Chapter 35: Worn Out Places

Early morning, Kagran, Vienna, 23 October

Maria wasn't certain what time it was when she woke, only that her right arm was numb where she had tucked it beneath her side and that it must be morning. Her little room, far smaller than even the one she had let on her own, had no clock or window, no way at all for her know the time. The days were already turning cooler; whenever she aired the dried linens outside or went to the market for her foster mother, Maria shivered in her jacket, already wanting her heavier winter coat. "It might even be nice now," she whispered, wincing as her feet grazed the chilly floor. She scurried over the coarse floorboards—by now she remembered the rough patches that liked to bite—to the wall beside the door. A quick push of her thumb against the round switch brought the ancient overhead light to life. Her nightdress rustling beneath the light's faint buzzing, she hurried back to her bed, almost jumping in and beneath the quilt onto her side once more before she turned onto her back, the rough pillowcase scratching at her neck as she closed her eyes. "At least...there's no room for anyone else."

The quilt on her bed was old and patched, a perfect match to the itchy cotton sheets, but she held them close; she had nothing else to keep out the cold. She dropped her head to one side, her eyes dancing around the way they did every morning to remind herself where she was. It really was a bedroom, not much else. Her bed was just big enough for her with a small table for her carpetbag along the wall opposite the door, probably a remnant of harder times when certain rooms had been rented out. A cupboard just large enough for three or four dresses stood just a couple feet beyond the foot of her bed. Between the cupboard and corner beside the door, a pair of hooks for her towels had been nailed to wall years ago. Nothing else.

Maria thrust all the layers aside, a burst of cold air washing over her. One elbow shoved into the mattress, she pushed herself onto her side, then up. She stretched her legs out, even her toes reaching for the metal bars of the bed frame. Now her hands pressed down against the old mattress, Maria leaned back with a gentle crack from her back; it was always stiff in the mornings. She pulled her feet up, calves crossed in front of her, hands folded in her lap. The same as every morning, now.

Only a few days had passed since she stumbled from the train in Vienna, everything she had in the world in her hands. Maria still wasn't quite certain how, and she clung to the memories that appeared in fits and starts. A little here and there when she least expected, as though her world now was determined to revive the end of the world that had been. Even those walks to the market for her foster mother...Maria was suddenly in Salzburg, heavy coat on her shoulders but unbuttoned, waiting for the bus that would take her to the train station. Or shaking away the dust and moths from those thicker linens and towels for winter...As she closed her eyes against the grime, her hands were full of the dresses and stockings she had haphazardly stuffed into her carpetbag in the flat's bedroom. I must have done all of it, but it's still just a mess.

Maria shook her head, shivering as she ran her hands along her bare arms. The sheets on her bed might already be meant for winter, but her summer nightdress was not; the one she had for winter needed to be laundered and...Well, she hadn't been able to touch the other one, left on the floor of the washroom in Salzburg. She rubbed at her eye with one of her knuckles, the little crusts at the corner scratching before they fell away. I think that was all, but I feel like I left so much behind.

It wasn't meant to be for long, her foster mother had said so explicitly that first night as Maria struggled up the stairs behind her with aching feet and arms, suddenly worn to the bone. But she had it organized as best she could. For the moment, that little cupboard only had the dresses and other clothes she needed each day, her shoes and stockings at the bottom. Beside her carpetbag, Maria left the little things she needed each morning: powder and brush to scrub her teeth, comb and hair pins. She struggled to tame her hair with a shoelace she borrowed from one of her winter boots that first morning, having forgotten all of those sorts of things in her daze. It was one of the few things she had done for herself since she arrived, a quick trip to the corner shop for a toothbrush and tin of tooth powder, a new set of pins, the same cheap sort Georg had hated—

"Stop," she hissed at herself. "Stop."

Maria thought about him more in the mornings, her mind still too muddled then to...really understand, she supposed. His bulkier body would be out of place here, but it didn't stop her imagination before she was really awake. The hum of his faint snores, his warmth and scent, his hands on her when they made love.

"That wasn't really what it was," she muttered. She grabbed for her braid, roughly yanking the band from the very end. "Or I suppose it was for me, not for you." Maria picked her braid apart, yanking on her hair more than she usually did, then finally set her feet on the floor again with a shudder, the other side of her bed this time. I really did forget how cold it is up here. She hurried across to that little table for her comb and then back to her warmer bed as soon as she could, covers back up around her waist, feet buried deep in the sheets.

