Chapter 13: Virtues

A few hours later

8 x 4. 32

9 x 3. 27

8 x 7…

Sonja bit her lip, the tip of her pencil pressing harder against her paper. I never remember any of the 7s, she thought, one of her feet swinging forward, nearly catching against one of the legs of her desk. Her other tucked beneath her bottom, she pushed herself forward, leaning over her assignment. It was a variety of problems on the paper Fräulein Maria had handed them after they returned from lunch, waving them back into their seats even as a few of the boys were still chewing on pears or cheese they hadn't quite finished on the walk back. Most of them had gone home for midday, but Sonja and one of the other girls ate at their desks as they did each day, just like Fräulein Maria.

Her eyes darted off to one side. Next to her, Thomas—a tall boy a year older than her, always dressed in clothes a little nicer than anyone else's—had his primer in his hand, his mathematics assignment pushed off to the side, his pencil on top. Now her gaze went the other way along the row of desks: Mara, a girl her age, scribbling away on something else, moving from the end of one line to the start of the next. She can't be doing maths that fast, Sonja thought, the dulled tip of her pencil back beside that last problem.

8 times 5 is 40, that's easy enough. To the left of the equation in the blank column where Fräulein Maria often corrected her work in red pencil, she wrote that number. And 7 is 2 more than 5. She added that just below the first. But now what is 8 2s? Sometimes, at home around old table in the small cottage her parents rented from one of the large farms nearby, Sonja counted each number out on her fingers, counting them up aloud, at least if her father wasn't around to snap for her to be quiet. But I don't think Fräulein Maria will want me to do it that—

Something hard poked between her shoulders—then her head fell against the top of her back, a dull pain at the base of her skull. She twisted around, the toe of her shoe caught in the bend of her knee, probably smearing some mud from the misty morning onto her dress. The short boy behind her was grinning, the tail end of one of her braids still caught in his fist. "What?" she hissed.

"Aren't you done yet?" he whispered with another yank on her braid. "You're the only one who can't do maths fast!"

Sonja pulled her head forward, but his hand was still too tight, right on the band at the end of her hair. "Leave me alone!"

"Or what?"

"I—I'll tell—"

"Fräulein Maria?" Her classmate—she didn't remember his name, but his face was smudged with a little dirt, probably from the walk back to school—gave another harsh tug on her plait.

"Yes!"

"You'll have to get her to look this way first!" He threw her braid back to her, the thick rope of hair slapping against her back.

"No!" Sonja snatched up her work, the page crumpling as her pencil almost flew into the aisle next to her. Her leather shoe scratched at the back of her calf as she pulled it from her seat and stumbled forward, her knee dipping for a moment as the pins and needles surged from her heel to her toes.

Wherever she looked, her classmates had already pushed their mathematics papers aside: they either had thin primers with worn covers and broken spines balanced on the front edge of their desks or penmanship worksheets tugged closer, pencils hurrying across their assignments and probably covering the side of their hands with grey dust the way hers always was. She swallowed over a fresh lump in her throat, skipping forward a step or two when another boy snatched at her long dark braids. Why do they always do that to me? she wondered, finally ahead of the last desks, mostly boys and girls even younger than her. At least Fräulein Maria will know something.

Her teacher's desk usually had a few books piled here and there or stacks of papers they had handed in either just that morning, sometimes the day before. Sonja always dreaded receiving her own back; her parents demanded to see whatever she had in her small pack whenever she returned home—at least whenever her father was back from the fields and machinery he looked after for someone in Vienna—and more often than not, her marks weren't quite what he wanted, even if they were better than a few months before. She slumped forward for a moment, then took another step forward, around the corner of the scratched desk at the front of the classroom and just to the side. "Fräulein Maria?"

Fräulein Maria's elbow was propped on a stack of papers Sonja could just see if she stood up on her toes, her nose and eyes as high in the air as she could manage. Her chin was in her palm, her face turned toward the far wall, the fingers of her other hand knotted in her hair. Sonja always loved Fräulein Maria's hair, it was always so fair and pretty, especially when she thought about her own. "Fräulein Maria?" She still said nothing, didn't even move, so Sonja reached up for the slightly loose sleeve of her dress, tugging it down from her teacher's wrist. "Fräulein?"

"Oh!" Maria's face fell from her hand, her elbow slipping on the stack of papers as well, and she just caught herself with her other hand before she crashed against the top of her desk. "Sonja! I'm sorry. Did you need something?"

Sonja nodded, her braids dancing around either side of her face. "It's still—this, Fräulein." She lifted the wrinkled paper—but pulled it back to unfold corners.

Maria took it, settling it on the papers she had been marking a few minutes earlier and smoothing the worst of the crinkles away. "Your maths?" The little girl nodded again. "But you've been doing so well on your homework."

"But it takes so long!"

"Have you been doing your multiplication the way I taught you? At least until you know the other way by heart?"

Sonja nodded again, her foot still throbbing with the pins and needles even as she stamped it against the nicked tile. "It helps, but they're already done. I know they're all reading."

"Aren't you doing them faster?"

"Yes."

"You almost always have the right answer, and I see you're only using what I showed you for a few numbers, now."

"But I should have them done faster!" Sonja said quickly, a little louder than she meant to, and she shuffled backward from Fräulein Maria's desk as she clasped her hands behind her back. "Mother always tells me that when I'm doing my chores."

"Mine, too," Maria murmured, waving the little girl back toward her desk.There's nothing more I can do.So close, the grey circles beneath her dark eyes were sharp, the lines of her jaw and nose harsher than she remembered even a week ago. "Or at least I think she would have done."

"Maria, how long do you need to sweep the floor?"

Aunt Hannah was long gone, the weekly trip to her mother's house—Maria's foster mother, Elisabeth—and the first long shopping trip begun. "No one here to listen to you, girl," he'd said that the first time Aunt Hannah had started down the lane and she began to shiver as his hand refused to stay on her shoulder and danced down the back of her wrinkled dress instead.

She scraped the pilling broom beneath the legs of one empty chair then stumbled a few steps along the stained tile to the next, this time half crouching to scrape a few broken and dried leaves out into her pan. Sat in the next chair, her uncle peered down at her, white china cup in his hand filled with coffee, the heavier coat her aunt had ironed for him the evening before hanging on the back rung. "It's hardly a palace kitchen, even if you always have your head in those clouds. You know you can't go to school until everything is seen to."

Turning away from him—toward the stove and the chipped porcelain sink—Maria swept another few specks of dust into the pan. It wasn't much, but in the few short months living with her aunt and uncle after her foster mother couldn't afford her without the money from her father, she had learned not to ignore anything on the floor. "But I'll be late if I take much—"

"Then you'll have to wake up earlier, even if your father and my mother-in-law never made sure you did. Come here, girl." Her fingers tightened on the rough wooden broom handle, a thin sliver biting her skin.

"I'm almost done, Uncle Josef—"

"Come here!" he snapped, his cup slamming against the wooden table.

Maria let the broom fall against the counter, hands at her waist behind her back, wishing once again that her foster mother had had a few more days to mend her dress. It was still tattered at the bottom hem after her latest tussle with a tree in one of the parks with a classmate at the end of the school year. Her own little set of sewing needles and thread had been packed in her stained carpetbag alongside her dresses and the little trinkets from the world over, but there hadn't quite been time to take care of it.

His other hand was under her chin, forcing her face up toward his, elongated and gently yellowed fingernails scratching at her cheeks. He pulled her closer, the scent of coffee wafting from his mouth beneath the hints of a mustache he hadn't shaved, fair and reddish just like the tuft of hair falling across his forehead. "A little earlier, girl, and you can see to yourself as well." His dark brown eyes fell down along her body, and Maria's face burned red. "You'll be such a pretty girl when you aren't wearing kitchen rags."

After that, Maria always had the kitchen swept and tidied long before her uncle took his seat at the head of the table. If Aunt Hannah was preparing for her shopping, it was already too late.

"Fräulein?"

