A/N: This is a new way of me looking at Georg and Maria; I've played with him a little in this time frame, but never her, and I think the circumstances of their lives in this moment make them very different people than who they are in the film. Some details have been pulled from Maria's books. I can't get "The Sixth Station" from the Spirited Away OST out of my head for this.
Chapter 1: One Winter's Day
Early January, 1933
He didn't recognize the twists and turns of the streets anymore. The twilight was already rising—the sun dipping below the western horizon, the final rays broken by by towers and churches and ancient buildings he didn't recognize—and the last splashes of daylight truly began to fade into the night. Just like everything, Georg thought, his hands shoved in his trouser pockets as the tip of his shoe caught on one of the cobblestones and his heart rate surged. At least he righted himself before falling on his face for the lower class neighborhoods of Salzburg to witness, the street already slick with the mist and drizzling rain that had been falling for hours.
The last months, life had flickered before him through a fog, neither hidden nor quite visible through the memories of love. The grief had blanketed him since September like a wave he couldn't quite escape, drowning him a little more each day. It clung to him wherever he went, whether at the house with the children or at the small flat he'd let in the city a few weeks ago. Some days, Georg didn't even think he was struggling to surface for a gulp of air, happier to sink beneath the rolling sea. Swallowed by it, the memories were further from his heart as the water pulled him deeper into the darkness. Away from it all...most especially them. She was already gone, but the children haunted him.
Even when he had passed a week at home for the Christmas holidays before escaping to back to his flat, he couldn't stand looking at them for more than a few hours: in every one of their faces, all he saw was Agathe. The pairs of brown eyes peering back at him, the same gentle rounding at the very end of the nose, the dark hair so many of his daughters wore down around their shoulders..."Damn you," he murmured, shivering as a cold breeze ran down narrow street, channeled between the towering rowhouses worn with age, storms, and the occasional shaking of the very earth beneath them.
I don't even know whom I hate right now. God or you. Or both of you. Pulling his right hand from his pocket, Georg loosened his tie. He couldn't stand how tight it was at his throat right now, his pulse running stronger and faster. I know you hated whenever I did that, but I can't do it for you right now. Not anymore. He unfastened the top button of his shirt as well, his breathing ragged as his pace increased. And this— A fat drop of rain landed on his forehead, rolling down his face before another followed. Maybe it can all be washed away tonight. And it can all be that simple.
Taking a left turn around the corner, Georg found himself in the middle of one of the market squares, the vendors long gone. Really, with the early winter nights January always blanketed Salzburg with, hardly anyone else was on the street. The breeze blew even colder and drier across the square, nipping at his face. Agathe would have a fit, seeing you like this. And the children at home while you spend half your life in Salzburg. "It doesn't matter," he murmured, another drop of rain splashing on his face. "You're haunting the villa, not the streets."
He ran a hand across his face, a day or two's short beard scratching at his palm. The days he spent here, away from the children and even the staff, he didn't bother. Captain von Trapp was gone when he was here, all his decorations and titles cast aside, leaving him an empty shell as he wandered the maze of the city. Just a man.
A car roared past, swerving around him. Well, he was half in the street rather than on the sidewalk proper. I'm not sure how concerned I am, anyway. Another vehicle sped by, this time the driver laying a hand on the horn and shattering the quiet of the night descending. It really doesn't matter, does it? They've survived already—losing her so early—but me, I don't know if I can survive much longer. They were ours from birth, but I chose her. He peered up at the sky: the moon was nearly full—shining and bright—the stars blotted out by the lingering city lights— Georg collided with something, the breath knocked from his chest as his gaze came back down, a mop of golden hair falling out of his sight.
"Ouch!" Not something, but someone.
On the street in front of him, a young woman lay sprawled on her back, a small bag hanging from over her shoulder, and what must have been a handful of papers thrown aside and already wet in the growing rain. She pushed herself up, looking up at him with brilliant blue eyes. Don't. "Goddammit, girl, watch where you're going! Especially if there's hardly a bit of daylight left."
"I'm sorry—sir, I just wasn't thinking," she said quietly, her cheeks flushing.