Whatever she didn't need, all of that was still in her carpetbag, her father's old pocket watch at the top, once again wound every day. She hadn't quite known anything she brought until that first evening as she dug through the morass for her nightdress. The next morning, her foster mother kindly giving her enough time to settle both her things and thoughts, Maria had still thought she might pull anything out.

Somehow, she had managed to bring all the little things Georg brought her from Vienna, everything but the new set of hair pins mixed with what she had left from her parents. Just like her old ones, they must have been driven right to the edge of the wardrobe where she couldn't reach them. But she had somehow managed to collect the rest, even the old doll that little girl had left behind one day, hidden behind everything. Maria remembered them all, she was so unused to presents, a few of them even wrapped in colorful tissue paper when he handed them to her. The book of poems; all the watercolor cards he had handed her one at a time; the pin of a little bird; even the necklace with a charm she always thought looked like a rose in bloom. When he first slipped it around her neck muttering something about how she needed something other than a crucifix, Maria thought perhaps he was remembering the roses in the Mirabell Gardens they saw once after a summer storm. "I thought you wanted me to smile," she said as she tore the comb through her hair, a few long strands coming away tangled on the teeth. "But it was always the first thing you could find, wasn't it?"

Her dresses were also a lingering mystery. One of the last she had sewn was missing, probably still on a hanger, one of her shifts as well. But well below her everyday dresses in her carpetbag—surely packed first—was the dress she had sewn ahead of their picnic in that strange little clearing Georg seemed to know. Her wedding dress as well, rolled up in a few spare stockings alongside the gleaming undergarments that dressmaker had packed beneath it. (She would die of shame if anyone ever saw those.) Their wedding rings and his little note were now shoved to the very toe of one winter boot, out of her sight while she decided what to do with them. As for the money he had left, gathered up after she must have simply thrown it in, the schillings were folded and pushed into the other. Maria still didn't want to touch it, didn't know what to do with it. "I know you told me to take care of myself, but…" Another vicious yank on her hair tore out yet more. "I don't even want to look at it. Or that, really."

Maria dropped the comb in her lap, then twisted her arm around in the daily hunt beneath her pillow. She almost shoved it to the back this time, the metal clanking against the bed frame's bars. She already knew what it felt like: the little curves on one side, the thin chain, the tiny mouthpiece. I don't understand, she thought like every morning, the metal blinding under the cheap light bulb overhead as she turned it over through her fingers. "I say that every day."

It was heavier than it looked and though small, it filled the palm of her hand. "I'm still not sure where I found it," Maria muttered as she turned it over, though she thought she remembered it was somewhere in the flat's bedroom. The dangling chain twisted around the body; it was no doubt meant to hang around the neck. A finger around the loop, she unraveled it before it could knot itself up. That first morning, confused by it at the very bottom of her carpetbag, the thin chain had been a tangled mess she had finally unknotted that evening. "I know it could only be yours, Georg."

Maria knew the inscription by heart, but it was so puzzling. She nestled in her lap beside her comb as she ran her fingers through her hair, the waves silky despite the cheap shampoo powder. "You were a captain, Georg?" she whispered to the stagnant air around her, as she did most mornings. "And who is she?" The letters were deep and pristine, beautiful really, almost like an ironworker had copied a woman's script exactly. "You must have known her well." She leaned back, her spine knocking against one of the metal bars behind her with a little sting. "I still…" She sighed, legs up to her chest, crushing the comb against her thighs. "I still wish you had told me—anything." Another thing she said every morning.

But the past is the past, isn't it, Georg? she thought, sliding her legs back down beneath her sheets as she laid down again and turned onto her side. The comb stabbed at her leg and she smacked it away to a gentle clatter on the floor. I'll pick it up later. Slipping that whistle back under her pillow, Maria folded her hands beneath it as well, her chin pressing all the air from the cheap pillow bound in its equally cheap casing. "I wish you were here, Georg." His name was becoming easier day by day, at least before she really had a chance to think and feel the bitterness grow. "Maybe one day I won't be angry with you, but...Maybe I should pity you instead. Whatever it was you were running from, it…" She dragged her legs closer, digging her face into the pillowcase as well. It must have been terrible. Why didn't you tell me? Do you think it would have mattered to me? Now she lifted her face, her chest tightening before she wiped a new tear on the pillow's corner. I didn't want what you used to be, I just wanted you.