Maria shivered, blinking once—then again—in the sharp electric lights danging from the dimpled ceiling. Sometimes, the beams almost pulsed, as though the wires she passed each day couldn't quite cope with the winds that occasionally whipped through the narrow streets outside, March determined to make itself known. "I'm sorry, Sonja," she said softly, releasing a slow breath as she smiled. You're in Salzburg, not Vienna, she reminded herself. "But is it still just the larger numbers?"

"Yes. Why isn't it easier yet?"

"It will be soon. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even in a week." She reached out one hand, and Sonja offered up her paper, yanking her arm back quickly. Maria just saw the yellow and blue specks beneath the end of the girl's short sleeve, what must be a little bruise vanishing as quickly as it appeared. "Sonja?"

"Yes, Fräulein?"

Maria took the girl's hand, the little fingers even smaller than they looked. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, long braids bouncing as she tugged her hand away, though she held both of her arms closer than she had before. "It's the 7s, Fräulein. I never remember them."

"It's just time, Sonja, that's all, but—"

"I want to be reading!"

Sitting back in her chair, Maria sighed, the waistband of her dress a little tighter after her lunch of a cheese sandwich with a few slices of dried meat alongside. Well, after several days of lunches like that, really. If she thought about it for too long, Maria was still a little embarrassed at how much money Georg had forced into her palm two—no, three!—weeks ago, still confused that he could hand so many schillings to someone he hardly knew. Nearly all of the banknotes he had refused to take back were rolled into a tiny bundle, tucked into the thumb of one of the gloves she had set aside for the year at the top corner of her wardrobe, right next to...I'll find some way to be rid of it. I don't like having it at all, either of them. At least they would be safe there, just waiting for her to parcel them out little by little.

"I like stories, too, Sonja," she said quietly, the lingering taste of her lunch rising into the back of her mouth. "If I have time at home, I like to read the books my father—gave me." She hadn't thought about him for a spell, Maria realized. Not when she paged through his books in the last moments before she yanked the chain on her lamp to plunge her world into darkness and dreams—it was still a little too cold to do anything but hope her arm would stretch far enough without having to leave the warmth of her blankets. Not when she wrote her foster mother a letter, far too long in the making. Not even when she strummed the strings on her guitar, wandering from one note to another, no tune in mind. It was always him instead, those bright blue eyes peering at her from the dark corners of her tiny room, glancing this way and that, almost right through—

"What is it, Fräulein Maria?"

She swallowed, the tang of the cured meat vanishing. Later, she told herself, a hand falling onto her stack of assignments to mark. It was another stack of spelling papers, plain white paper filled with square penciled letters and words missing consonants here and umlauts there, e and i inverted every other word where they belonged. "Nothing, Sonja, I was just thinking about some—thing. But patience is a virtue, remember that."

"What is a...virtue?"

"Something that makes you better."

"But I don't want—"

"You're nearly done. Just leave your stories for once you're done."

The little girl scowled, something she had likely picked up from her father, Maria decided, another flash of that mark on her arm appearing as Sonja scratched at something, probably a spider bite, given how their eight-legged friends liked to wander indoors this time of year. What would you even say? Maria asked herself as the girl hurried along the little row of desks, both arms folded tight across her chest, her paper probably folded into her dress. Would you bring it up to the headmaster? He would just remind you that little girls need to know their place—and probably mean you as well! She reached for her red pencil, already sharpened nearly to the nub. No one ever listens if children complain, and it's not your place to know. You'll just be told to think of something more cheerful, something happier.

The flush was already rising on her cheeks, though after nearly two weeks, it was likely invisible to anyone else, except...Well, not now, Maria thought, the tiny pencil slipping through her fingers. I haven't been doing much work at home, why start here.

It was happening more and more often, her mind drifting back to Georg and that Sunday afternoon. Never that morning: hymns and incense, prayer and communion, the priest and deacon and God. Always that afternoon: her heavy coat and scarf loosened, gloves in her pocket in the warmer afternoon. Well, not just because of growing heat as the sun glared down through a last few clouds. The brief brush of his fingers against hers as he refused to take back that money, wondering how his hands would feel if he wasn't merely steadying her as she tripped yet again—

Your papers, she told herself, licking her lips as she leaned forward. She circled two words and then a third before turning it over, the beginning of a new stack of marked assignments. The next didn't have any red when she flipped it, nor did the next. On the next, she circled a few letters scrawled in childish cursive, the loops missing on a p here and there, but not quite enough to hold her attention. Red pencil snapping back and forth between the first two fingers of her right hand, Maria dropped her chin into her left, her elbow squashing another pile of homework that needed correcting. I think you would be so warm, Georg, she thought, biting at the very end of her marking pencil. Or at least, you are when I let my imagination wander.

As each evening wore on, melting into night even as the little patch of daylight she had from her tiny washroom window lingered a little longer, the beginning of spring a day closer, Maria sometimes didn't dare close her eyes. If her dreams that Sunday night had left her breathless and embarrassed alone in her room, now even her daydreams were enough to make her wonder if she should detour to church each afternoon, kneel in her half of the confessional booth and whisper the same little sins. The crooked smile he wore occasionally—a little more often last Sunday afternoon—always leaving her a little bereft, just wanting something more, something she didn't quite know—

Oh, my face is red again, I know it is! More than once, curled in her bed with only her father's book of fairy tales for company, strange talking animals and princes in disguise weren't enough to quell the heat in her belly, sometimes creeping agonizingly lower, ready to burn through the rest of her body. Just this last Sunday, she had been missing him though it had only been a week—and only a few weeks since he fairly demanded to join her own little afternoon wanderings through gardens, imagining how the barren shrubs would blossom so soon! But for a moment, a little too early bundle herself into her blankets for the night and too late to do much else apart from read unless she wanted to scribble down a few more lesson plans for the coming week, his calloused fingers and clean nails had snagged in her hair again. Her braid for the night was suddenly gone, all of her long hair loose around her face—tousled and cascading over her shoulders, down her bare chest and between her breasts, her long nightgown gone and leaving her naked for Georg's eyes but for her blankets. Her breaths lay strangled in the base of her throat, hoarse and scratchy, exactly like the sheet under her backside and the one knotted around her legs, the very tops of her thighs tingling and burning with what waited just beyond what she had ever known...Just like her chest did with the shame as her body jerked, the once more ragged tail of her braid caught in the bend of her elbow as her nightgown clung to the fresh layer of sweat coating her arms and legs. It was all the same as when she laid down with that book: her wardrobe just cracked open, the never ending papers to mark taunting her from her desk, her guitar leaning against her cupboard.

It was just a daydream, Maria knew that each time her mind drifted, wondering where he was now—what he was doing that couldn't be ignored—what they might be talking about if it was the two of them walking along one of Salzburg's streets. But last night, somehow it had all turned so real. For a brief moment—not even long enough that she could mistake it for a real dream—everything disappeared, even the sheets scratching at her small patches of exposed skin. They were suddenly smooth, nearly silky, like the finest dress she had ever worn as the priest offered her the first taste of the Eucharist, the wine and bread both pressed to her trembling mouth. Then the pillow beneath her head, it was lighter than the one she had slept on since her first night with a room of her own, almost feathery. And her room and all its shadows, it was gone—but she couldn't quite see anything else, not really. It was a little too dark—she was too tired—just...She had had to blink, peering up into the night. Not something, someone: tall, clad in a loose coat or dressing gown. There was a screech, somewhere far away, but whoever it was didn't flinch and for a single second, Maria thought she saw blue eyes gazing back at her beneath the dark brows she remembered so well. "Georg?" His hand was almost on her shoulder, his fingers splayed wide, almost like he was searching for her. "What are—"

A crash rang out in her classroom, and Maria's head came up, her eyes running from the far wall that butted up against the street to the one that opened onto the hall. Just rows and columns of desks, her students with either a book or pencil and paper to hand. Like you should, she told herself with another lick of her lips, the skin peeling a little in the cold winter air. At least…"You know what you're asking for, don't you?"

She touched the tip of her fingers to her mouth. I don't know what it would be like, Georg, even if I—was asking you for that. Her pulse was rising again, skipping along as her breathing grew shallow. She shook her head, hoping his gaze would vanish, though if the hours as she struggled to sleep over the last two weeks were a guide, there was no hope. But maybe, this Sunday...