"Clearly." God, she was so small: all gangly arms and pale legs in a tangle on the wet cobblestone as the rain dampened her dark green dress and grey jacket and she tugged her bag over her breasts. A slim waist above the skirt that was bunched halfway up her thighs, bright hair twisted into a braid that fell over one of her shoulders. And—he couldn't help his eyes raking over her—no curves but just bones beneath her skin. And her eyes peering up at him, almost like she'd never seen a man or thought of a man looking at her. It might well be true; now, she refused to look at him as her cheeks glowed bright red. "You'll probably be better for it if you did."
She was trying to tug her skirt back down her legs rather stronger than necessary though her hand was mostly knotted in the wet fabric before she instead pulled her jacket and bag tighter across her chest and twisted her fingers of her other hand into the very end of her plait. "I couldn't get the music out of my head, that's all."
Of course. Why he would run into someone for any other reason, especially a pretty young girl, not exactly as pretty as...God, she'll be in my head for the rest of my life. Whenever she could—mostly when one of the younger children hadn't been banished to the nursery for a nap—Agathe was always keen to set a record on the gramophone, the pianos and strings and brass pulling the entire household higher and higher. For God's sake, girl, I don't need more reminders of what we've lost. His breath was already faster as he struggled to swallow his anger. I still don't know who! "And where would a child go to hear music?"
Her eyes narrowed as she finally glanced back at him, her hands curling into fists. "It's not so very expensive to buy a ticket for the afternoon, at the very back of the hall!"
"That hardly sounds like a very nice way to enjoy a concert—"
"And I'm a teacher, not a child!"
Georg snorted as he knelt down, collecting the wet papers in his left hand and shaking the worst of the water away. Even through the sodden patches, some math figures were clear, though the pencil was now smeared and only half legible. On another, a few short lines had run together, a little of the pencil rubbing off onto his fingers. Who would hire someone this young? he wondered, looking back at her. Her face was still red, her hands finally just folded in her lap, and her dress remained stuck to the very top of her legs—probably caught under her backside—clinging to such thin thighs, he almost wondered how they were keeping her upright.
He drew himself upright again before he offered her his right hand. "Here." She raised her own—pulled it back—then folded it into his, allowing him to pull her to her feet. Her skin was so soft, Georg realized as he hated the thought, and so cold. She stumbled forward for a second, one of her hands briefly catching on his shoulder before she stepped back. Now with her stood in front of him, her eyes truly were incredibly blue—unbelievably blue as she stared into his—her hair even longer than he had thought, almost down to her waist in what was clearly a messy, quick braid. Just like Agathe always did at night. With the growing rain, even her jacket clung to the top of her body, very clearly revealing how straight up and down her body was— Don't.
After a moment, she took a breath, yanking her hand from his and finally righting her skirt about her knees. "Thank you...sir."
Georg shook the papers again, a small spray of water falling from the limp pages. "I apologize, Fräulein." She wouldn't like you being so unkind to someone barely older than Liesl. "I was lost in my own thoughts as well, I suppose."
A little smile broke across her face as she reached for her students' papers, taking them and then flicking through them with a brief glance as she shook them as well, maybe hoping to separate the pages before they were too soggy to pull apart. "I understand. My...mother told me my head was always in the clouds."
Georg bit back a laugh, both of his hands in his pockets again. "And yet you're a teacher?"
The smile was gone, something he didn't quite understand spreading over her face, beneath those blue eyes. Not quite anger, but maybe...frustration as she tucked her papers away. I've hardly seen any like them before, just mine and some of—no. Don't think about them. And her face: just a little round, her nose bumpy, and again, all that hair falling over her shoulder. Stop. Stop now.
"It's my first year."
"I just couldn't imagine you instructing my..." No, she doesn't need to know that. Not that it matters. The rain was falling harder now, heavy drops that hit his head with the force of a pebble, like when Friedrich wanted to throw one at Kurt when he thought neither of them were watching. No. "Any children, if you're that far away from the rest of the country, all that way up in the air."
"I finished school at fifteen and paid my own way through teacher's college. I'm not a fool, even if I'm young."
"Even so." His eyes ran the length of her again, from her mussed and braided hair to the bottom half of her tousled dress. Nothing seemed out of sorts, not that it really mattered to him; she was just a girl he had literally found on the street. But even so...You would never forgive me, Agathe, I know it. "But are you all right?"