They hadn't talked about Georg, at least not really after the first morning over breakfast in the kitchen. Maybe her foster mother was merely happy she wasn't talking about something that appeared to be nothing. I know why you wouldn't believe me despite what I wrote to you over the summer. You wanted to know where he was that evening—and I know you would. Sliding her right hand free, Maria wiggled her fingers in the cold air, each of them still bare. You've never even seen my wedding ring, Mother. I guess it's easier for you to think it was never real in the first place, that Georg was another of my stories, even if I don't know why.

She flipped onto her back with a thump and a little whoosh from the mattress. Arms under her breasts, Maria closed her eyes again with a deep breath. It wasn't real, but she could smell the cologne he wore at times, the shampoo powder, the scent of his freshly laundered shirts and coats. I wish I could go back. I saw it in your eyes, sometimes. That night when you came back just before my proper classes began, I don't remember where you had been. But...everything was so right, just then, even if now I know...Or maybe I don't.

On her side again, Maria stretched out one arm, her hand falling over the bed's edge. I don't really know anything. Her face half off the pillow, she pushed herself up, one of her elbows popping. The day the pain was so bad, or maybe after, I was thinking you must not know much about children, but if you loved—her...Maybe you do. She collapsed onto her bed again. Her stomach was beginning to growl, her dinner last night a little too long ago. But some of those nights were so lovely, even if...I know what must have happened. Her first night in this bed, she had dreamt about it, imagined it was true like she had in those first months. Touches that were sometimes gentle—sometimes rough—the waves of obscene pleasure that overwhelmed her at times when he sometimes couldn't seem to look at her...

But it isn't. She rolled onto her back once more, that hand grasping for the thick seam along the mattress's edge. And it won't be, not now. With a deep breath, Maria threw herself upright, some of her hair even flying up and over her head, a wispy and itchy veil in front of her face. That's how I know you must have known, after what happened that last night. She winced, rubbing at the top of a leg through the layers. Her thighs had ached for a couple of days, though at least the pain hadn't lasted past that evening.

She wiped her hair up and away, a little rat's nest now on the crown of her head. I just wish—

"Maria!" her foster mother shouted, voice muffled as she rapped on the door. "Up! I have some things for you to do!"

"Yes, Mother!" Dragging her long hair down over shoulders, Maria threw all her quilt aside again, the spray of goose pimples running up her legs, her nightdress shoved up around her knees with her twisting and squirming. At least I won't be thinking about you while I do...whatever it is today. I suppose I'll never know, will I?

O O O

Just after lunch, Elsa's townhouse, Vienna

"...to parties, Elsa."

Across the room, Georg's eyes darted from...God, I can never quite remember women's names in places like these, even with just the four of us. But whatever her name was, now Elsa was shaking her head, lifting her empty hand like she meant to set her cigarette holder to her lips—then dropping it into her lap again. "Not entirely, Isabelle, but I can have an opinion." Ah, yes. Don't have me pretend I remember her surname, my dear.

"Next you'll be judging women by whether or not they've bothered with lipstick those evenings!"

"You'll forgive me for appreciating a woman noticing details about herself!"

"There's more to..."

Christ, he was bored. It had been going for hours, it felt, this debate between Elsa and her cousin Isabelle, still visiting from Paris, though given the lunch still sitting heavily in his stomach, it could only have been twenty or thirty minutes. While her other cousins had returned to Budapest and Berlin, Isabelle was her favorite, she had explained in her telegram. I understand why. Though the woman had not given in to the temptation to color her hair the moment she spotted a strand of grey amidst the blond as Elsa had, they shared the same sharp nose and full lips—Elsa's not dyed red this afternoon—and the same strong eyebrows. If Isabelle's words had not been so tainted by years of French, they might have been sisters.

"...afternoon to a dinner party."

"Oh, you're joking, Elsa!"

"I am not! When I talked to her later, she said she had nothing else to wear—"

"Then you've no business at such a party!"

"It was one of the host's friends, he insisted she would be his..."

God, what time is it? Georg wondered. The only clock in the room sat in the center of the mantle overtop the marble framed fireplace. And unfortunately, that was behind him. Perhaps it would be good to still have a pocket watch. Beside him, sandy colored suit coat unbuttoned after one too many slices of the cook's prized cake, Max was covering a yawn with his dark hand. "Been going on like this for a while, Georg, hasn't it?"