Patience, Maria thought, her finger already caught in a loose tendril of hair just below her ear. I suppose I should have some of my own, just like other...virtues. But why is Sunday so far away? Why are you so far away?


Sunday

Georg leaned back, one of his palms catching on the back of the stone bench, gritty and scratchy against his skin. Probably an hour ago, he had finally undone the buttons of his overcoat as they wandered the paths of the gardens again, the early March afternoon sun a bit too warm to keep it tight around his chest. Or perhaps, it was just easier now, his guard released just a little the girl beside him. Woman, he reminded himself, his eyes darting toward her. She wore neither scarf nor gloves today, her fingers knitted together in her lap. You can't quite call her a girl if you won't stop thinking about her like a woman. Just as the last time he had seen her, Maria's hair was growing looser and wilder as the minutes passed, her hands occasionally tugging a strand from the bun. Lovely.

Since returning to Salzburg and his barren flat early Friday morning, Georg had been waiting for this morning, impatiently watching the hours tick away whether he was wandering one of the streets or paging through the newspaper he purchased from the young boy on the corner. Each time he ventured from those four walls, his gaze always flicked down the road, remembering their previous farewell: her hands caught on his lapels, her lips so close and tempting, nearly begging him to dare taste her them—the rest of her mouth if she would let him. I think you would, darling, Georg thought, his eyes now raking over her chest, the bulk of her coat still hiding the little curves he had only seen once across that café table. Not even earlier today had been enough to expose her to him. You do wear your heart on your sleeve when you forget yourself. And if you let me do that with you…

Perhaps he should be embarrassed by the thoughts filling his mind, or at least wary of being so close to her. Yesterday morning, he had woken to an outstretched arm, fingers splayed open and almost clawing at the wrinkled sheet beside him. There was hardly space in his bed for him to stretch as he woke, the last lingering moments of sleep heavy and stiff in his joints whether he woke before the sun or not, but...he almost smelled that same cheap soap that had filled his nostrils and head two weeks ago. Something else, Georg told himself as he drew his hand back and fold his own fingers together. More thoughts like that...She was so close, if he just reached out—slid his hand out, really, nothing more..."You'll have to forgive me, Maria, but I don't quite understand what you love about this place so much," he said softly, his hand instead rising to his collar, his thumb catching beneath the starched fabric to pull it away from his neck. It might not be that warm, but a thin film of perspiration lay between his skin and shirt, far worse at the base of his skull.

She glanced his way, that dying knot of hair bouncing as it always seemed to on these afternoons he spent with her. "What isn't to like?"

Georg shifted toward her, wishing he hadn't said anything. Though it's true. "I didn't say that and you know it, darling."

Maria stiffened, her eyes back on her hands atop her skirt, a few red stains from her marking pencil still smeared across her little finger. Despite the scrubbing as she showered the night before, they had refused to budge, her skin just raw and swollen for nearly an hour as the warmth and damp finally receded. At least Georg didn't seem to have noticed, her face would be red as well if he had.I heard what you said, Georg, don't think I didn't—and I heard you almost say it before."It's like the stories in my father's books, I told you that—"

"You've told me many things, Fräulein."

"I like remembering those and...him."

"But you grew up in Vienna, you've seen fine parks and gardens."

Maria shook her head, reaching up for her bun again, ready to yank the band away and just let it all loose. "Not really."

"There are plenty—"

"Not where I was."

He didn't have an answer for her, and Georg almost wished he hadn't spoken Unlike their last meeting just at the entrance to the gardens—if he had dragged her away for a meal that day, he had insisted on paying for a coffee today, even if they both drank it a little faster than they normally would. He hadn't arrived before her, this afternoon, instead his increasingly fast steps along the cobblestone leading him to her already standing beside the stone pillars. Not by too long, he knew that, the faint red in her cheeks and along her chin all he needed to see to know that she had hurried—perhaps almost run!—along the way. Are you too worried that I won't be here? Even her coat and the very bottom hem of her skirt had been mussed, as though she had only taken a few minutes to catch her breath, not had another second to settle anything else. If you only knew, Maria, I don't think you would crave this—

"Georg?"

"Yes?"

"You've gone quiet. What is it?"

"I suppose that's another apology I'll have to give you, that's all."

She shook her head again, lifting one hand to push aside some of the hair dancing around her neck. God, it would feel so soft—"You shouldn't apologize if you don't know."

He pushed his shoulders forward, tugging his coat with him as his shirt shifted around his waist like his belt suddenly hung a little open. "Perhaps," he said quietly, a strange rush of warmth surging to very tips of his fingers. You would hate me for it, darling. I don't know if I can care, not right now."But I think I shall have to say farewell for today, Maria."

"Do you have to?"

Georg fastened the button of his overcoat right at his waist as he stood, then reached for the one above to pull both halves of his winter coat closer and keep out the air, a little cooler as the distance between them increased. "I'm afraid—" He stopped—both his words and his hands as her fingers tightened around his, pulling him closer, almost back down to her. She wasn't even looking at him, her face still gazing straight forward—down. "Maria—"

"Please not yet." Was that her thumb running along the back of his hand? It had to be, though she must not know it. Soft, just like her other fingers. Would they actually have those little indents he had imagined? He didn't know why he thought they must be there, she had only spoken of playing her guitar once, perhaps twice. "The last two weeks were so long," she went on, now certainly drawing him closer. "I...I missed you."

Oh, why did you have to say it? Maria asked herself, the burn searing her cheeks again. Do you think he wouldn't know after...Her heart was pounding again, just like it did in the darkness of her little room each night as she struggled to sleep. Her hands caught on his jacket—desperate to keep him from walking away, back into his life and away from hers...Her fingers tightened around his now, one of her raw nails almost snagging the cuff of his shirt, just peeking from beneath the hem of both his suit and overcoat. She twisted her grip higher, her fingers now almost buried beneath his sleeve. "I…" Maria swallowed, her throat almost closing for a moment. "I don't know what..." Oh, I can't say any more, Georg, I really can't.

Georg sighed, tugging his fingers from hers, the side of his hand grazing her cheek. So warm, Maria, why do I think all of you would be so delightful. He caught her chin, turning it up to him, blue eyes glistening under those long lashes. "So did I," he murmured, her smooth skin almost slipping from his grasp.

"What did—"

Georg shook his head—let his hand fall to his side next to his pocket, bulging with his packet of cigarettes and lighter, the gloves he had still yet to wear today both stuffed into the other. "It doesn't matter." He needed to be gone—here. Not even Vienna would have been good enough, not with the memories stinking up the city from one street to the next, old and brand new. You wouldn't be here would you, Elsa, he thought, fairly begging me to stay for just another few minutes, would you? It's too far from your townhouse and parties, too cold and blustery for your fancy dresses. But you, Maria...And her pink mouth, delicate and no doubt untouched—unknown—by any other man—

Other? Georg stiffened, now offering his bare hand down to Maria. She took it, though she stood with her own strength—pushing herself to her feet rather than pulling herself up against his arm. What, do you think you'll be the first? She couldn't quite understand, Georg knew, no matter what she thought she had asked for two weeks ago. You don't understand quite how tempting you are, darling. Her hand was free, now, brushing the dust of the stone bench away from her skirt: the little folds she must have sewn in herself, probably tighter the closer to her waist. Turning away, he ran his free hand through his hair. "But we'll talk while I walk you—"

"Won't you show me?"

And now right back to her. "I beg your pardon?"

"Salzburg. You must know it better than I do."

"Maria—"

"Please?" she pleaded, her hand tightening on his again, like no fresh words had passed between them. "It's lovely, but I mostly know here and my school—"

"And the music hall?" Georg took a first step down the path—toward the ancient gods guarding the gravel and brambles from the roads and cars just outside—gently pulling her along.

Maria nodded, hoping he didn't hear her shoes scuffle in the pebbles. "And not much else, even after so many months. Just the streets in between."

