Chapter 8: The Spare

Most mornings through this winter, her first in Salzburg, Maria woke to her chilly room, her sheet and quilt dragged as tightly around her body as she could manage. Not only cold, but dark as well, apart from the faint spray of early sunlight shining through the tiny window in her washroom before she tugged the chain on her lamp and finally checked the time on her father's pocket watch. On Saturdays, when she first woke, Maria often merely stretched her arms and legs before turning onto her other side and curling deeper into her thin mattress, struggling to remember any little snippet of the dream the sunshine had interrupted. Well, at least for a few minutes before she swung her legs from beneath that quilt onto the cold and scratched wooden floor to face the day and the papers she needed to mark. Through the week, she couldn't allow herself even that, already always in danger of missing the final bus that would see her in her classroom on time.

But this morning—the final day of the school week—it was almost full daylight splayed across the floorboards, and the rumble and bustle of the road bleeding through the building's thin walls when Maria opened her eyes. Just one more moment, that's—

She sat up, rumpled hair tumbling over her shoulders as the quilt fell down from her chin to her waist. Twisting about in the sheets, she reached for her father's watch, not needing the light beside her to see where the hands lay. I should already be on my way! All the layers she had bundled around herself through the night landed...somewhere, she didn't bother to look back as she ran to her washroom, splashing one handful of cold water—then a second—across her face, still feeling the puffiness beneath her eyes. No time for a shower this morning, Maria knew that already, just enough time to sloppily knot her hair at the base of her head, one pin after another scratching her scalp.

"Oh, how do I always do this?" she muttered, dashing back into her room and dragging her nightgown over her head as she did, catching on her already loose bun. "I suppose you would tell me I shouldn't daydream so much at night, Mother."

She hadn't been able to resist it, last night, another of her father's books. It wasn't the same book of fairy tales she so often turned to: pages worn and bent and yellowed after a lifetime of little fingers tugging at them, sitting in her father's lap whenever she could as she listened to his ever more gravely voice, now usually enjoyed cocooned in her bed. Instead, it had been a book filled with words she couldn't read—in letters she didn't even recognize apart from the faint memory of the front of a postcard sent long ago from a country she didn't remember—but filled with drawings of animals she didn't know, either. Some were even in color rather than the drab black and white illustrations she knew so well from the short stories and fantasies she loved. Instead of the little birds, the butterflies, even the rabbits with their cottontails turned up to the reader: snakes in shapes and colors she had never seen in a Vienna park; large cats with their teeth bared, more than the lions and tigers she remembered from school; fish in fantastical shapes and animals with their legs bent every which way as they scrabbled along the sea bed amongst brightly colored corals.

"I wish I could have gone with you," Maria whispered as she closed the book, the cover scratched through all the years, moving from home to home to boarding school and finally to Salzburg. "You must have seen so much." She set it on her table—wound the knob on his watch—then tugged the chain on the lamp to plunge her little room into darkness. Will I get to, someday? she asked herself as she dragged her sheet and quilt up to her chin. Just like you did, too, Georg? Turning onto her side, Maria shoved her hands beneath her cheek as she closed her eyes. What have you been doing since we said goodbye? I hope something that makes you smile a little, and laugh like you did on Sunday, even if it was just for a few moments. You always seem so...unhappy. And I don't understand why.

In the few days since they wandered about the gardens, her mind turned to Georg whenever nothing else demanded her attention. Whether it was her students sitting for a test, trying to keep her balance as the bus jostled her back and forth over the rough streets, or even her break for lunch as most of the children vanished down the streets to find their own meals at home...somehow, he was always there. Even at night when she closed her eyes.

"Well, I'm paying for it now," Maria said, pulling her fraying chemise down over her shoulders and breasts—she had laid it over the back of her chair when she undressed the night before—almost catching one of her arms on the strap. She hardly had it straightened before she yanked open her wardrobe, not even glancing through her dresses before she stripped the first one she caught hold of from its hanger. Mottled grey, the bottom hem a little uneven, and a small stain she hadn't noticed before, just beneath the seam at the base of the bodice. How long has it been there? she asked herself, smoothing out one or two creases. Did I let it sit too long before I hung it up to dry?

"Oh, it doesn't matter." Her fingers jumped over one of the buttons in the middle of her back. "No one else will see it if I haven't since I laundered it last. And I hardly look at things like that myself!"

There were only a few things she needed to force into her bag. She grabbed her students' papers in handfuls, cringing as she crumpled them in her palm. But she had to collect everything quickly, what else was there to do? Dragging her cleanest shoes from her wardrobe as well, still wishing she was permitted to wear her heavier boots, Maria shoved one foot in—then pulled it back out again, rushing back to the scratched doors of the wardrobe, pulling it open to find a clean pair of thick stockings at the bottom. "I suppose Mother wouldn't be too surprised that I almost forget," she whispered as she sat on her worn mattress again, drawing up one foot—then the other—to pull the thick woolen socks up along her calves, almost to her knees.

But at least that should be all of it, she reminded herself as she knotted the laces on her shoes, almost catching one of her fingers as she pulled the cords tight against her ankles then threw her coat across her back. Go!