"I noticed." God, how long until he could escape for just a few minutes? His fingers were twitching, his lungs and blood both desperate for a cigarette, but instead he only had a glass of wine poured by one of Elsa's maids. Isabelle did not smoke, even hated the smell, so Elsa insisted on keeping it out of her entire townhouse. At least you're suffering with me, he thought. His legs and feet were itching to be out—to move—not to be here listening to a pair of women drone on about fashion. And you would know fashion, darling, and not just when it comes to clothes and what Vienna and Paris prefer.

Elsa's parlor was as pristine as ever. Damask draperies in deep red that reflected pink and gold when the sunset shone through the other window across the room. Matching settees and chairs with cream colored frames and upholstery, accented with golden inlays. Mahogany end tables with silver ashtrays now gleaming with polish. Area rugs dyed the same red as the curtains with black and white embroidery at every corner.

So different, Georg thought, finally reaching for his wine on the table just to his right. The last few days here in Vienna—his sojourn in Aigen had been as brief as he could manage before the accounts and investments called him here for another review—he found himself always looking, looking for something familiar. The bookcases empty apart from a few of his own books about the captains and commanders of the Great War, out of date histories, and a scratched and battered book of fairy tales. Instead, the walls were covered with portraits and still lifes commissioned from the finest artists who called Vienna home. A grimy gramophone and battered guitar case rather than a piano that only ever erupted with music when one of those blasted parties was raging throughout the townhouse.

"...can stand spending so much behind your desk, Max!"

Max chuckled. "It's a difficult job, making sure that chair doesn't go anywhere, Isabelle, but someone has to do it! Right, Georg?"

He smiled, thin and slight. "I'm sure you're very good at your job. Perhaps not keeping track of banking papers, but you certainly know your real job well."

The conversation across the room moved on, Max finally standing—moving over to where the two women sat side by side, a little closer than other men might consider proper. Behind the settee, he stood between them, one hand on Isabelle's shoulder, leaning closer to her to whisper something to her—rewarded with a little laugh and a slap back on that same hand. "Oh, really?" she asked. "You'll have to explain more to..."

The chatter continued to swarm about, and Georg was happy to sit in the midst of it with his wife: silent, not quite listening, smiling whenever it seemed he should. Probably quite rude, he thought, now crossing his legs, one ankle propped atop his knee. But that is one of the advantages of keeping your thoughts to yourself, no one quite knows to be frustrated. Something you might want to learn, Maria—

He scowled before another sip from his glass. No matter how he had meant to leave her in Salzburg, the girl continued to appear in his thoughts, usually when he least expected her. Banishing her memory at the villa had been simple, he was so preoccupied with confirming everything that had passed during his most recent absence. The new gardener—a young man from southern Germany—the new governess—another drab woman, this time originally from somewhere just west of the current border between Germany and France—the state of the grounds and the house. He had even endured his dinners with the children, somehow, though any childish words were silenced with a simple bark demanding quiet. More difficult, though, were the glares from the eldest, Liesl and Friedrich and Louisa, all of them more focused on their plates than whatever their siblings were prattling on about across the table. Unasked questions that would only demand answers he couldn't give simmering on their faces until he at last escaped to his study, his brandy, and his cigarettes.

"...silhouette is all wrong."

"You're spending too much time in Vienna."

"Vienna has its own fashion, Isabelle my dear."

"Perhaps it's time you came to Paris anyway."

"It has been a while. What would you say, Georg?"

"Hmm?" He looked up, pressing his glass to his lips again as he blinked, his eyes needing a moment to focus on the women and Max across the room.

"Didn't you hear?" Elsa asked. She stood, her dark skirt brushing that red carpet with a swish as she walked over to him, seating herself where Max had been. She laid her hand on his wrist—Georg saw her nearly settle it atop of his thigh—her lacquered red nails gently scraping his skin. "What Isabelle was saying?"

"Forgive me, darling," he muttered. He took another sip, trying not to glance at his reflection shimmering on the top of the white wine. "I was miles away."