"It took me much longer than that to see all the corners I know."

A hop—skip—a little jump along over the worst of the rocks and she caught up with him, their hands almost swinging in time between them, though if Georg glanced down, Maria knew he would slap her hand away. I don't understand why, but I know you would."So then we'll be the same."

"Well…" His gaze ranked down over her again. God, he had to stop wondering about everything that hid beneath the layers she wrapped around herself. What would she feel—"If you'd like." The words burst from his mouth before he could bite them back. "But I do have to take you home now."

"I can on my own—"

"But you don't want to, do you?"

Maria didn't answer.

They walked together for a few minutes, not really speaking except for when Georg told Maria to turn this way or that, through the front half of the gardens and the gates, back into the noise and Sunday bustle of Salzburg. She still had his hand clasped in hers, hard, though every time his eyes wandered down to her face, the red immediately spread across her skin. At least I'm not embarrassed, Georg thought, just shifting his feet a little closer, her skirt rustling so close to his trouser, once or twice, it tangled around his leg.

It was only a few blocks out of the quiet and fantasies of the gardens when it happened, and maybe he shouldn't have been surprised. A turn from one of the newer streets—smoother beneath the shoe—onto one of the older, a ruckus of stones and pebbles hardly mixed with cement, something biting her shoe and pulling her forward. Of course, Georg thought, bending forward with her, his hands around her little waist to drag her back— God, she was so stiff, in his arms, a little protest bursting from her mouth until he felt her breath run, her chest shivering under his touch.

Georg couldn't hold in his laughter as they paused, dragging her closer—back right against him.You can't be doing it...Her body rolled back into his. Not incidentally, not anymore. With her back against his chest, Maria's face turned back to his for a second—then back to the world before her, as if she could hide the darkening flush across her skin. "I must admit, you have me thinking…"

"Yes?"

He couldn't stop himself, pinching at her waist, a little squeal escaping her mouth as she twisted, struggling to turn around to him as he held her a few inches back. "Either you've never walked in your life or you enjoy having me catch you."

Maria shook her head, that hair bouncing against her either side of her face as it always did. "No—"

His hands tightened around her stomach—his breath suddenly right at the back of her ear, the fresh rush of air, stopping whatever complaint she had been about to—but oh, god, it didn't matter, the little mounds of her buttocks crushed against his hips, ready to distract him again. "And…" Georg's next breath was laden with the scent of whatever she used to scrub her hair, something cheap enough that the scent lingered longer than it should. "And either way, you're blushing again."

Maria wrenched herself from his grasp—at least for a moment, his hands not quite leaving from her waist. She almost laughed, his fingers rolling against her belly as they pulled her back. You'll do this if I don't complain, won't you? she thought, not caring about the dark lines through his face as she glanced back. I...A fresh breath caught in her throat, his blue eyes narrowed and staring straight at her...She had to look away, her entire body shivering under his hands.

"A question for you, Maria, it's been bothering me." Georg cleared his throat as they both took a step forward, a little gap finally opening between them. "Though if you won't tell me that, I don't think you'll want to answer."

"I might!" she snapped, though her weak shove against his grasp did nothing.

"What on earth were you doing out on a January evening—two of them—not wearing thick stockings and boots?"

"Georg!"

"Show me you'll answer," he murmured, the memories flooding back. God, it really had been a sight, her long thin legs laid half bare against the stones. He licked the inside of his mouth, a sudden rush of spit rising. You really don't know what you did to me, do you, even if you were the one who wouldn't walk away. "You might be new to Salzburg if you want me to show you as much of it as possible, but you know an Austrian winter."

"I know I told you, the music distracted me that afternoon. It wasn't so cold when I left—and I was mostly inside. I didn't want to be burning up."

"You would worry after one of your students like that, wouldn't you?"

Maria nodded, squirming away from his hand on her waist as she twisted back to face him. "But why are you worrying over me like that, I'm not a child—I've told you that. And I'm certainly not one of yours!"

"Most definitely not, I know all…" You really had to say it, didn't you? he thought, his fingers already tearing at his collar—his tie—everything tightening around his neck. "I know all of my children."

"What?"

Even you, Gretl, even if sometimes I don't think I could tell you from Marta when she was your age. "Nothing. It doesn't matter, darling." Someday.

Maria clapped her hands together behind her back, the side of her hand slightly raw where she had scrubbed at the pencil stains on her skin. The weather might be warmer than the last time she walked these streets with him, but it was still dry enough for the handwashings of the night before to chafe at the little dips between her knuckles. "But it does," she said quietly, her gaze down to the ground—staring at the gap between their feet—"it's upsetting you. It must matter somehow."

He almost laughed, and her eyes came up again, narrowing as though she was annoyed, her brows coming above her nose.Examining me now, Fräulein? Georg wondered, the constriction at the base of his throat beginning to fade. Why do I think it's already a little late for that? Staring at me like there's something to change? He shook his head roughly—for himself rather than her—one hand reaching out to encourage her to go on forward. "If you need to know, I'll tell you."

"I don't know if you would."

"Don't you?" The right time and moment, darling...I don't know if I could quite say "no" to anything.

Their steps fell in line again, the street ahead of them vanishing in silence. Maria's gaze wandered up to Georg every now and then, but his own was straight ahead, the only sign that he even remembered she was walking beside him was his arm around her waist again just once to pull her out of the path of a man and woman with three small children between them. Wouldn't it be nice? she thought, a little sweat brewing in the curve of her spine. Or wouldn't it have been lovely? Sometimes, I think I might change anything for that. She glanced up again—blushing as their eyes met—and instantly looking away. What were we talking about before? Don't worry about it, you know you shouldn't—he won't tell you anything he doesn't want to, you just told him that. But...say something, Maria, you don't know the next time you'll have like this. "The other part of it, I think—"

"Part of what?" God, what had it been? Even a few seconds thinking about the children had muddled his mind.

The next intersection came up in front of them, Maria not bothering to slow even as another family crossed their path, Georg's hand doing it for her. He had to feel her shivering under his touch—had to know she wasn't that silly. "You asked me why I wasn't—" On the other side of the crossroad, his hand fell away, and Maria sighed, but it was time to just go on. "Why I wasn't wearing boots and…"

"You're with me, Maria, not whomever it was who trod on you."

"I know you're not my uncle—"

"So don't talk to me like you might talk to him."

She skittered a few steps forward, his presence suddenly stifling—uncomfortable. But I have to answer, don't I, or you won't ask me anything else again."If I thought it would be so long, I would have worn my boots, but thick stockings are so difficult to wash, Georg. Or maybe it's just that they take so long to dry." He snorted, and maybe if it was someone else—somewhere else—she might think of it differently. "What is it?"

"It's just a silly thing to say, that's all."

"No, not when I have to wash them all on my own! I'm sure you don't."

"You're right, I don't." He dragged her a little closer, out of the path of another family—this time with four children shuffling between the mother and father. You shouldn't talk about that, Maria, I can smell the washing powder on you.

The silence buried them again, though Georg's hand didn't retreat from her waist this time. It couldn't be that much farther, he was certain even if he hadn't seen her all the way to the boarding house she called home the last time they walked this way together. A twist here—a turn there—

God, where was it, that awful sound, almost a screeching through the lane. His face turned this way and that, nose and cheeks wrinkling as he finally found the little cluster of men and instruments. Brown pants ending at their knees, almost black leather straps to hold the lederhosen over their shoulders, every one of them with clean faces in the late afternoon air. Smiling. There was a violin in one set of hands—something larger in another, Georg didn't quite remember which one it was—and a guitar in yet another man's grasp. The notes were rising and falling this way and that, a happy melody for a moment and then something darker dropping into the cobblestones—

"You like that, don't you?"

His eyes snapped to her, the flush he remembered a few minutes ago gone. "What?"

"That music." Maria pulled herself from his grasp, her hands clasped together again as she twirled another step forward, her skirt snapping back around her legs—two and then three more. "I know you said you didn't, but I think you do."

"Do you?"