She nodded as she tried to smooth another few wrinkles from her sodden skirt with one hand, still pulling at the top like she wanted the hem even lower. "Yes. I've done worse on my own."
Georg let his gaze run over her again: even in the last bits of daylight, he could still see a bruise on her hand, almost like she'd shut it in a door. "I'm not surprised."
"What—"
"Try not to walk into anyone else, Fräulein, especially on a rainy night." He let himself have a small smile of its own. "Not everyone might be as pleasant as I am."
He had to leave her behind now, Georg knew. As long as everything was well...Stop, he told himself, struggling to remember the path to his small flat. Even after the last weeks, he sometimes found himself lost. In the city, in his thoughts, in the past...But the memories were about to surge into present, dragging all the pain with them. He would have to go back to Aigen sometime in the next day or two; it was time to settle the prior month's accounts, answer any letters that had piled up during his last few days in Salzburg, and try to smile as the children buried him with their hugs...and he pushed them aside after a moment, drawing himself from their embraces as though their arms were laden with smoldering embers.
"Don't forget to love them." Agathe told him that so many times in those last weeks, feverish and sweaty even as she shivered beneath the quilt covering their bed. Fairly begged him each time he snapped at the noise in the nursery that cut through the quiet she needed, that he needed in those final days. Perspiration on her forehead, hair mussed, brown eyes bleary, cheeks flushed...still pleading with him. "You have to love them for me as well, now."
"Well, there's not much a chance of that," Georg muttered with a shiver. "Not if I can't stand to be with them." It hurt Liesl and Friedrich and Louisa the most; the younger children seemed to have already grown accustomed to Frau Schmidt minding them. Or at least they didn't say a thing as the housekeeper chastised them when they asked for him while Marta and Gretl only hoped and cried for their nurse, Frau Bauer. The rare days he spent with them, none of his elder children looked at him whenever he emerged from his study or his bedroom. And whenever he gave them the briefest hugs he could manage before disappearing into the bustle of the city again—even shorter than the ones he accepted from them—Brigitta always quietly asked how long he would be gone this time. I suppose they all have grown to accept it.
Ten, fifteen, maybe even twenty minutes ambled past as the night rose darker and harsher, the rain increasing, burying him—soaking him—sheltering him from the heavier darkness. God, how many more blocks? His thoughts had been twisted for some time, ever since he had ventured out into the winter a few hours ago, desperate to be free— No, not since then, just since he encountered her.
"And I'm a teacher, not a child!" Not a child? Well, she was hardly a woman, blushing when a man looked at her for a few seconds as if she wondered if he was contemplating what lay beneath the skirts pushed up to the middle of her legs, plastered there by the rain. Hardly, though she did have something of a pretty face. But a concert and her students' papers to hand like she meant to mark them rather than enjoy the music the way one should...Such a silly girl, he thought, peering up at the next street sign. He'd heard her little huff of anger as he turned away from her, pulling his suit coat tighter against him as the breeze kicked higher. A teacher, indeed!
The rain was even stronger—sharper and heavier—threatening to completely break the sky open as his pace grew faster around the winding streets. It can't be much farther. And indeed, there it was, his second floor flat, right on the corner of the following block. At least he was able to duck inside before the final deluge truly began. I hope you managed the same. God, it really didn't matter. She didn't matter, even though he would rather have not knocked her full on her back. He was only used to having a woman—one woman, really—on her back before him, and always when she was beneath him in his bed. Stop, he told himself again, wrenching the door to the lobby open and launching himself up the two flights of stairs, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind on the rough and bowed wood, marred by decades of heavy steps. What's the hurry? There's no one there waiting for you.
There was hardly anything in the small flat, made up of just a bedroom, front room, washroom, and kitchen. A few books, the gramophone—but no records—and not a single photograph. Not of his wife, the children, anything or anyone. All of those lay in the past, with everything he needed to escape. They couldn't be here, the memories rising up, mixed with the stench of grief and anger. Even the curtains were almost invariably drawn, holding the world at bay and leaving him to wander lost in yesterday...and hating every minute of it. Until it all became too much and he found himself escaping into the open air again, seething in the winter air until it just burnt his anger away.