"And that's the point, Georg." She slid her arm in its billowing white sleeve through his, hooking it around his elbow. "Isabelle keeps telling me I'm overdue to see Paris after so long, that it will revive my sense of fashion." She smiled, not noticing those short greying hairs somehow loosened from her tight curls, Georg decided. Not like you, Maria— "What do you think? We've both seen the city, but never together."

"Perhaps," he muttered, tipping his head back to drain his glass. The base clattered as he returned it to the polished little table, harder than he meant to, hopefully not cracking the foot of the glass. "But I'll have to take my leave for a little while. I don't want to bother your cousin with my cigarette smoke."

Elsa tightened her arm around his elbow. "I'll come—"

"No," Georg said loudly as he extricated his own. He didn't even think, his hands already coming to the front of his jacket to fasten those middle buttons as he stood. "Just a few minutes by myself, darling."

Despite the temporary banishment of cigarettes and smoke from Elsa's townhouse, Georg always had them in his pocket alongside his lighter. And at least she was kind enough to allow some civilization in their personal suites, even if her cousin still wrinkled her nose and waved her hand despite plenty of time for the smell to fade. Isabelle! he reminded himself. "The sort of woman I don't know if you'd like, Agathe darling," he muttered as he walked down the hallway from the parlor to the French doors at the south side of the townhouse. "I know you liked Elsa, but her cousin seems rather different. Or maybe it's simply because she's from Paris. But better than Berlin." Georg hadn't mentioned anything regarding Germany; he didn't care to know what Elsa's cousin thought and what little he knew of Elsa and Max's opinions only stoked his anger.

The air was crisp as Georg stepped outside, the tail end of October readying its fangs to bite with a fresh chill, just a few patches of sunlight breaking through the gloom. At least here in Vienna, there was no lake for the wind to rip across, no sea to give it a cool breath. For the best, he thought as he walked past the cluster of tables that always sat on the terrace. Even with the end of autumn approaching, they would remain standing. Probably a winter party or two already in the planning, he added to himself, snatching up one of the ashtrays. It was already filled with debris, probably from the rain, but, it would do.

He set the dish on the wide stone railing that surrounded the townhouse's terrace, the side of his hand as well—only to pull it away, a quick shake of his wrist flinging the fresh layer of dirt from his skin. Georg dug his right hand into his pocket, trembling as he grabbed for his lighter and the end of a cigarette from the battered package. A flick of the lighter's wheel—a quick breath through the filter—and his nerves were already easing, calming well before the first traces of nicotine could be anywhere near his blood. Or perhaps I just needed to be alone, he thought, his left hand curled into a fist on the top of the railing.

His eyes darted out across the grounds, from the mulched gardens awaiting the winter's snow all the way to the oak trees and their thick trunks at the property line, another row of large and expensive townhouses with their own boundary line of trees just beyond. It was a gentle breeze rippling through the grass and the last of the red and brown leaves still clinging to the branches, even the molding leaves burying the roots as the layer of clouds above gliding slowly along. Nowhere to be, nowhere to go, he thought, tapping off the first chunk of ash. Rather like me.

It was too stuffy in there, far too stuffy despite the endless rooms with their high ceilings and carpets left half empty. "I never thought I could feel so—imprisoned, I guess, in such a large place." You wouldn't know what to do, Maria, that room you let was almost bursting with your past. Georg stepped away from the railing, turning around and back onto black and white patterned stones inlaid across the terrace. Some sort of marble, he had always assumed, the black even managing to shine through the veil of snow that would arrive in the next months. "You wouldn't like it here," he muttered around the end of his cigarette. Even the French doors from the terrace to the back of the foyer: a wooden frame stained deep brown, almost like the trees at the edge of the estate, leaves and branches carved into the corners...all to keep the world outside where it belonged. "I think Agathe only liked it here because of her friends. She preferred Salzburg and the countryside as well."

I know you said you're from Vienna, Maria, but I know you wouldn't like it here, Georg thought as he turned back to railing, ready to loose the next chunk of ash into the little bowl. You're too wild for a place so stately. Too wild, too...The next release of smoke burned through his nostrils. Too passionate, darling. Even that night, her desperate words were laced with that passion, almost a desperation. "I miss you." His hand was trembling; he braced his wrist against the edge of the railing, the cuff of his jacket shielding his skin from the spurs jutting from the rough stone. About everything, and too kind to see the darkness in anyone. Even me.