Maria almost tumbled down the stairs, trying not to think about how late it was, fastening coat buttons as she ran. Would the bus be on time? How late was she for the one she usually boarded when she missed the one she really wanted? Do I— Maria shoved her hand into her coat's worn pocket as she reached the last few of the stairs leading into the foyer—the kitchen to one side, the door to the other—searching for how many coins she had. A handful. Enough for the journey to the school, but maybe not enough for the journey back. And certainly not enough for lunch when her students were gone. "I must have something to take," she said as she stumbled into the tiny kitchen.

There were a few things in the section of the larder assigned to her: another chunk of hard cheese, a quarter head of wilting cabbage, a few apples, and some almonds, a rare treat at the greengrocer's she preferred. It would have to do, Maria decided, reaching for an apple, and the glass jar of nuts, pouring a few into her palm and hardly chewing them as she tore off the front tip of the hard cheese wedge. It was already blooming white around the edges, but she simply brushed a few of the dusty bits aside before dropping it in along with everything else. Her stomach was already growling at the thought of her lunch. It will have to be enough.

Turning around again—one hurried step after another heading for the worn doorframe that led to the hall and the equally battered front door—Maria wasn't even looking up, her eyes only on the floor— And then, her nose and face squashed into something hard, buried beneath some thick, dark fabric as a button pressed into her cheek. Not again, she thought, the flush already burning beneath her skin.

"I'm so sorry!" she murmured after a second, finally finding a step back, still staring at what must be a tall man's chest.

"Well, don't apologize for not tripping over your own feet."

"Just…" Maria finally changed a glance up. Yes, very tall, towering nearly a foot over her, dark brown eyes and a dusty blond beard that grew back into cropped hair of the same shade. "I'm late for work, and the buses haven't always been running on time this winter—well, I wouldn't really know which one to take instead—"

"And do you always talk nonsense like this?"

"—but, I remember the other ones I could take in Vienna, I just don't know Salzburg that well yet—"

"Clearly not."

Wasn't Georg like this, that first night? Maria clutched her bag closer beneath her arm, almost feeling for her coat's final button at the waist. But he just kept teasing me about being a child—at least he can't do that, he can't be that much older than me. I know that now, after Sunday afternoon—

"Fräulein?" Maria shook her head, almost stumbling back. She was already lost. But it's only been a few days, why should I care so much? Why should he care like that? "Is something the matter?"

She shook her head again. "No, but I have to go—"

His hand caught her free palm, holding her back even as she tried to pull her fingers free from his stronger grasp. "Go where...but I don't think I know your name."

She swallowed heavily. I said the exact same thing to him, to Georg. "...Maria."

"And where do you need to go so quickly?"

"My classroom." Why are you suddenly asking so many questions when I don't even know you—but I suppose I did the same to you. "Please, I'm late often enough."

"Then go. We can always talk again later."

Maria didn't hesitate, nearly running down that short hallway and pulling the door open to the bright morning light. Even with the sunshine teasing her though washroom window, a rolling front of clouds was drifting from the west, already grey and darkening, ready wet the city yet again. At least I won't have to worry while I wait for...But looking up at the stand just a few feet from her threshold, she sighed.

It was just as Maria had feared, the final bus that would leave her at the rough and dipped stone steps in front of the school at all on time had already pulled away, halfway down the road. It wasn't even the one she wanted, merely the one she always boarded when she was late. "Well, I can't just stand here," she murmured, stamping her shoes against the stones, a few of the most stubborn weeds she remembered from the autumn already sprouting between the cracks despite the cold. There was no chance of catching up with it at the next stop, but if she waited where she normally did..."I'm sure he has someplace that he'll want to be shortly."

She took her first few steps along the sidewalk, glancing up now and again for the trees she recognized around the stop following hers. But before even the spring buds were blossoming at the very ends of the branches—mostly green, a few tinged with pink—they mostly looked the same. But after a few minutes, happily away from whomever that man was (she hadn't been interested in even asking his name), she found the bench marked with the next stop on the route. There was only an elderly woman—swathed in a long dark coat and scarf tied over her hair—waiting as Maria took a seat alongside her, brushing away a final little patch of morning dew with her bare hand. As usual, she had forgotten her gloves in morning rush.

When the little brown bus arrived, wearing a few splashes of mud thanks to the brief rainstorm the previous evening, it was emptier than usual. Maria gleefully claimed her seat beside the window, her thick socks thankfully too long for the ancient fabric to scratch at the back of her legs. Perhaps it was all the empty seats or a few new cracks in the road with the waxing and waning of winter—or maybe this driver simply had a heavier foot on the accelerator—but Maria found herself tossed to and fro a little more than she was accustomed. Once or twice, the back of her head grazed the window, and another time, her forehead scraped against the metal frame just in front of her. Maybe there's something to be said for a full bus, she thought, scrubbing gently at would probably be a new bruise in a few hours.

Not even the tardiest students were milling around the ancient school doors or chasing one another in front of the rounded steps. As she pushed the door open just far enough to slip through before the hinges squealed, Maria dreaded seeing the hands clicking by on the black-rimmed yellowed clock over the front doors as she glanced over her shoulder. Twenty minutes after the start of the school day. One of the foul words she remembered her uncle yelling at her slipped from her mouth, though thankfully far quieter than she had ever heard from him the moment she returned from an afternoon's play in one of Vienna's parks. "Forgive me, Father," she whispered, now half-running through the hall, already struggling to open her coat buttons, her bag slipping from her shoulder to the crook of her elbow. Her shoe slipped on one of the tiles just in front of her own classroom—the stone smoothed by all the years of little children's feet running here and there, and still damp from those who attended now—but Maria caught the handle, twisting the knob as she righted herself.