Georg stripped his clothes from his limbs, leaving them over the side of the bathtub's edge to start drying. He would send them to be laundered tomorrow before they could begin to go rank with the damp. He pulled his dressing gown from the wardrobe, tying it around his waist without even bothering to replace his underclothes. After all, he wasn't going anywhere until tomorrow. I'm sure you would be mortified, darling, but you're not here to lecture me, not anymore.
Settled into the single chair in the front room, wooden and stiff and uncomfortable, he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, the first burn of the tobacco already soothing his nerves and numbing everything. The glass bottle of brandy on the table at his side already called to him, the alcohol certain to dull whatever the smoke in his lungs didn't. You're going to pull me back forever, aren't you, Agathe? Dammit, some day, you have to set me free.
A fool, that's all he was. A fool in love. Another deep draw on the cigarette singed the inside of his lungs, another wave of calm rolling over him. If he closed his eyes, he still saw her beautiful brown eyes, shining bright and lovely every day for fourteen years: two of courtship, nearly twelve of marriage and almost delirious happiness. Felt her hand tucked into his as they wandered about the lake on lovely summer afternoons. Heard her rich alto voice whenever the music pulled her in, almost swallowing her whole.
I'm trapped. Trapped for the rest of my life. When he had wound his way to Vienna a week or two before, not even Elsa had broken a single chain when he suddenly sought out her embrace and every inch of her body, despising himself the moment he turned away from her. If even she couldn't…
Never again.
Her room in the boarding house was always so cluttered, like too much of her past life bulged within its walls. Her father's books sat stacked on the table that had been tucked into the corner when she let the room, a few pieces of sheet music atop them, and another handful of assignments she was marking lay scattered beside them. (She tried to remind herself at the beginning of each weekend that it was time to truly tidy things, rather than leave them in organized piles, but something always drew her outside.) Beside the door, her worn guitar sat at attention; her bed was pushed into the far corner, bedclothes messily drawn to its head, her wardrobe at its foot. Sometimes, the walls half closed in around her, but it was all she could manage on her meager salary, at least if she wanted to occasionally escape to one of the cheapest seats in Salzburg's lovely concert hall.
Maria sighed as she pulled her students' papers from her tote, peeling the ruined ones apart. Bringing one up to her face before she spread them across her table, the page was almost translucent. I don't know if I should be surprised it went wrong. She'd only meant to spend a rare midday meal at a café with their work today—the morning before and the day after in one of Salzburg's lovely parks—but everything later had drawn her further into the city.
I suppose it could be worse. The numbers on the math tests were still legible, but the words scrawled in seven and eight year-olds' awkward handwriting on the spelling examinations were merely a smear of grey. "I suppose I'll just have to have them sit it again," she said quietly. But her students were for tomorrow afternoon after mass and the next school day. Now, she just needed to dry off and knock the chill from her bones.
She shrugged her damp jacket from her shoulders, shaking out the wrinkles and wringing another few drops of water from the bottom hem. Already bare in a few patches, it had snagged on the cobblestones and a few patches of dirt were worked into the grey fabric. "Try not to walk into anyone else, Fräulein." As she cracked open one of the doors of her wardrobe, hanging her jacket and bag on the top corner to let them dry overnight, Maria frowned. "I wasn't the only one with my head in the clouds. At least I had something happy on my mind."
Just standing there, watching him walk away into the approaching evening, Maria didn't quite know what to think. He was so out of place on that street, disheveled and partially drenched in what was clearly a well-tailored suit—even she could see that, even having no experience with nice clothes herself. And beneath his faint beard, his mouth had been so severe, so set in a miserable frown. As if he didn't know anything else. "Well, that can't be true," she muttered, finally setting to work at the buttons on the back of her dress, wincing as one of her shoulders twisted the wrong way. If his suit had been made just for him, her dress was as well, but by her own hand, not by a tailor who expected to be well paid for his work.
Her palms were still clammy against her wet green frock as she peeled it from her body, though it was less affected by the cobblestone and rubbish on the street than her jacket, just a few specks of mud where she had landed on her back. Both would need cleaning before she could wear them again, she knew as she pulled the other door open to hang her dress. Her chemise, at least, appeared unaffected. As far as her backside went, Maria suspected she had a bruise or two that would make sitting painful for a few days. "Well, I don't think I can call it all his fault." She hadn't been minding her path either.