Maria nodded, another spin on her own bringing her back to him. "Well, you're still standing there—you haven't left it behind." A little smile as she shoved a lock of hair away from her face, a few quicker breaths coursing between her lips. "Or me for enjoying it so much."

Georg slipped his arm around her shoulder, just beneath another few wisps of her fair hair. "I think it would take more than that, darling," he whispered against the side of her skull, his lips just grazing her head, a first true taste of that lingering shampoo powder flooding his nose and mouth. Why do I think your mouth would be far nicer? Georg thought. He suddenly wanted to fold his hand around her jaw—force her face up to his—and pull her into him. Let her own taste flood him—something sweet, he already knew it for sure—devour her through the coffee no doubt clinging to her from just an hour earlier. "Later," he muttered, pulling himself from her, his hand falling from her far arm and down her side, dawdling at the small of her back before he finally tucked it into his side again.

"Did you say something?" Maria asked. Even though her eyes were still on the little cluster of musicians across the street, she felt Georg's lingering on her. Why can't I...Oh, sometimes, I can hardly breathe when you're this close. And I think I felt—I know what I felt...Just thinking of it left her face bright red, her stomach twisting and wishing she hadn't poured quite so much sugar into her cup of coffee.

"Nothing important."

"Well, I don't—" Maria bit down on her tongue, hard. One time, can't you? Just once can't you think before you say something?

"Yes?"

She turned to him. "Can't I say the same thing, now?"

"I think you can do anything you want, darling." The word slipped from his mouth easier and faster. "Just like I think you would be dancing to that music if I wasn't here to hold you still."

A small smile spread across her face. "I do like to dance," she said softly, loosening a button on her coat. It was too warm to keep it so close, though her dark dress beneath probably would pull in just as much heat from the sun.

"Somehow, I'm not surprised."

"It was one of my uncles—"

"I didn't think you liked him."

"I had more than one, Georg. Or I suppose I didn't, but I always called them—"

"And now you can't quite stop talking like you normally can't." Georg slid his arm around her waist, pulling her hard against him—and for a second, the harsh dip of her waist caught the curve of his own hip, all distance between them vanishing. "But…" Better than the quiet. "As you were."

"One of my other uncles taught me to dance when I was young." She glanced up, the smile a little larger even as she pushed one of those inevitable chunks of hair from her face. "He would always pay attention to me when he was visiting the house—and he always let let me choose what record to play on the gramophone, even though my foster mother only had a few on the shelf. And…" A little laugh as she leaned into him, the hollow of her cheek catching on his shoulder. "He never complained when I stood on his toes. I did so many times."

"Most children do."

"Did you?"

"Probably, but it was long ago," Georg murmured, once again tightening his hold on her. Had it been his mother, or a patient maid when he was a short boy watching from behind the curtains when he peered at the bejeweled women waltzing through the ballroom at one of the parties through the curtains?

"How long ago?"

"Are you asking how old I am?"

"No, but…" Her face was gone from his shoulder, though Georg couldn't decide where he thought her eyes had gone. "You seem to complain about how young I am, even though I'm not—"

"You aren't even twenty, Maria—"

"So let me know I'm wrong!"

"More than forty, then. You must already know that—you know I was a sailor in the war."

"I do, but…"

"But?" Georg curled his hand around her waist; even if she wanted to squirm away, there was nowhere to go.

"Maybe it doesn't matter."

"Everyone else will say it does." Christ, why couldn't he control his mouth around her! Sometimes, the words just tumbled off his tongue, not a moment's thought given. "But…" He loosened his hand at her waist, though her body didn't budge from his. "But maybe I'll see you dance some day."

It wouldn't be in a ballroom, would it, darling? he thought, finally pulling her along and away from the little chorus across the way. Somehow, I don't think you would ever feel at home there. And wherever it is, I don't think you would stand on my toes. He stood a little straighter, one of Maria's feet stumbling against his. Or maybe you would, I think it's a little too much of a habit of yours. The timbre of the strings lessened, melting into the Sunday afternoon bustle. Georg tugged her a little closer, the lapels of his coat swinging from his shoulders and the fabric rustling between them, a little thicker than the coat she wore. Even after this afternoon—just a few minutes, really—he never wanted her tiny body to disappear. There's a happiness in you, Maria, he thought, another Salzburg street disappearing beneath their feet. A few cars made their way past them, no fabric tops rolled down for a breath of fresh air as his arm tightened a little about Maria's waist. Well, at least they aren't down here. I suppose they can do whatever they like with the car around the house.

God, it never really faded, not even when he only needed some peace and quiet. He hadn't considered the children in the last few days, but he still remembered their faces as they finally stood in their confused line, Liesl steering her younger siblings into order with scuffling and shuffled shoes as the confused middle-aged woman's eyes raked over them. Frau Wilmer...Wimner...something like that, but it didn't really matter, did it? Just like the children—Frau Schmidt and Franz, the rest of the household—she was there, not here. His hand fell lower along Maria's side, the tips of his fingers digging into her coat and the blue dress he had come to know well. And now his eyes fell down onto her again, just catching the top of her head and the mussed bun above her neck. I'd rather spend the week with you, darling, he thought, his lips grazing her hair again, the broken strands fluffed and tousled by the faint breeze.

They were all he had brought with him from Aigen but for the clothes on his back and the money in his pockets: the letters and telegrams that had been waiting for him there and the ones he had brought along and not quite answered. The letter from his mother-in-law, her handwriting as always a little more precise than the one before as though her grief was somehow a little easier with each passing day. The reminder letters from banks across Europe he had hardly glanced through in his study: an account needing his signature for a new investment, another asking for permission to adjust how much of Agathe's trust remained in stocks and how much was held in savings. An ancient letter from Max simply saying hello and wondering when he would next be in town. To foot the bill for your fancier dinners? Georg wondered. And Elsa...well, her telegram at least needed an answer, one that he could jot down to send via cable in a few moments. Far faster than the letter he would have to write to his mother-in-law either this evening or tomorrow— His mouth curled in a small frown, a faint taste of bile rising in his chest. I know you meant well, but that doesn't change it. God, even the sun was too warm and blinding now, even when he just wanted it to burn away the life he had once lived.

It couldn't be that much farther, either to the boarding house Maria called home—he hadn't quite seen her to the door two weeks ago, instantly missing the hold of her hands on his coat that afternoon—or his own flat. Aigen had loomed a little too large, a little too soon, the house and all of its inhabitants: whether it was the children mobile on their own feet or sequestered in a nursery, the employees waiting to be hired, or the ghosts of love and life past that haunted him even more when he was there. Both the tasks before him and the dread of the memories had grown as weights on his shoulders, sending him to the tiny flat he preferred to seek solace in his misery and the vices that soothed every nerve when it was all too much.

"Georg?"

"Hmm?" Was that the side of her face pressed into his chest? He thought so, though he didn't dare look down again as they crossed the next street.

"What is it now?"

"Now?"

"You're always thinking about things in the past"—yes, she had crushed herself into him as fully as she could—"and...oh, I just wish you didn't. Or at least not so often."

"Do you?" He loosened his hand on her, a sudden waft of air rushing between them.

"It always seems to follow you, especially whenever you have to leave. You've never looked happy when you say you need to be somewhere."

"I don't think I said anything like that."

"But you're thinking about it, I know you are."

"You know my every thought already?"

Maria took a deep breath. Cologne clung to Georg, she had thought so even over the last weeks she had thought about him in the long evenings, something stronger than the washing powder he used. But I'm sure he doesn't, Maria thought, the thick fabric of his coat scratching at her cheek. You probably send it out to be done instead of scrubbing it yourself in your bathtub when you have to.

"Maria?"

We must be so close, Maria knew, folding her hands into one another as she peeled herself from him, just keeping up with the gentle pace Georg had set. It just seems so different, if it's my home rather than a street or the gardens or a café. At least if I'm at home, maybe I'll be—safe from it, whatever it is. Lifting one hand, she caught her fingers in one of the chunks of hair hanging loose from the base of her head. But I suppose I do know what it is that's frightening—

"I think it's just another block, darling." Georg tugged her hand from her hair, stepping closer to her as yet another fellow pedestrian passed by, not even bothering to dart around the pair of them—

"Oh!" Maria hissed, that same man's shoulder slapping into the crook of her elbow, nearly shoving her into Georg's chest.