Two dozen or so children's faces turned up from a lesson she had prepared the previous afternoon. Well, if she was honest, she had prepared it twice. Not even her lesson planning had been enough to distract her from her constant question since Sunday afternoon: "What are you doing now, Georg?"

Her students already had their books open, pens and papers beside, though the scratching of the pens had stopped with the squeak of the door. Their eyes were on her for a moment before returning to the front of the room: her blackboard—only half-erased from the previous afternoon—and...

Sat behind her desk, a few books of his own open next to the papers she had marked yesterday afternoon before leaving for the evening...the headmaster who had reluctantly hired her at the beginning of previous term. Somehow, he was entirely out of place: grey and white speckled hair long receded from his forehead, black jacket with a few splashes of chalk at the wrists and even one at the knot in his tie. His hands were folded together, a pen tucked between his fingers—tap tap tapping away. A few whispers scurried around the room as he turned his gaze to her, a tight smile beneath his grey mustache. "Very kind of you to join us," he said softly, almost gently. Then, back to the students who were once again silent: "Children?"

"Good morning, Fräulein Maria." It was the same greeting they gave her each morning, so familiar it was almost rehearsed.

"Good morning, children," she said softly, taking a few slow steps to her desk, settling her rumpled bag on the ground at its side. Normally, she placed it at the very edge so she could reach for any papers easily, but with the headmaster already beginning her children's day...oh, she dare not!

"I see you had some lessons for them here rather than bringing them with you. Thank you for that." He pushed the chair back—Maria refused to cringe at the scraping, though a hiss rang through the cluster of desks, mostly little girls, one or two covering their ears. "On with your lessons, children, while I have a few moments with your Fräulein." He held one hand out for the door that still stood open, and Maria didn't even bother to wait, hating the echo of each footstep following her, not even shaking at the snap of the door.

Maria didn't wait for him to demand she turn to face him, only struggling to catch his gaze rather than tracing her way from Vienna to Salzburg across the hallway's chipped tiles: from her foster mother's house and every trinket of the empire; to her aunt and uncle's home with its anger and fear; to boarding school and the freedom to finally remember love; and finally to Salzburg, a fresh chance for her own life. And you might lose it all because you can't wake up on time and keep your head on your shoulders.

"Fräulein," he began, voice low and his hands folded behind his back, "I've had to talk to you about this before. Though fortunately, you've always managed to be in your classroom before the last of your students."

"Yes, sir."

Was he smiling at her? Oh, she hated when he did that. "Was something last night...that distracting?"

The flush was instant, burning deeply under her skin. She wasn't that foolish. "It wasn't anything like that, I just lost track of the time reading one of my father's old books. Well, I wasn't really reading it, I don't know the language—"

The headmaster shook his head, and Maria didn't bother to finish. "I'm afraid it doesn't quite matter, Fräulein. I can't have you this late another time. I'm sure I can find another young woman who wouldn't need to write a basic spelling assignment twice." His eyes ran over her, head to toe, from her lumpy knot of hair now askew against the back of her head to her coat with the last button still fastened against her waist. "And next week, I do hope you'll smarten your appearance."

With a shaky breath, Maria nodded, her fingers twisted into her dress to stop their trembling. "I understand, sir."

Maria typically looked forward to the bus ride home, this one far fuller than the journey to her school. Especially on a Friday afternoon, when she had a little time of her own to look forward to. The possibility of a concert, no matter how far from the stage she had to sit to enjoy it—or even an opera if she had enough money in her pocket—once or twice even a ride in the funicular as far up the Untersberg as it would go! Salzburg remained a new world for her, one she hadn't had enough time to explore in her short months here.

Not this weekend, she thought, finally taking her first steps down to the road, still a few blocks from her boarding house. If the headmaster is serious...Her chest tightened. What would I do then? He was hardly willing to hire me at all, he was so worried because I had just left teacher's college! She drew her bag closer, the thick pile of papers creasing against her side. I only hope I can mark them all tonight and tomorrow. I don't want to have to worry about any of it on Sunday.

The tightness lessened as she walked down the street, hardly avoiding the rest of the crowd: bumping her elbow against one young man here, an older woman there. At least she had Sunday to look forward to. She'd hardly arrived home last Sunday—quickly peeling off her coat and dress, dusting away the snow from its backside and hanging it to dry before it had a chance to wrinkle—before she was already looking forward to this weekend. I just feel you'll still have so many interesting things to say.

Her belly was growling, still angry over her meager lunch, as she stepped into the greengrocer's shop, bell snapping against the top of the door harsher than usual. There wasn't much new to see since her last visit: the same cabbages and apples—though half the cabbages were red this afternoon—onions and turnips. Hard cheeses and dried sausages. The preserves and nuts she could rarely afford. There was hardly anything left in her little corner of the larder. If she could afford a few onions, an extra apple or two—maybe a few of the pears with some bruises—perhaps one of those delicious jars of preserves or even a small pot of mustard!...Anything would stretch what little she had.