It haunted him as he struggled to sleep, everything that happened that final night in Salzburg. Even now in the grey afternoon light. You wanted so desperately to be close to me, darling, you didn't think it through, not a thing. And by then, I knew what I would do, he thought, the cigarette quivering between his fingertips, almost toppling free to the dying grass below before he tightened his hold. Perhaps it was my mistake to keep you at such a distance for so long. Not even for you, but for me, Maria. He hadn't missed those little whimpers rising up from her through the darkness as he had his way with her, unable to look at her as she endeavored to bite back her cries—with no success. Pain, Georg thought, leaning forward a little, one foot propped on the bottom rung of the stone railing. You didn't quite say it aloud—I don't know if I would have heard even if you had. You would have rather I left you alone, I think, once you...Georg closed his eyes, a little breeze laden with the scent of rotting leaves flitting by. Once you felt it.

The cigarette's warmth was tingling at his fingertips, so he crushed it into the ashtray, the last embers smothered in a moment. Christ, it was nearly such a mess, he thought, his hand already back in his pocket. Digging—delving—searching, searching, searching. The last days since he slipped through the door of the Salzburg flat without glancing back, Georg had grown accustomed to always hunting, yet never finding it. Rolling his fingers, he dragged his hand out, folding it together with his other atop the stone railing, his foot on the bottom rung, polished toe peeking through the stone slats. I had to ask it of you, Maria. I couldn't touch you, not as much as I would have needed to if I wanted to have it back and…

Georg drew a deep shuddering breath, now wishing he could rip his tie from his throat, toss it aside. Not without—maybe again...Leaning forward, he peered down toward the earth, a pile of mulch and dirt amidst browning grass readying for its death, its slumber until the warmth of spring woke it again. Not without hurting you like that again. Back up again, he bent his head to one side, the bones releasing a faint crack. I may not be a good man, Maria, but I wouldn't risk that, knowing I did it once. I should have simply been more careful. He snorted, bringing his foot down to the polished inlaid stones with a snap. "God, that's rich. Careful."

He couldn't stand still any longer, so instead, Georg turned away from the greying grounds, his hand on the railing as he strode along the perimeter slowly. He descended the large set of sweeping steps from the terrace, down to an estate that would be a riot of color when the world returned to life at the beginning of the next year. Tulips in every color as the spring warmed, a rainbow of roses coaxed into submission in the height of summer, brambles crowned with their little buds when autumn claimed the world...Even now, ivy and vines clung to the terrace's foundation, threatening and ready to rise up and over onto the stone promenade if the team of gardeners hadn't viciously trimmed them when their tendrils' curls made their first appearance. Just on the paving stones surrounded by little tufts of dying grass, Georg turned away, into the soil still sodden with the morning dew and a fog the sun had struggled to burn away. I certainly wasn't careful, he thought, his hand flat on the stones as his shoes sank into the dirt. The mulch laid for next year's flowers hugged the foundations just here, and he strode as close to the brick wall as he could, a little barrier against the wind whistling by.

Careful, he thought. Needing a deep breath, he fell back against the frigid stone. Nothing I've done with you has ever been careful, Maria. Even just asking you whether you liked those damn gardens. Elsa's little beds would never rival those endless blossoms and mazes and statues. I could have just walked away, I knew that then and...Christ, it nearly did happen, didn't it, Maria? I know how you would have felt. You appreciate every little thing that comes your way, don't you, darling? You brought so little to our flat, every single thing was precious. He hadn't even asked her what she wanted where, instead persuading her—almost ordering her—to hide so much of it away. I would have hated it, darling, a baby of mine in your hands. Some things simply can't happen.

He curled his hand into a fist, slammed it into the stone beside him with a hissed curse. God, why didn't you just let me have you? For just one night, even one week. No one would have known—and all of this...He stretched his fingers, sore from holding them so tightly. I wouldn't be tied to you. Just one day, you stupid girl, one night letting me have all of—

"Bit chilly."

Georg shoved his hand into his pocket, almost crushing the packet of cigarettes already in his grasp. "What are you doing out here, Max?" he muttered, catching one with his fingertips.

"I could ask the same of you." His friend glanced up, as though he was looking for someone; the sun hung in the wrong corner of the sky for any shadows. "Really, Georg, are you going to be that foolish?"