A faint swell of laughter rumbled against her, his breath warm on her cheek as he leaned down closer to her face. His hand was suddenly on her waist again, holding her to him, a chill running from the top of her head and her mussed hair to her turned up socks at the top of her boots. "At least I don't have to pick you up from the ground," he murmured, his lips brushing her cheek. No, it must have just been his breath—but it was so warm, even though her skin was already burning enough. "That's—God reminding me it's time to let you go. But I'll see you this week?"

"This week?"

That same touch again—oh, it must be his mouth, just a faint lingering kiss against her face for another moment until he pulled back. But his eyes, they were so large—so bright—so vibrant in the growing gloom of the late winter afternoon. "You asked me to show you Salzburg, didn't you?" Maria nodded, though she was almost afraid to move—but of what…? "There's far more to the city than the gardens on a Sunday afternoon, you said so yourself. Thursday, darling?" His palm tightened on the dip of her back, fingers and knuckles knotted in the folds of her heavy coat, far too large for her, though Georg assumed she must have attempted to bring the lines closer. Or perhaps not: it left her body the same mystery hidden under the fabric and seams, the fading memories of her calves and thighs hardly gleaming in his mind any longer. Or perhaps you're finally letting yourself want them again. "I suppose I'll just—"

"Thursday?" she whispered.

So close, the fine cracks across her lips were sharp and raw, clear to see for Georg and no doubt a gift from Salzburg's dry mountain air for the last few months. I feel I could make those disappear, Maria, if you would...Christ, what would she think of him? "As soon as you can be home? Right here?"

"But how will you know when—"

"Don't think on it. I'll be here if you will."


The sun went down during the hours Maria finished with her work for the coming week, having hardly stopped for a short snack as she closed herself into the boarding house and made her way up the crooked stairwell. Her mind had already moved to Thursday and Georg yet again. What do you want to show me? she wondered as she scrawled her plans for tomorrow and Tuesday in her little notebook, pausing to scratch out a few misspelled words here and there. I don't think the headmaster would like to see that if he comes through to make sure I haven't overslept again.

Maria sat a little straighter in her chair, her dark blue dress a little tighter around her waist as she squirmed. She hadn't bothered to change out of it; with nowhere else to go for the rest of the day barring a short trip to the boarding house's kitchen later that evening, there was no risk to it beyond a few wrinkles she could brush away before pulling it over her head next Sunday.

She yawned as she dropped her pencil, the back of her hand across her mouth to hide it, even though there was no one else in her room. I don't know where anyone would hide, Maria thought even as she turned her head over her shoulder. Still just her wardrobe with her handmade dresses hanging from the rod and her shoes in line at the very bottom—on the shelf up top, the scarf and gloves she hoped to need less often until winter came around again with the turn of the year—and her guitar propped beside it, dropped there as the night grew darker. Her bed with its scratchy sheets and quilt, not properly made this morning—

She spun back around, back to her notebook and the plans for the week. She pinched her lips between her teeth for a second, the heat on her skin growing fresh and new. "Thursday," she murmured, her hand cupping her cheek. "I didn't think you would do that, even after last—no, two weeks ago." And all the little sordid dreams alone in her bed...No, I can't, Maria told herself, leaning forward on her desk, one of her elbows stinging as it hit the wood. Or he really will be right about me. But whenever the nights grew darker—just the shadows and memories to keep her company as she struggled to let sleep wash over her—she couldn't quite push him away. Always wondering, sometimes even wishing she knew what lay beyond where her dreams ended…Oh, this must have been what was in those little books I was too ashamed to read in college, even if all my friends liked them!

Even with her coat this afternoon, Maria hadn't missed his hand clinging to her waist a little more than their last Sunday together, his fingers every now and then clenching at the heavy fabric. More than the last time I saw you, she told herself, shoving her chair back from her desk. She stood, stretching as she twisted to the left—then the right—her dress twirling around her legs. But I suppose you would say you wanted to keep me from falling down again. She really didn't try to trip or fall when she was around him—though perhaps as the weeks and months wore on, she was always thinking about him a little more than…

"No," Maria hissed as she slammed her hands down on her desk. A few tears pricked at her eyes and she sniffed against a clot in her nose. "I don't want to—I really don't." A fresh chill ran up her spine, almost like when Georg finally dragged her to his side again— "No! I'm not like...I don't want that from him!" Her head dropped, catching against one side of the very top of her chest. "I'm not like what you told me I was." She pressed a hand to her stomach, a first rumbling growing in her belly. What time is it? She turned around, back to her bed and the little table with the lamp that these last few nights had flickered whenever she hoped the light would hold. To the tattered book of tales she had read as she struggled to fall asleep the night before, her father's pocket watch beside. She grabbed for the small gold disc, her thumb already catching the knob at the top where she would wind it later this evening. A few minutes past six.

"I suppose it is time." Maria tugged her hair over shoulder. The knot she had twisted together for church had all come apart as the afternoon wiled away, and she hadn't bothered to pull it all back together. After all, with just herself in her room, it didn't matter. And you always seem to like...She bit her lip again, hating the burn deep in her abdomen, well below her stomach and hunger pangs. I don't want it—I'm not like you said I was, Uncle Josef.

She wandered down the stairs a minute later, the hallway almost empty, just a couple of the nurses she had never even said hello to chatting as they pulled their coats tighter before they made their own way to the end of the corridor. Probably hoping they don't see anyone in a motorcar accident, though I suppose they might not work in emergencies. Right at the end of the stairwell where it turned into the common area and kitchen, Maria glanced back: neither of them were following yet, had opened the door from the floor where they all lived. After all, there always has to be someone to look after people who are just wanting to be looked after if they're unwell.

The small kitchen was empty, though a small stack of plates and glasses drying on the counter and a water darkened towel hanging from the tap were all she needed to see to know that it must have been different so recently. There still wasn't all that much in her corner of the larder, and nothing was much different from any other Sunday evening: several bites of hard cheese and a lone sausage, an apple and even a few pears, a half-filled jar of honey and even a small bag of chocolates wrapped in wax paper. Well, I suppose it isn't all the same, Maria thought as she pushed her candies aside, not quite ready to let another one of her rationed treats melt on her tongue. The extra coins Georg had given her were enough to let her buy the things she usually couldn't, even if she told herself it wasn't that wise when she stood at the counter in the sweet shop.

"I still don't know if I wish you had, Georg," she whispered as she took one of those pears from her little place on the shelf, the swell of its bottom curve rolling in her palm. "You meant well that day—I know that—but…" She brought the small piece of fruit up to her face, the sweetness wafting into her nose despite the little bruise right at the calyx. "I can think about it...you...later."

There wasn't much else she could take for tonight, not if she wanted something more than one of the equally bruised apples still huddling on the shelf for breakfast and lunch the next day. "I suppose I could break off a piece of cheese—there must be some bread left. And I'll just have to do my shopping tomorrow."

She turned around, back toward the doorway and the main corridor, the cutting board with any of the bread left from the day—and her chest tightened. Why do I always see you here? Maria thought, both of her hands suddenly behind her back, probably adding another bruise to the pear's mottled green skin. She had never quite forgotten his face, not his sandy beard or cropped hair, certainly not his dark brown eyes. And I don't think ever, now, the way you're looking at me is almost the way he did when he forgot who I was.

He just walked across the cluttered kitchen, opening one of the cabinets beside the sink and retrieving a chipped glass, then thrusting it beneath the tap that sometimes squealed when the valve opened. "Oh—hello, Lukas," she muttered, a few shuffled steps along the far wall bringing her a little closer to the doorway. "Lukas?"

He didn't look at her as he shook his head, twisting the tap closed before he turned around, the glass already pressed to his mouth. His eyes were narrowed over the top rim, and Maria thought she saw his gaze run all the length of her body, almost like...She swallowed, ready to send a prayer to heaven for her pulse and gulps of air to slow. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He took a sip of water, frowning as he dropped the glass an inch. "Quite a question, Maria."