Wandering around the stacks of carrots and potatoes, the noise from her stomach was only louder. At least it's the weekend, I might have time to cook a small batch of soup. She already had a basket in her hand, the bent handles tucked into her elbow, and two red apples speckled with orange nestled in the corner when she remembered the small handful of coins in her pocket. There had been enough for her bus ride home today, and counting them out between her fingers now, barely enough to fill her palm, just enough for her to reach her classroom Monday morning. (At least that afternoon, the headmaster would hand all of the staff their weekly pay.)

"You'll have to manage," she whispered, returning the apples to the pile and the basket to the stack, ignoring the shopkeeper's narrowed eyes following her every step as she opened his front door, leaving without a single purchase in her hands. "It won't be the first time you've managed with cheese sandwiches."

Turning the final corner—home only half a block or so to go—Maria tightened her arms across her chest against another fresh wind. At least it won't be hard to focus on my work tonight, if it's going to turn so chilly. And a sandwich will be quick to make. But with the air biting at her face, she hurried a little more than usual, almost throwing herself through the front door; at least inside, it was just cold rather than beginning to turn painful.

Before even bothering to climb the stairs to her room to set down her bag and strip off her coat, Maria tucked into the kitchen, the rumbling in her stomach louder than ever. It wouldn't be much more than she'd managed for lunch, but at least it was something now, rather than a few hours ago. Dropping her bag to the stained floor before pushing her sleeves up, she found the worn knife and board, as always sat along the last chunks of staling bread. It cracked before it sliced, throwing a spray dry crumbs across the board and even along the front of her coat as she carved off two thick slices, leaving the final heel. Not that anyone but me would probably want it. Reaching for the remaining wedge of cheese she had, Maria sliced it as thinly as possible; there was just enough to cover each round of bread.

That jam would have been lovely, she thought, not even bothering with a plate this afternoon. Just something else. Maybe someone will bring back pastries that didn't—

"Hello again." Maria's eyes rose up to that same face, a moment of confusion sending her pulse racing: the same dark eyes and dusty blond hair and beard peering down at her from so far away, someone she had never seen until this morning. "If it weren't so silly, I'd say you look like you'd seen a ghost."

"What?" Her hands were almost shaking, though she supposed it was from hunger rather than surprise.

"You're pale as one."

"Just...I really am so sorry about this morning. I was in such a hurry." Oh, what was she saying as she bent down for her bag, tossing it over her shoulder with one hand and clutching her small dinner in the other. "The headmaster is already upset over how often I'm barely there when my students arrive."

"But why are you so worried now?"

"Well..." She needed another breath. "I can't have you this late another time. I'm sure I can find another young woman who wouldn't need to write a basic spelling assignment twice." "I just never seem to see what's in front of me."

He shrugged as he reached into one of the pockets inside his coat. "Neither of us were watching where we were going."

"No." You would say I never really do, Georg, I know that much.

"But…" He was rubbing something between his palms, just a little bit of dark red visible above his thumbs, green beneath his smallest fingers. "Here."

Maria's eyebrows knitted together. Green and red? "What is it?"

"I thought you might like this." It was a rose in his hand, the petals deep red and shiny, the stem a deep forest green, matte and almost flat, a few thorns jutting out here and there. But there was no blood—surely a thorn would do that—and he was holding it out to her.

"What?"

"Take it, Maria."

Maria slowly reached out for it. It was creamy, almost soft, and climbing along the stem with her fingers, she ran her thumb over one of the petals. Slippery, a fabric she knew she must have felt before, but she couldn't quite remember. "Wherever did you get it..." Oh, it wasn't quite polite, was it? "I'm sorry, I was in too much of a rush this morning to ask your name."

"Lukas. And I made it today, when I had some spare time from cleaning the shop."

"You did?"

He nodded. "It's what I do, at least now. A few years ago, my father found me an apprenticeship in a florist's shop, and since nothing is growing through the winter, they're teaching me how they make the small ones out of scrap silk." He rubbed his fingers together, and for a moment, Maria thought she saw a few scars she wore on her own when she forgot where both her fingers and needles were as she sat down to sew or mend a dress. "Before they allow me to waste too much of anything."

Turning the blossom toward her, Maria almost gasped. Deep in the middle, the most densely packed petals were a pale pink, leaving the outer petals that dark red, almost scarlet. "It's so pretty."

"There wasn't enough red left for all of it—"

"But don't roses come in all other colors, too?"

"Yes, they've cut me up often enough."

"Yellow would have been lovely as well."

"But the red…" If she didn't know it was impossible, Maria would have thought he wasn't even blinking as he stared down at her. "It's just so classic, isn't it?" She nodded. "It's not a tulip, after all, I really shouldn't have made it purple or blue for you."

"I'll have to find some money for you," Maria whispered. From where...she didn't know; she'd heard her meager coins jangling in her pocket the entire day. "It must have been expensive."

Lukas shook his head. "It's a gift, Maria. And I don't think they would want to sell it anyway. The petals aren't quite sewn on as they should be." Reaching for it again, he pulled back one of the outer petals, revealing a few tiny patches of the scratched kitchen floor through a thin gap, only a few red threads holding it to the rest of the rose. "They're still teaching me."

"After years?"

He laughed quietly. "Most winters, I learned the shape of every nook and cranny with a dust rag."

"But you took it for me."

"Why should that matter?"

"But it wasn't yours to give."