Although winter remained in full force across Salzburg, she hadn't been able to resist the call of the city that morning as a warmer breeze than she expected wandered in aimlessly from the west. (At least she had brought her students' papers along, marking a few as she sat in one of the parks she was coming to love.) But after eating lunch as the January chill shoved the warm morning aside, the music had overflowed from one of nearby buildings, a collection of women's voices rising to the heavens. It had pulled a shiver from her, almost like one of the hymns her local church's choir offered up to God on a Sunday. And then nearly two hours, sat at the back of the concert hall: it was a treat for herself, allowing all the pianos and strings and brass to pull her into their world, away from the raw Austrian winter. Really, it had all been lovely, worth relinquishing the last of the schillings in her bag, until...then, and him.
The last of her clothes came away easily, leaving her open and exposed to the chilly night air. If not for the damp, she wouldn't have bothered to change so early. "You should always keep yourself presentable, Maria." "I know, but I can't keep wearing this and I don't have too many dresses to choose from."
Flicking the light on, she ducked into the tiny washroom she was happy to have attached her room, reaching for one of her two towels to dry herself off. Wrapping it around her back and pulling it tight against her breasts, Maria peered into the small mirror above her sink with a frown. A dark bruise was already blossoming at the very top of her left shoulder—certainly larger at the back where she had landed on the cobblestone—to match the one on her hand from earlier that week when she closed her hand in her wardrobe door as she wasn't really paying attention, and the one probably on her bum. Well, at least her hair hadn't been completely soaked with the rain. I can still hear my foster mother telling me I'd catch my death of cold. And I suppose it's time I wrote her another letter.
She ran the towel over her arms—her abdomen—her legs as quickly as she could, the cold hitting her in another wave as her skin dried. At least she had a thick nightgown in her wardrobe to keep the chill out. With another shiver, Maria hung her towel back on the short rod before tumbling back into her small room, hardly taking a moment to turn the light off again in her eagerness to finally warm up.
Thrusting a hand into her open wardrobe, Maria reached for her winter nightgown, mixed in between her small collection of handmade dresses. As soon as she pulled it over her head, the chill of the winter night lessened. Some nights, the flannel was too scratchy and coarse, but at least it kept her warm beneath her thin sheets and quilt. Salzburg's winter had surprised her when it finally arrived in December, colder than she was used to in Vienna, though a balmy day broke the gloom every now and then, just like this morning. I suppose I should have expected that amongst the mountains.
She tugged her braid from beneath her collar before turning back to her bed and folding her chemise carefully; at least if something made it through without any trouble, it was that. She only owned one spare. After laying it at the bottom beside her two other pairs of shoes—the battered ones she had worn today were still drying beside the door next to the boots she probably should have chosen instead—she dropped onto her bed...and frowned. Just as she expected, an ache flared across her buttocks.
Maria unwound the band from the end of her plait, working her fingers through the feathered ends of her hair little by little. It really was too much, now, untamed for three or four years, leaving the oldest bits ragged and thin. No one else cares about it, she reminded herself as she pulled it apart, so why should you, even if you should? No one did when you were a child, either—
"And where would a child—"
"I'm not a child anymore!" she hissed, pulling harder on a knot halfway through her braid than she meant. A faint curse tumbled from her mouth as her fingers caught, followed by a quick whisper to heaven for forgiveness.
Why couldn't she quite get him out of her mind, she wondered, finally reaching for the coarse brush on the battered table at her bedside. A grumpy man wandering the city streets—ignoring the rain and anyone else—probably shouting at anyone who crossed his path— She bit her lip as the brush snagged on another tangle, though this time she managed to control her tongue. Oh, it doesn't really matter, does it?
For the next hour or so, Maria busied herself at the table that had become her desk, mostly paying attention to the dry pages that hadn't spilled onto the street— Stop, she reminded herself, her pen cutting into one paper a little stronger than she meant. Why he kept lingering in her mind, she wasn't certain. Hopefully, he won't tomorrow. At least she would have church to distract her then, and she had students' work to distract her now.