She took another step closer to the door. "I don't understand."

"Don't you?"

"No."

Even across the kitchen, Maria heard him snort. "He could be your father."

"My…" What are you talking about? She took yet another step, a handle from one of the far cupboards digging into her back—she wasn't that far from the hallway now—

"A few hours ago, outside." He jerked his head back, toward the corridor that led to the front door and the road.

"What?"

He nodded, rolling one of his shoulders backwards beneath his brown shirt. "Your father, Maria."

"But he isn't—"

"I'd hope not," he said as he lifted his glass for another long sip of water.

"What does that mean?"

"Anyone could see how you were looking at him."

Her hand clenched around the pear—she had almost forgotten her meager dinner and the search for anything to fill it out. "That's not—" Another step, the sole of her shoe scraping against the floorboards, Lukas's eyes vanishing for a second as he bent his head back to drain his water glass and dropped it onto the counter—and then right back on her. Oh, please don't, I've never even asked to talk to you. "I mean—"

"Of course it is." Another step of his own brought Lukas closer to the larder and its portioned shelves, and happily farther from her. "You wouldn't be so embarrassed if it wasn't."

You're not right! Maria wanted to shout. Not you—not him, either! "I didn't even see you—"

"Then don't make it so obvious." Something rustled across the room; her gaze had drifted to the hallway, empty from what she could see, and when her eyes came back, he had turned around, something she couldn't quite see clutched in his hand. "You really think he doesn't want anything from you?" Lifting it to his mouth, Lukas took a large bite from the cheese he had pulled from his segment of pantry shelf.

Why do you sound just like him? Maria thought, one of her fingers slipping on the fruit behind her back. It's not just what he's saying, Uncle Josef, even your voices are alike. "Want?" she said after a moment, still sliding along the far wall. "He just wanted me to go away at first—"

"At first?"

"When we met."

Lukas turned the piece of cheese in his hand, his eyes running over her again. "I don't think I want to know how you managed that—"

"Why do you keep saying things like that!" She couldn't stand it any longer, charging across the old tiles toward him—and for a moment, he shrank back from her as her hands came from the base of her spine. They hung at her waist, pear still clutched in her right as she squeezed it harder and harder, suddenly wondering if a few drops of juice would be on her hand when she finally looked down.

"Why?"

"Yes!"

He stood straight again, now almost glaring down at her from his greater height. "I don't think he would want that now," Lukas murmured, lifting his empty hand toward her face, maybe not noticing that she pulled away from him before he could even touch her cheek.

Maria's throat was dry; whatever courage had sent her across the kitchen vanished and sent her a few steps back, her chin down almost against the top of her chest. "I don't know why you're saying...this." I think you would say exactly what he would.

"You don't? You're a very pretty girl—"

"That's not what I was asking! Why are you saying all this?"

"You don't know?"

Maria shook her head, her eyes coming back up. He was closer—his body and face, fingers reaching toward her cheek—this neighbor of hers she had never wanted to know, never even wanted to talk to. I don't want to know, I know that's it. "No!"

"I knew you were young, but I didn't think you were that young."

"Then don't say it—and don't treat me like I'm a child!"

"A child?"

"Yes! He doesn't, if you want to tell me about Georg—"

"Georg?"

"It doesn't matter to you—"

"I wish it did."

Why can't I stop myself from blushing? Her cheeks must be red as she stumbled back, hoping he wouldn't follow her.It's nothing like with him, but...Oh, it always comes back to you, Georg. "You can't say that," she said softly, his fingers still nearly touching her face though he hadn't taken a single step. "Please."

"You aren't a child—"

"So leave me alone!"

Maria tore away from him, through the door and into the empty hallway. Again, she had no worries about the steps and the toes of her shoes, just hoping it was only her footsteps shattering the quiet. A first flight—then another—and there was no sound of matching footsteps following her. Just leave me alone, she thought, her paces slowing as she finally reached her floor, though she still hurried along the corridor to the door to her room. Her little sanctuary.

She wrenched it open—slammed it closed behind her—her shoulders sagging against the stained wood. And, oh! Spinning around, Maria snapped the lock closed, her fingers slipping on the chipped bolt. How does that happen? she wondered. Maybe...Her forehead fell down against the door, breathing at last slowing and ears pricking up for the sound of anyone—anything—just outside of her world. "But you didn't hear him a few seconds ago—and how would he know?"

A few quick steps across her room, and Maria dropped onto her bed: her hands in her lap, the bruised pear she had managed to take with her still clutched in her fingers. At least it's something, she told herself, a first hungry bite sending a few drops of sweet juice onto her chin. I could have dropped it, I was so angry. I wish he hadn't bothered me at all.

Half the pear was gone before she set it aside on her rumpled quilt, one arm pressed across her stomach, the other around her neck, all her body pulled a little closer. It was such a lovely day until just now. I got to see you again—you don't even want to wait until next Sunday to see me again...Even now, she smiled, a fresh heat burning in her chest. "I'll be here if you will."

"You know I will," she whispered, kicking her shoes away onto the floor before she pulled her feet up and folded her legs together on her bed. What would have to be her dinner was long forgotten, flicked aside as she buried herself in her quilt and sheet. "I don't know why you even...asked."

Maria shivered, hunger immediately forgotten as the heat she didn't quite understand was born again, burning in her stomach and even down between her legs. One thigh and then the other came up against her chest, both of her arms wrapped around her knees. "I know what he was trying to tell me, Georg—and I don't think you would like him very much." She pushed her face into her dark blue skirt, the pile of blankets not quite reaching her knees. "I don't know why I care what he said—but I do." She took a breath, bending farther over her knees and pulling her entire body closer and tighter. "But it is just what my uncle told me years ago, even though I haven't told you."

Maria smiled against her knee. "I think you wouldn't tell me, even….I don't know." The heat in her belly wasn't as strong as it had been, though it was still burning hot and sharp in parts of her body she didn't quite know. She grabbed the pear again, one bite—then another— crunching through her lips, not much more than the core left in her palm. "I suppose that's all for me, at least tonight. I don't think I...I could stand the thought of seeing him again. And at least tomorrow morning, I have a chance."

She sighed, wishing it was time to fall back into her bed, but it couldn't be, not quite yet if she wanted to wake up on time the next morning. I'm sure there's still something else to do. I just wish all I thought I had to do was go to sleep, wake up tomorrow. She smiled again. And then I'm a little closer to you, no matter what...he said.

Finally dropping her feet back down to the rough floor, Maria pushed all her sheets away. It was full of wrinkles, now, her blue dress. "But I don't need it until next Sunday," she told herself, rolling her head around her neck, a few cracks ringing. "I still have to shower tonight, I could always hang it in there when I do. I'm sure that will be enough ahead of next week."


Bent over the sink in his small washroom, Georg filled his hands with lukewarm water, splashing it across his face. It ran through the deepening lines that crossed his cheeks and hung from his jaw for a second before dripping onto the collar of both his suit coat and shirt, even his black tie suddenly shining and damp in the rough light from the bare bulbs above his mirror. A few brownish specks from the pipes clung to his fingers as he closed the tap, still a little stagnant after nearly two weeks in Aigen despite the last nights.

He hadn't looked back as the villa and the gate holding it all in its little world shrank in the growing distance, instead just peering ahead for every twist and turn in the ancient road to Salzburg. So early in the morning, Georg almost expected a hare or two to dart across the path, tiny skulking shadows that vanished into the trees before he could see them properly—perhaps even a doe with a fawn in tow. But the little songbirds in the trees were his only companions, their morning song rising over the car's old motor even as the lights of the city grew closer.

"At least here, there's some peace," he murmured as he peeled the towel away from the small bar beside the sink, pressing the thick cotton to his eyes. As his vision cleared and he pushed his tousled hair aside, Georg scowled into the mirror. At least the dark circles he had grown accustomed to over the last fortnight had vanished.