"They'll never miss it, they never have." He nodded at the staircase. "I have a pile of even more useless ones I'm trying to repair upstairs."

"I…"

"What is it?"

"I think I have to go," Maria whispered, letting her arm away from her body just enough to drop the silk flower in amongst her students' papers. "I have a lot of marking and planning to do tonight and tomorrow, before Sunday."

He laughed again. "There's no school on Sundays, Maria."

"I know that!" she said quickly before dropping her eyes again. "I just have somewhere I have to be."

It was a rare Sunday morning for Maria. Rather than dashing into mass with only a few minutes to spare, she found herself with her pick of the seats in the pews. Just like Friday, the encroaching dawn hadn't woken her; rather, this morning, it was her stomach that had found her sitting up twice through the night, her palm pressed against her belly. It was the only sound she heard, the growl from the hunger. It even drowned out the snoring from one of her newest neighbors. Worse yet was the pain, almost forcing acid up into the back of her throat. After the second time she rolled onto her stomach to stifle the ache, she finally forced herself to her feet and into the washroom, gulping down handful after handful of cold water...and curled into a huddled ball on the cool tile, the pain stronger than ever as she waited for the morning to come.

O O O

If Maria had known where Johanna's room was, she would have knocked on her door Saturday evening, asking for...she didn't even know what she would have begged for. Anything, she supposed.

The last of the almonds had taken the edge off her hunger Saturday morning, and the stack of papers to mark and lessons to set had distracted her from lunchtime. She read each of her students' answers at least twice before correcting any that were incorrect, wary of a visit from the headmaster on Monday—or maybe Thursday, if he was waiting to see if she had forgotten his lecture—looking over her shoulder after Friday. And her lesson plans for the week were more ambitious than ever. "I'll see that he knows I'm more than able. As long as the children cooperate."

By the time she sat up from her desk—finally straightening her back against her wooden chair as her spine cracked—her stomach reminded her of the late hour and the need for dinner. Not that there were still many options, just that apple and cabbage. She could always cook the cabbage—at least that would fill her up—but the time...Maria shivered. With all that time for it to soften...would she see him again? The silk rose he had given her was lovely—it sat at the edge of her table alongside some of her father's books—but his eyes...They had never left her, not even yesterday morning, when he had never even seen her once before. As though he was staring right into her. Now it wasn't just hunger bothering her stomach. I don't understand, I really don't.

Surely she could afford something from the shop! From what she saw through that tiny window, the sun was still high enough in the sky for most shops to be open on a Saturday. Standing with another crack of her back, Maria reached for her father's pocket watch, sat on her bedside table as always. Opening the cover...she sighed. Well past five. It's early closing every Saturday, she reminded herself, snapping it closed and twisting the knob to wind it again. Not even time to buy a small piece of cheese. I should at least done that yesterday.

To pass the time, Maria tucked herself into bed, her knees curled up against her stomach, lazily paging through another of her father's books, this one in French. "At least I can read some of it, Father," she whispered, skipping over one word here, a phrase there. But in the end, she still didn't quite understand what was happening. A king—a witch—a young girl, the witch determined to keep the king and the girl apart. Or at least it was what she thought with her muddled French. "I'm sure you'd be unhappy I can't read more," she said, closing the book on her finger and pressing her cheek into her scratchy pillow…

When she opened her eyes again, even the faint light from her washroom was gone—the very edge of the window she could see pitch black—leaving only the light from her bedside lamp to brighten the room. Reaching for her father's watch again, she groaned, turning on her back and pressing her arm over her eyes. Nearly nine. At least the kitchen might be empty at this hour.

Maria pushed the sheet and quilt aside as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, the cold of the wooden floor bleeding through her woolen socks. She didn't bother to tidy her sheets, though after sleeping the late afternoon and early evening away, she would be lucky to get any rest tonight. She slipped on one boot after the other, laces left untied as she smoothed the wrinkles from her dress. (Her foster mother's admonitions were never too far from her mind.) There was no use in it; there might be only the nurses leaving for overnight shifts and it was too early for the bakers tasked with ensuring Salzburg had its fresh bread in the morning.

She took the stairs carefully, mindful of the laces dancing around the soles of her shoes. Once, she reached for the wall, just catching herself before she pitched forward, just loosening the lace from beneath the other boot before she tumbled. "That's all I need," she whispered, "someone finding me with a broken arm at the bottom of the stairs." Once as a child was enough.

Happily, the kitchen was empty; unhappily, the dish of communal butter that sat beside the bread the landlord provided was empty, and the last of the cabbage on her shelf was even more wilted than ever. I wish I could afford my own, she thought, reaching for the apple—itself a little soft—and the final heel of stale bread from the board, untouched since yesterday afternoon. I suppose everyone else can afford better.

The first bite left a spray of crumbs along the bodice of her dress, just as it had covered her coat the night before. She sighed, chewing the tough crust as best she could for a moment before turning around, taking the stairs up as carefully as she had down. At least it slowed her; it would have to be enough, hopefully just until sometime tomorrow. Even with all the shops closed, surely she could find something at a café, even if she found herself walking the entire way to her school the following day. After all, the walk to mass and then to the gardens wasn't all that bad, and journey to school wasn't much longer.