After correcting all the papers that were somewhat dry, Maria allowed herself an hour beneath her quilt in bed with one of her father's old books for company, finally warm after the rainy afternoon and evening. One of the Brothers Grimm's collection of German fairy tales, bought years ago when he was in Berlin lost in his own thoughts and grief, happy to leave her in Vienna with her foster mother. Many a summer night when the sun remained in the sky well into the night, she had spent hours leafing through the stories, lost in the written world of princesses and dwarves and princes transformed into swans, curses and betrayals and true love. Now, rather than finding her favorites, she ventured to some she rarely read, the details new and bright and almost mysterious. Her imagination always danced on after she allowed herself a little time with those tales. What would it be like, wandering aimlessly about only to be waylaid or rescued by a witch—a princess—a king?
"But why would anyone do that for you?" she murmured, finally closing the covers.
After another hour lost in one of her father's history books—something on the emperors of Rome, their viciousness sometimes horrifying—Maria's stomach finally reminded her of the time. At least the kitchen shared amongst the other tenants in the boarding house would likely be empty. So many of her neighbors worked odd hours: bakers who were already asleep in preparation for a work day that began in the middle of the night, drivers that were out and about any time of the day, even a nurse or two who had been cursed with overnight shifts at the local hospital. I should be grateful, she thought as she reached into her wardrobe for something proper. At least I see the light of day.
Now in a clean dress that she would put aside for mass tomorrow morning, Maria wound her way to the kitchen through the lightly scratched hallways and humming overhead lights. The small kitchen was cramped whether she was alone or not, the cupboards crowded with mismatched and chipped dishes, the drawers crammed with stained cutlery, and the counters cluttered with a random collection of pots and pans beside the stove that tended to burn whatever she put on the hob.
This evening, one of her neighbors was fixing a meal as well, another teacher—Johanna—though she was much older. Often, as their paths occasionally crossed when they were coming or going, Maria asked her any little questions that came to mind. Ways to encourage her students, advice on certain school topics (particularly mathematics, never her strongest subject in school), how to understand that some of her students' failures were not hers...Perhaps eager to inspire a new generation of teachers so she could eventually set aside her pens and books for the quiet life of old age, or just out of kindness, Johanna was always happy to answer.
Sometimes, though, perhaps when the older woman with her crop of silver hair piled atop her head thought she didn't hear, Maria heard her muttering about such a young woman on her own.* No family, no husband, no one to look out for her. That's not my fault, Maria always thought whenever she heard those rumblings. It's not my fault about my parents, or that I wouldn't even have time to pay attention to a man. And after this afternoon, perhaps that was a good thing for the time being. And weren't you the same at my age?
But so late at night, with her own frustrations from the day, Maria said little more than hello and goodbye as she prepared a small evening meal. The boarding house always provided bread on the counter—some days, it was a little older than it should have been—but everything else was left in the crowded larder, each tenant with their own small section marked and separated. Maria's mostly had inexpensive hard sausage and cheese, apples and onions and carrots, a few other vegetables, fruits, and sweets or an occasional pastry mixed in as she could afford them. Tonight, though, all she had to hand was cheese, so her evening meal was a pair of open-faced cheese sandwiches, with a thought that it was time to visit the greengrocer's and the market after her students were released on Monday. It was enough for tonight—would have to be enough for tomorrow with all the shops closed except one or two of the chemists—but she knew she would find herself a little hungry before communion. (And somehow, she always found herself running late Sunday mornings.)
Back in her small room, after devouring her dinner of crunchy sandwiches, Maria exchanged her dress for her nightgown for the second time that evening, now tired enough that the thought of falling asleep sounded pleasant. But she couldn't quite resist pulling her father's fairy tale book back into bed with her as she tucked her quilt tighter around her against the cold night, guarding the warmth she had finally found in the last hours. A simpler time was what she was searching for, perhaps, though in college her closest friend teased her relentlessly at her refusal to put it aside. "Are you expecting to live your own fairy tale?" she'd asked.
Never, Maria had thought then, just as she did now. It must be too horrible to endure. Just...it might be nice to have a happy ending.