Really, it's all so simple, he thought, now wiping the water from his chin before it left a fresh trail on his suit. A captain with seven children. He threw the towel back onto its little rack, the ends hanging askew. But it's so much more—and you know it is. He turned away from the sink and its lightly rusted pipes, a quick flick of the switch by the door plunging the little room into darkness.

After all, he wasn't just a captain, retired and banished from the sea as the coasts disappeared. He let out a long breath that whistled between his dry lips, the buttons of his coat giving way beneath his fingers before it joined the heavier winter coat on his chair. Not just a captain, Georg told himself again, the thinner end of his tie slipping through the knot at the base of his throat. A decorated naval captain—with the medals to show for it. Not that you have them here. He tossed the tie onto the pile of discarded clothing, all waiting to be looked after in the morning. And not only seven children. He grabbed for his suit again, the cigarettes and lighter heavier in his right hand pocket and the cravings already rising in his chest. Seven children you can't even look at for more than a few minutes.

Three cigarettes in quick succession as he slumped in his chair didn't shove the memories aside, not even as the slats dug into his backside and spine, one his shoulder blades catching on the frame. Would that be the next thing you tell me? he wondered, a fresh glass of brandy in his hand, the first since he had slammed the door to his flat. That I'm not looking after myself? A rush of smoke coursed between his lips just before yet another mouthful of alcohol seared his mouth. He tugged at his collar, the first two fingers of his left hand clawing at the top buttons of his shirt, clumsily fumbling each one as they drifted lower, finally leaving his chest open and bare.

I don't know why you would be worried, Georg thought, both halves of his shirt finally falling away. He left the brandy glass on his table beside the nearly empty carafe, almost wrenching the shirt from his shoulders as he stood. It was all too warm—too hot—too much, right now, and his shirt tumbled to the floor, no doubt waiting to catch his feet whenever he came to his senses for the remainder of the day. Even the lieutenants weren't much more than bones when we had finished destroying the navy.

It wasn't the brandy slurring his steps as he stumbled into his meager bedroom, still no more than the bed sloppily made early this morning and the table to one side. There was simply no reason for anything else: no need for anything beyond the lamp, perhaps just a small rug for the colder mornings when he touched his feet to the floor and the chill flooded his body. "But I don't think you would care for it, darling," he murmured as he unfastened his belt buckle, yanking the thin leather whip from around his waist while he loosened the heel of his left shoe with the toe of his right. He didn't bother sending his trousers to join the latest pile of clothing, only opening the button below his navel before throwing the bedclothes aside, one of the dark cuffs at his ankle catching on the sheet as he pulled it up over his bare chest, his eyelids falling closed. Just a few minutes, it was all he needed, his breathing slowing a little as the sheets caught at the planes of his chest and muscles, his skin already a little cooler. A few minutes to wash away all the swirling thoughts that wouldn't quite fade.

Her fingernails had already left a track along his back, scratching at his skin since his shirt had found its way to the floor, joining her dowdy dress, shift, and worn undergarments, his trousers the final entry to the pile. From the moment he had her in his bed—her entire body at last laid bare before him—it was one little moan after another breaking from her mouth: at first high and delicate as Georg's hands wandered over the dip of her waist and faint swell of her hips, suddenly low and rough when he finally reached up to clasp her breast in his palm. With her on her side—glassy eyes staring at him, half-closed as though her eyelids were too heavy—he followed the lines of her backside, hardly distinguishable from the base of her back, her eyes suddenly closing properly as he tightened his grasp. A long sigh whistled between her pink lips, plump and stained from the long minutes of his desperate kisses, almost biting at her to taste every inch of her he could. "Maria?"

Under his touch, she shivered, the long hair he had freed from the knot she seemed to prefer quivering with her, running into the dip between her small breasts. "Y—yes?" she whispered, her hands caught around his neck, fingers laced together against his coarser skin.

"No one—" Christ, her body bucked against his, almost a spasm rippling into him: her flat belly, protruding hips, even the ribs he thought he saw gleaming beneath her pale skin. He didn't really need to finish his sentence, it wasn't even a question if he was honest. "No one else has ever touched you like this." She shook her head, so slight Georg almost didn't see it as he rolled her onto her back, her legs opening for him as he settled himself atop her once more, loosening her hands from the base of his neck with a quick twist of his head. He folded one hand into the crook of her knee, dragging it higher—spreading the glistening folds of her skin wider for him as he glanced greedily along her body, a rasping sigh of his own against her ear.

He pushed himself into her again, the shocked gasp of hours ago as her virginity vanished beneath his touch long gone, a desperate groan replacing that surprised sound. The sheets nestled around them were damp with sweat—almost sodden—and the hollow between her legs was wet and slick, both with her own arousal and the semen he had already spilled into her, all thoughts of caution long forgotten. His nose and throat were too full of her scent—the musk of their previous lovemaking boiling on them both—and all he knew was her tiny body so warm and tight around him. Georg didn't even bother trying to hold himself off her, ready to gulp down her little cries as his own chest crushed hers and his new thrusts filled her. "You're so…" He needed another breath, his mouth buried against the bend of her neck, a few strands of hair caught under his tongue as he inhaled another bit of her and she wrapped her arms and legs around him again, nails catching at his back deeper than before. "You're so small, Maria," he managed, each stroke of his body into hers threatening to see him exhausted and worn anew. No one ever before, darling, and you can't quite take enough of me, can you?

"I don't under—" Yet another thrust left her bottom lip caught between her teeth, eyes clenched shut, though whether from pain or..."I don't understand," she finally managed as she pushed her body up into his to meet the next stroke—

Georg's eyes opened—his head rolling back into the flaccid little pile of pillows that left his neck aching most mornings—as he drew a deep breath. It was lighter than he expected as he tossed his sheets aside, the last rays of afternoon sun fading as they burnt through the drapes at the window that were worn and ragged. "Probably the last unhappy person to live here," he muttered, one hand falling out beside him…

It was so cold, just a slippery sheet under his palm as Georg fell back into the lumpy mattress. "I almost thought I could feel you here," he muttered, one arm over his head as his shoulder cracked. "You would be so warm, I think, even if you always have a coat covering you up." He swallowed, a fresh surge of blood rushing between his legs. "And if you were…" Georg gasped again as the colder air coursed across his bare chest, that flat sheet finally giving way and crumpling against his hips and thighs, right where…

Another breath, his body almost so hard and sharp that Georg knew he would need to visit the shower in his small washroom as soon as he could stand. (He wasn't certain he could, at least right now.) He didn't even look off to the side and his empty bed. "If you were there, darling…" He grabbed for the sheets, a deep sigh of disappointment rising through his lungs as nothing but cold cotton met his palm. "You would know how lovely you are and that…" He tightened his grasp on the sheet, a fresh breath coursing through his nose and lungs. "If you were here, you would belong to me." Scratching at at his forehead, his hand was coated in perspiration as the bedclothes fell down around his waist. "But would someone else…" Another breath right down into his lungs. "I don't know, darling. You're so odd, sometimes, and so…" So small.

Georg twisted around, feet on the scratchy floor as his hands slid along his thighs for a moment, finally catching on the edge of his small bed. So small, he thought, eyes flitting about his bedroom, just wishing he had his dressing gown. "And…" He could feel her sweaty skin slipping beneath his fingers. "You'd rather be here than somewhere else, wouldn't you, love?"

God, won't you forgive me? Someday? One of his hands caught his hair, tangled like he just had found himself knitted together with her little arms and legs. I'm just a man, love.


A/N: Many moons ago in the early 2000s, I was a wee marching band geek who was becoming interested in anime and manga. (The Young Kindaichi Case Files are still incredibly close to my heart.) And right around then, the anime adaptation of Hellsing came into our bland southwest Ohio world. The finer plot points escape me, but the ending song is...*chef's kiss* "Shine", by Mr. Big: "shine on this life that's burning out." I'm sure there's some deeper meaning, but just the desperation for a light shining into the darkness…

Also, I didn't mean for Lukas become a personification of the "nice guy" meme, but...that happened. And once again, if you've made it this far, thank you for taking some time from your day to read my story. I know it's already very long, this chapter in particular.