Most Saturday evenings, when her work for the day was complete—stacked on her desk, ready to be packed into her bag Sunday night ahead of Monday's school day—Maria nestled herself on her bed, her guitar in her hands. With the lower curve of the wooden body in her lap and the strings beneath her fingers...the world around her disappeared. Her perpetual lateness, worries over her rent, the memories bubbling up from the past she only wanted to forget: it all fell away.

But tonight—her crust of bread and mealy apple finally finished at her desk, the last bits of juice licked from her fingers—she hardly managed a shower before she pulled her nightgown over her head and crawled under her quilt. Worn, still hungry, and wishing she was tired. (Maria would never admit how many pastries eventually danced through her dreams until her stomach woke her at last.)

O O O

But for now, a few minutes after noon on Sunday, she was waiting, still wondering, just as she had last week. Really, why were you here with me then, Georg? Why would you be here again, even if you said...She blushed. "I like talking with you, I think, even if I don't quite understand why."

"Well, at least I understand why I like talking to you," Maria whispered, her arms crossed across her stomach against the ache of the hunger, coughing once or twice in the cool air. It sent another round of pain through her abdomen, and she bit her lip to stop a low groan. Even the Eucharist had almost set her stomach aflame.

Which way did you come from last week? She couldn't quite remember, she had been too worried—anxious, almost—that she was waiting for naught. She turned around, wandering the same path she already had ten times—or was it fifteen?—between those two mythological heroes she still didn't know, the crunch of the gravel under her boots at least something to replace the rumbling in her belly. At least I can wear my boots today, and I remembered my gloves.

She spun around again, glancing down at her footprints in pebbles for a moment, and then up—just a few feet from Georg, falling back on her heels for a moment. He looked just as before: dark hair combed down, blue eyes bright, skin a little tanner than she remembered, long coat perfectly pressed, tie neatly knotted...all of him changing that growling in her stomach to those little flutters that she didn't quite understand. "Oh." Her voice was fainter than she had hoped it would be—and then there was the pain in her belly again, pushing aside the excitement that had spurred her forward all of yesterday. "Hello."

"It's your turn to have a face like low tide, Fräulein."

Georg didn't quite understand, if he was honest. That first afternoon, even in the fading daylight, he immediately saw just how small she was: her thin legs, the outline of the skinny arms he could see under her loose coat sleeves, how easily he was able to haul her to her feet with a single hand, almost pulling her into him. He had expected to need more of his strength. But in the bright afternoon sunlight—the same dark coat and dress from last Sunday, still perfect and without a crease—her face was paler than he remembered even last week and dark circles marred the skin beneath her eyes. And with her arms across her stomach, her waist appeared even smaller than before.

"It's not that—"

"Then what?"

"I have a lot on my mind."

"You're not the only one," Georg said softly. After Tuesday night in Elsa's bed, Georg hadn't been able to face it—or her—Wednesday night, instead demanding one of the maids make up one of the many guest rooms, retiring to spend the evening on his own, cigarette after cigarette crushed into one of the crystal ashtrays Elsa placed in at least one corner of every room, a few glasses of brandy a substitute for a proper meal. With every breath out—every swirl of smoke wafting from his mouth—he heard those little moans again, for what Elsa must have felt was merely the required time. She hadn't tried to hold him against her even after he pulled away from her; unless her belly was just beginning to fully swell with another baby, Agathe almost refused to let him go. Nothing like you—

"Hmm?"

Georg had almost forgotten the tiny girl beside him, his mind wandering through Vienna and the past. "Nothing to worry about." He waved her forward along the path into the gardens themselves. "But what of it for you?"

Already, Maria was struggling to keep pace. Her entire body ached after a night curled up against the hunger in her stomach, and if she hadn't been so eager to see Georg again, she would be in her bed again, nightgown and dressing gown on with every blanket in her room drawn tight around her, hoping the warmth would help her forget the pain. "Somehow, I'm just late for everything."

He turned back to her, pausing to allow her to catch pace. Was she walking slower than he remembered from last Sunday? "Everything?"

"Getting up to arrive at my classroom on time, whenever I have enough money see a concert even if it's from the very back row, sometimes even mass. I couldn't even make it to the greengrocer's before early closing, yesterday. It's been staying light so much longer already, I forgot how late it was."

"You always seem to be on time here."

Her face was already hot. "Well, it's not that far from church. It's why I've always loved coming here. But...I've never been so late as I was Friday. The headmaster had to start my lessons for me, I was running so far behind."

Georg laughed, a little louder than he meant. "I can't say I've ever done the same. In the navy, no matter what rank...we were woken well before you could ever imagine."

"Rank?"

"Even the captains were...up with the rest of us." Christ, why is it so hard to just say it?

At least she smiled, rather than walking away. "Then it's a good thing they didn't take women in the navy."

He breathed a little easier as they began to walk along the path again, finally reaching the first square, another dozen or so people milling around on the late winter morning, bundled in coats and scarves and gloves as well. Maybe I think you wouldn't talk so freely, Maria, and it wouldn't be so simple. And it would all be like it is in Vienna. "Discipline, Fräulein. It might be something you need."

"You know that for me?"

"If it would keep you on time instead of late for everything, as you said, then yes."

She rubbed at the back of her neck, buried beneath the same thick scarf he remembered from last Sunday. Something bothering you, Fräulein?"I was on time—like you were—not too long ago."