She flipped through the fingerprint stained and crinkled pages to her favorite story, this time bypassing the princesses in distress and dwarves and the little man who understood the art of spinning straw into gold, choosing the soldier and his companions yet again. She always laughed at the soldier and the king and the soldier's friends: the strongman who uprooted handfuls of trees at a time, the clear-eyed hunter who could shoot a fly on a branch two miles away, the man with a breath that could spin windmills miles in the distance, the runner who needed to take off his legs to slow himself, the man whose hat was always tilted over his ear lest it freeze the birds in the air.** "I suppose I would say manners as well," she muttered at the soldier's admonition against a hat so askew, "and walking into people. I should say something about ties as well—"
Stop, she thought, closing the book on her finger. It doesn't matter, apart from remembering that there are many grumpy people in the world. Best to leave it behind on the street.
Opening the broken book again, she finished her favorite story, loving as she always did how the soldier and his friends outsmarted the arrogant king, too pleased with his riches and palace. Afterwards, she turned to another favorite of hers. The Six Swans: seven children at the mercy of a wretched stepmother—a new queen to their father, the king—six brothers transformed into swans, leaving their sister to sew together shirts from aster flowers to set them free. There must be nice stepmothers in the world. They can't all want ill for their new husband's children.
Maria paged through a few more stories even as she yawned. The twelve princesses who danced holes in their shoes to the bewilderment of their father. The prince and the wild man and his well that turned anything dipped into it to gold. The unhappy girl with a tree and doves that granted her wishes, despite her stepmother and stepsisters. (Maybe she was wrong about stepmothers after all, Maria wondered.) The princess who fled marriage to an ogre clutching her mother's gold treasures along with her dresses of the sun, the moon, and the stars, all hidden beneath a coat of a thousand furs. A young girl taken advantage of by a strange king in a single moment before going back to his wife, one day waking to find herself with a pair of children she hadn't even known she'd given birth to, her enchanted sleep was so deep.
Normally, Maria avoided the last, despising that man. Maybe it was everything this afternoon, but she couldn't quite turn away from it today. "Is it so hard to be kind?" she asked, finally closing her book with a rougher snap than she intended. She threw the quilt aside, shivering as her feet fell onto the cold floor and she stood, taking the few steps to return her book of fairy tales to the rest of her father's books. It was a little of this—a little of that—just like he had been here and there over the years, always somewhere else. "It doesn't matter anymore," she said quietly, turning back around. "It hasn't for years."
Back at the edge of her bed, she knelt on the rough wooden floor, crossing herself as she folded her hands together. "Thank you, Father," she whispered, pressing her forehand to her entwined thumbs. "For this day, for the beauty You have given us. The world, the music, how we can love all of it. For..." Something was twisting in her stomach, an unhappiness that she didn't think was her own. "Please, Father, let him find peace. Something was troubling him. Can you take it from him? Oh, I don't even know why I'm praying for him, he was so frustrating, but...please?" She could still see his face, the sharp nose and fine jaw, the dark hair atop sun-ripened skin, something in his eyes amiss. Stop. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, amen."
As she pulled herself back into bed, already desperate for the warmth of the quilt she was dragging up to her shoulders, Maria sighed. Whatever could it be that made him so angry, sulking around Salzburg's streets like there was nothing in his path? Something, clearly, was holding him back, attaching him to...well, what on earth could it be? But I don't know if I could pity him, if that's the sort of man he is. Without a care for anyone else in the world.
* In about the same time frame, one of my grandmothers received the same comment: very early twenties, not married, working, living in a room of her own, in a different city than her parents. Scandalous. Glad things are...sort of different now.
** This is one of my favorite fairy tales, and, to my knowledge, it is not really known in the English speaking world: "How Six Traveled Through World"/"Sechse kommen durch die ganze Welt". The following referenced fairy tales are, in order: The Six Swans, The Twelve Dancing Princesses, Iron Hans, Cinderella, Princess Furball, and The Sun, the Moon, and Talia. The second to last is a children's picture book, but it's a lovely variation on Cinderella. The last is an Italian variation of Sleeping Beauty. The rest are all from an ancient, thoroughly uncensored copy of the Brothers Grimm from which the aforementioned grandmother read stories to my father and his sisters when they were young. That certainly explains some things.