He had his lighter as well, a flame already burning against the exposed tobacco at the end of the cigarette between his lips. "Foolish?" Georg muttered. He shook his lighter to ensure the last of the flames were extinguished, then dropped it back in his pocket. It was the only real weight there, clattering against nothing. I should have just thrown you aside, Maria, taken what was mine. You wouldn't have really been able to say no, after all, no matter if I wondered how you would feel right then. How many times did I tell you that you belong to me? You still do—you always will.

Max tucked his hands into his pockets; he often did, and Georg sometimes wondered if he was checking the very bottoms for any last bit of money. "Yes, I like to think I know a great deal about that."

"Through quite a bit of personal experience, I've seen."

Max shrugged. "It's a difficult job, I'm afraid, but someone has to do it."

Georg didn't wait for him, taking a few steps into the dying grass to follow terrace's foundation. "Then I'm sure your university is very proud of how you've managed your degree."

Max was trotting along behind him, Georg heard, the man rushing a little to catch up on his shorter legs. "I wouldn't need one to see that you're being foolish. How long are you going to let Elsa be alone here in Vienna?"

"Max."

His friend had caught up, breathing a little heavily as he settled into a slower pace. "Between the two of you, there's a small fortune—"

"Ready to invest in your desire to quit banking to turn to fortune hunting?"

"I prefer to think of it as being a talent scout."

Taking his cigarette from his mouth, Georg flicked away the first lump of ash into the mulch, too wet and dank to do anything with the smoldering flecks. "And to exploit their fame the way you exploit your bank's clients now?"

"Oh, no no no," Max said as he shook his head. "Talent scouts are more respectable than bankers."

"Ah."

"But, that's not the point, Georg."

He started walking again, the corner of the foundation looming. "Isn't it?"

"You and Elsa." Max seized his shoulder, turning Georg around. "What's standing between you two?"

Georg shook his shoulder free, walking faster. Around the corner, it was the edge of the house butted up right against the next, a short cobblestone path leading up to the shared wall. It gave way to a row of trees that divided Elsa's estate from that one, running right back to meet those others. Probably the same room as here just on the other side of that brick. "Are you going to be talking about that again?"

Max's shoes continued to clip along behind him, snapping on the uneven stones. "Well, think about it, the two of you. You've known each other for years, even if it—"

"Max," he said as he spun back, throwing the cigarette into the brown grass. "Enough!"

Max stumbled, though he caught his balance and righted himself before he fell, clearing his throat. "I only mean…" He straightened his jacket, brushing at the tails like he had landed on his face and covered himself in dirt and leaf litter as he scrabbled on the ground before finding his feet. "There are far worse choices. The longer you let Elsa on her own, the closer you'll be to deciding your fate, so far as it is with her."

"My fate?" Georg shouted, almost stomping across the stones to him.

Max didn't move, though Georg saw him shake for a moment. "Is something wrong?"

He sighed, his pace slowing as he ran one hand through his hair, down over his face. "No," Georg said softly. I've already done that—someone else's, too. Forever, whether I like it or not now. We're tied together for the rest of our days.

Max shook his head. "Don't lie to me, Georg. You've been distracted since I got—"

"Complaining about the train station again?" Georg asked as he stepped around the man. God, now he was missing the wine that maid probably had left. As much as he liked Max—or at least acted as though he did for the children—he could only tolerate the man for a short span of time. Too many little questions, just like a child, he thought, back around the side of the house to the back, the clouds now visible overhead thicker, the sky a little darker like it was preparing for rain. But at least you'll admit it.

"That's not fair"—Max paused, needing a deep breath as he ran after Georg—"changing the subject."

Out in the distance, Georg thought he heard a little rumble of thunder, the beginnings of an unusual autumn storm. A heavy raindrop landed on his head, another on his forehead as he looked up. Not much longer until it all opens up. "I just can't help…" God, it was something new, an unexpected weight on his shoulders. The heaviness of that thunderstorm? Something fresh brewing over the horizon? Something that was suddenly leaving him uneasy—uncertain—that was all he knew. "I can't be sure—"

"What's to be sure of?"

You'll never quite understand, will you? Georg thought, another round of thunder breaking through the air. "I can't help but feel something's wrong, just now."

Max was still panting as he finally caught up, a hand pressed to his side. "What's wrong is leaving a woman on her own when you know she'd rather marry you."

Something, Georg thought as he wiped the raindrop away, another landing on the back of his hand. "Don't talk about things you don't understand." I just don't know what.