"And what is so different now?"

There were her eyes on the gravel path again, her paces suddenly more careful: one foot deliberately in front of the other. "My uncle, he…"

"What?"

Her face came up again, wearing a tight smile he didn't quite recognize. "It doesn't really matter. Not anymore."

The next few minutes passed in silence, Georg occasionally slowing as he realized Maria had fallen behind. Once or twice, he paused again, turning to see how far back she was. Each time, she had simply stopped, her arms tight around her middle, eyes clenched. If Georg was closer, he was sure he would hear her hiss. He took a few steps back, almost wondering if she was about to fall forward. "Maria—"

Her eyes snapped open, a new flush on her face. She peeled her arms from her stomach, standing up a little straighter. She shook her head quickly. "Please, I'm fine—"

"No, you're not," he said, catching one of her arms. "There's a bench just there, sit down—"

"No, I already told you, I'm fine!"

"Then here, if you insist on being foolish." He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, pulling her just a little closer. Even through her woolen coat, he could feel the faint warmth of her body almost pressed against his, probably all she had to give— Stop. "At least you won't fall down, now."

He led her farther along the way, pointing out the statues surrounding the fountain in the midst of the main square, all telling stories she had never found in any of her father's books. In her foster mother's house, those same stories had seen her reprimanded with a few harsh words; in her uncle's home, any fantastical tales escaping from her mouth only resulted in a sharp swat across her backside if she was lucky. Though they continued forward along the main path, Georg pointed toward a second fountain along another way. "Pegasus."

"And what is that?" Maria asked, not quite able to resist Georg pulling her forward. Even at a distance, she could see the wings carved out of stone, atop...well, she wasn't sure.

"Nothing that really matters."

"That's what you think—"

"And you're really not going anywhere without me, Maria. Not today."

The rest of the path disappeared beneath their feet, bringing them to the empty garden before them. At least I never brought you here, he thought, finally passing through the iron gates that separated the rose garden from the rest of the grounds. I couldn't stand to be here with her if I had. Beautiful and radiant...and shuttered.

"I don't know why you're so eager to be back here," Georg muttered, holding her a little closer as they turned the first corner into the mess of thorny stems and stalks. Since he had pulled her to him as they walked along the main path—why that itself was so pleasant, he didn't quite understand—Georg had felt her steps twist here and there in the gravel more than once. And whenever the conversation between them paused for a moment—just the chatter of other visitors to fill the silence—he saw her face drawn in a faint grimace.

"Georg, wait!"

"What is it now"

"Don't you think they'll be so pretty in the summer?" Maria asked softly, reaching for one of the bushes—

Georg slapped her hand back, and she snapped her face toward him. "You trip over your own feet often enough, don't cut yourself as well."

"I'm wearing gloves!"

"And I'm surprised you haven't stumbled in the gravel, even with me holding you upright."

"But won't they all be lovely when they're in bloom?"

Georg shrugged. "I suppose, but one rose is like any other."

"You don't really think that, do you?"

He pulled her farther into the blocks of barren bushes, almost a little maze of empty branches. Just like the trees lining the city streets, the tiny buds were waking, not certain if it was time or if they should continue to sleep. "They'll look the same as—last year's. Next year's as well."

Maria shook her hand from his arm, already pitching forward for a moment. "And the same as the ones in Vienna or the one in my room, I suppose you'll say next."

"You're talking nonsense, Maria, it's too early for roses to bloom. By months."

She laughed. It really is a lovely sound, Georg thought."Oh, it's not real—"

"—and it doesn't sound like the sort of thing your father sent you from the other end of the earth."

"He didn't. One of my neighbors, he works in a shop that makes silk flowers, at least in the winter, he said." Her hands were suddenly twisted together at her waist. "He—he thought I might like it."

Georg's stomach tightened. "Did he?"

"Yes," Maria said quietly, her knot of hair bouncing against her neck and scarf as she nodded. "I hadn't met him until the end of the week—almost the way I met you."

"I see," he said quickly, hands shoved into either coat pocket. He didn't even look back as he strode ahead, his breathing suddenly faster.

"What is it?" Maria stumbled after him, one of her toes catching in the gravel, almost sending her forward onto her face. "Please, I can't go that fast!"

Georg paused, letting out a deep sigh, finally turning around, walking back to her and seizing her hand, bringing her back to her feet proper. "Forgive me, Maria," he said softly. "I was a little—lost, for a moment, thinking about last year." Under last summer's clear sky, those had been the last happy days with Agathe. Walking hand in hand around the lake—past the hedges at the edge of the main grounds where the wildflowers tangled with the rougher greenery—whispering something meaningless into her ear and reveling in her laughter...You have to stay there.

But I don't understand, he thought, spinning her around, back toward the entrance to the gardens. It's only a simple gift from a neighbor, and why should you care at all? You're hardly even friends.

Why is your hand so tight, Georg? Maria wondered. Beneath her thin leather gloves, she knew the tips of her fingers and her nails were turning white. "Is—that all?" she asked, still half stumbling along at his side.

"This afternoon, yes, I think."

"But—"

"Wouldn't you say that, until just now, it's all been lovely?" Maria nodded, struggling not to wince as one—then two—of her fingers began to go numb. She twisted her hand in his, almost squirming to pull it free, but his grip only strengthened. "So let's remember it that way."

