought the sweat onto his forehead.
As he began to boil the water, she settled onto the old wooden stool near the oven, fiddling with the splinters of frayed pine on the edge of the seat. Her chin went stubbornly up.
He turned to face her as they waited for the water to boil, leaning against the side of the counter in what he hoped was a casual manner. She glared at him, her giant eyes glinting, and he was reminded again of the trailing ants and his merciless magnifying glass. Go on, apologize.
"You called me an idiot today," he blurted.
Perfect start.
She blinked at him, dumbfounded, and for a moment he saw her true face - the one she was trying so desperately to keep hidden. "I absolutely did not."
"Oh, yes, you did. You were thinking it."
"And how on earth would you know that?" she gave a sour laugh, her skin pale under her pink sunburn.
"Your eyes are very honest."
A tinge of color appeared in her cheeks. She scowled. "My eyes are none of your concern."
"They are when they're calling me an idiot."
She looked at him in stunned silence.
"Well, Captain, if I thought that," her chin lifted further still, "you must've deserved it."
The quiet grumbling of the water shifted abruptly to the shrill whistle of the tea kettle, distracting them momentarily. Georg removed the kettle from the stove and set it off to the side, hissing slightly at the scalding temperature of the metal handle.
He rubbed the back of his neck, setting to work preparing the two cups. He moved a little unsteadily; he could feel a sharp burning at the back of his head where her eyes were fastened. He meant it, truly, that her eyes were honest. She had a habit of looking openly, straightforwardly at you, offering nothing but clarity and whatever emotion she happened to be feeling in that moment. It was admirable, he supposed, but more than a little disconcerting.
Plunking the tea-bags into the cups, he reached for a cloth to insulate his hand from the searing kettle. Carefully pouring the steaming water into two china cups, Georg took a breath.
"Uh, just a spoonful of sugar, yes?"
Her eyebrows rose on her narrow forehead, "Oh, how did you - I mean, well - yes."
He'd surprised himself with that one, though he'd seen her prepare her tea often enough: at breakfast, in the afternoons, once or twice in the garden. She had mentioned something about the way she'd taken medicine as a child.
He placed the cup in front of her with a cheerful rattle, smiling a little through the darkness.
"Thank you," she breathed, reaching for the drink.
They sat for a few minutes in a peculiar silence, interrupted only by their quiet sips of tea. He observed her wordlessly in the muted light of his kitchen. The night shadows accentuated her lovely complexion. She looked eminently delicate, even in her frustration - like an indignant sprite. He gritted his teeth. He was decidedly charmed.
"You did deserve it, Captain."
She gazed at him over the scalloped rim of her teacup.
"Yes, well - "
"You were terribly rude."
He sighed, stirring his tea distractedly. "Yes. I'm sorry. Forgive me. It was an exhausting day."
She hummed.
"How was the pie?" he asked after several extended moments of silence.
She gave a breathless, silly, little laugh, crossing her ankles against the cool lower bar of the stool. "You know, I don't even like lemon meringue!"
A resonant chuckle rumbled from deep within his chest, "What? Don't you?"
"No!"
"Well, I'd have eaten it!"
She grinned, and he was glad. Her white teeth glistened in the broad crescent of her smile. "I wouldn't have given it to you!"
"Why's that?" he asked, eager to see the playful shine flickering in her eyes.
She raised an eyebrow, a distinct glimmer of satisfaction flashing across her face. Plonking her empty teacup noisily onto the countertop, she stood.
"You were being an idiot."