He refused to let go of her hand all the way back to the road: through the squares, back past the fountains and statues and brown grass waiting for spring, just like the roses behind them. Once or twice, he almost dragged her feet through the gravel, surely not noticing the dust her boots kicked up around her dress and against the bottom hem of his right trouser leg. "But…" There was the stitch in her side again, the ache deep in her stomach demanding she take a deep breath. "I don't know why you're..." And another, though this one was shallower as the knot grew. "...so bothered."

"Don't ask me."

"But...Georg—"

"Next week, Maria?"

Already standing between those two ancient gods overlooking the entrance—the gateway from the noise and bustle of a Salzburg street to the peace and quiet of the past, no matter what her history books in secondary school and college claimed...Last week, all the magic had broken here, but today, it was already gone— "Yes." The word tumbled out of her mouth before she could bite it back. Maybe next week could be so lovely as before? You would say I still have my head in the clouds, wouldn't you, Mother?

"So until then," Georg said quietly, something in his chest...he didn't quite know. "Try not to be so late, again," he added, turning away from her. His hands in his pockets again, he made his way back down the street. Back to the empty flat he needed: no children and no memories, just...her clinging to him, now. Christ, I can't have you with me all this time. Just today, next Sunday, next Sunday, until I can face them all again. But...you wouldn't say anything was wrong, would you? He paused, ignoring the sea of people still swirling around him, finally turning back.

She was still standing, but her back was pressed against one of the pillars, beneath those statues watching over the entrance. Her arms were clutched against her stomach again, her eyes closed, chin almost pressed down to her neck. God, he thought, already doubling back toward her before he realized, who taught you that you could never say anything? Even a few feet away, he finally heard her hiss, her arms even tighter around her belly.

His finger beneath her chin, Georg drew up her face and those same bright blue eyes that insisted on haunting him: at first slack, they were suddenly blown wide, just as they had been the first night he beheld her. "Georg—"

"Are you well, Fräulein?"

She pushed his hand away, spinning away from him as she nodded. "Yes, I'm fine—"

He spun her back to him, her shoulders shivering under his palms. "You look like you might fall over if there's a strong breeze."

"I didn't sleep well."

Wrapping his hand around her jaw, Georg pulled her gaze back. "And I know the look of someone ravenous." Letting her go, he dug his hand into his pocket, finding one—two—three banknotes. Catching one of her hands and opening it with his free one, he shoved the crinkled schillings into her palm, folding her fingers back over them. "Get yourself something to eat, Maria."

"But—"

"I'd rather you be able to stand on your feet next week."

He didn't say anything else before turning away again, wandering through the same crowd that had never stopped moving. "What…" Maria murmured, falling back against the stone, her back already aching. I don't understand. Why would you just walk away like that?

She peeled open the bundle of notes Georg had given her: three five schilling notes*. Just spreading them apart in her hand, her fingers trembled. She didn't remember the last time she had seen so much money at once, not even on Monday afternoons when the headmaster made his rounds with weekly wages. You carry that much money in your pocket, Georg? She looked up, just watching his back half disappear as other men and women crossed the road to and fro, turning the corner onto the next street without even looking back at her. "Who...who are you?"

Alone in his flat—winter coat and suit jacket stripped away—Georg couldn't quite sit down for at least half an hour, his third cigarette burning down between his fingers as he walked from one end of the front room to the other. Past his chair and table, by the gramophone that never made a single sound, then back again, just listening to the burning coming ever closer to his fingertips. I don't understand, he thought, another swirl of smoke leaving his nostrils. One mention of...Another deep breath brought that familiar burn to his lungs. His stomach had tightened, his nails—even well trimmed—had threatened to cut into his palm just at the mention of that young man. And what would she think of Elsa?

"That doesn't matter, you're just a distraction, Maria," he muttered, stubbing the last of the embers into the ashtray alongside. "That's all you're meant to be." Then why won't you leave my head? Are you here to punish me for beginning to silence my children the way someone must have silenced you? He shuddered, at last collapsing into his chair. Someday. You begged me, and...someday. But not now, I already begged you to set me free. Won't you let me have something...someone fresh?

Closing his eyes, Georg couldn't resist allowing his mind to drift. Her pale skin and fair hair, blue eyes and pink lips...He could imagine her face so close to his, close enough that he could catch her bottom lip between his own: soft, sweet, delicious. What would her skin taste like if he could find the base of her neck, feeling her pulse beneath his own mouth? Vibrant and new, just like all those years ago? You'll forgive me someday, Maria, I see it in your eyes, for today and everything you don't know about.

"Just one more," he murmured, flicking the wheel on his lighter and touching it to the tip of his final cigarette. If he closed his eyes one more time, he could still see and feel her hand on his arm, almost protesting every offer of help. Any other woman in Salzburg—to say nothing of Vienna—would happily cling to his arm, no protest, no complaint. "You really are a rare bird, Maria, aren't you, darling?" Another exhale of smoke. And you're not going to let me go, are you? At least not quite yet.

* I'm currently too lazy to run the math on the inflation rates. Just going on the data from my grandfather about CCC in the US, same time frame: regular guys were paid US$5 a week; as a foreman, he got US$30.

A/N: Once again, I've never been to Austria and it's amazingly difficult to find overhead pictures of the Mirabell Gardens.