Chapter 36: Beneath the Surface

Early afternoon, Kagran, Vienna

Stained cleaning cloth in hand, Maria didn't understand the grime on the soldier's little shoulders, even on the soles of its black boots. How can it be dirty when I clean it every day? She turned the soldier upright to scrub at the black hat with its three corners and the red robe, plain white ceramic peeking through where the paint had faded after one too many polishings. When I was here to visit after you sent me to them, you talked about the empire all the time, like it was something I should remember. Turning the soldier around, she frowned as she rubbed a black smudge on the very back of the coat's long tails. It just smeared, and when Maria touched it with a fingertip, it left a sticky film on her skin. Probably smoke, she decided as she closed her hand, the grey smudge just spreading across her palm. From one of Uncle Josef's visits.

Wrapping her hand around the figure's middle, Maria rubbed her cloth against its coat one—two—three—four—five times. This time, her cloth was clean, so she gently returned it to the shelf beside the little dog she had just cleaned. The shelf lined with her foster mother's little ceramic trinkets ran the length of the room, these sitting above the sofa where visitors often sat. I know Uncle Josef comes by at the weekend, or on his way home, Maria thought, now reaching for the eagle that sat next in line. Its coat of black feathers hid any dirt—certainly any smoke that had swirled up from her uncle's cigarettes—so she paid more attention to its tail. Just a few specks of dust from there down its spindly legs to the base.

She yawned, then rubbed her cheek against her shoulder as an itch suddenly raged. Even across the room, she still heard the little tick tick tick of the mantle clock, probably already a second or two behind for the day. She didn't dare look to see the time, not certain which would be more upsetting: how little time had passed since she picked up the ceramic lion at the far end of the shelf, or how much.

Once her foster mother roused her from her dark thoughts as she did every morning, it was the same rush. A quick shower that never quite warmed—a second to drag her grey dress over her head—a moment to comb her hair again and tie it up. (After the endless comments as she trudged up the stairs that first evening, Maria had always secured every wisp of hair, even if she needed every pin she owned.) Breakfast in the kitchen was stilted even though they didn't speak, instead eating their bread and cheap ham in a silence broken only by the clink of coffee cups. In fact, apart from the tasks her foster mother gave her in the mornings, Maria rarely spoke with her at all.

The only real comments had been the morning after she arrived. A simple inquiry lobbed across the kitchen table, though hardly a delicate question. "Really, Maria, where is your husband?" She hadn't answered, apart from the deep flush she hid behind a long sip of coffee, her lips and tongue burnt despite the milk that had cooled the brew. And then again over lunch after the first chores were complete, before the shopping and errands began in the afternoon, though now the question was harsher, more expectant; she still didn't say anything. By Saturday morning, her foster mother had stopped asking after Georg, stopped saying much of anything unless she was outlining the day's tasks. Today, the agenda was much the same: tidying and organizing and cleaning while her foster mother and Aunt Hannah ran errands about the city and visited the market. And then, the faint muttering: "Just stay out of trouble for once, Maria."

I don't know what you mean, Mother, Maria thought, nestling the eagle atop the back of the sofa, shoved between the cushions. I don't even want to be here, bothering you the way I think I am. I'd rather...The cloth was dry, but she still wrung it in her hands, a little puff of dust somehow escaping when she snapped it open. Something itched, the pressure building high up just beneath the bridge of her nose— She sneezed, eyes closing tight. I'd rather be back in Salzburg living the life I found there. Or at least I think I do. I don't even know sometimes.

Spinning around blindly, Maria dropped down and let out a long sigh. She stretched out her legs—shoes just under the lip of the little table—then raised her arms over her head, fingers extended as far as she could. Sometimes, I think I don't know anything anymore. Leaning back, Maria closed her eyes. But then, sometimes I still smile when I think about you, Georg. All our little walks, the little trips when I didn't know where we were going, even if they seemed to go away over the summer. She couldn't stop a little smile, suddenly remembering the brief thunderstorm that had soaked them both one afternoon on another walk about the gardens, a little coating of raindrops on all the new blossoms. But, maybe it does all make sense. You never cared about money, whether it was for lunch or the little things you bought me without a thought. Her faint grin vanished, now a little frown taking its place as she brought her arms down, tucking them behind her neck and the rag into her elbow. Something knocked against the back of her head, probably the eagle's beak from where it sat perched behind her. If you were a captain, Georg, not just a sailor, then...She opened her eyes, staring up at the plaster ceiling and wooden beams, a little crack running between two of them almost from the front door to the entrance to the kitchen. I'm sure you've seen that, Mother. She dragged her hands from behind her neck, a stray lock of hair caught under her arm for a moment. And you never liked me telling you things I noticed first.

But I can't ask you what you think, Mother, I know that much, Maria thought, slapping her hands down on her thighs. I know you would have endless projects to take as much as I could give you of all of Georg's money. And I don't...She coughed as she stood, deep and sputtering for a few seconds like she had breathed in the thin layer of dust those figurines somehow constantly wore. I don't think Georg would want me to spend his money on that, the way he told me to look after myself. And you wouldn't believe me anyway, if I told you why I have it. Turning around, she picked up the eagle; it had sunk deeper into the little crevice between those cushions, though a gentle swat smoothed the indentation away.

"You wouldn't believe me. And I'd rather not talk about him at all, at least to you," Maria said to herself, digging her cloth beneath the eagle's wings. A bit of the smoke had collected there as well, the same sticky film leaving a thicker mark on the rag. "I don't even know if I want to think about him a few minutes after I do. That's hard enough without having to hear it aloud. But…" She ran her cloth from the round base up along the eagle's back to the crown of its head. "I know I have to, at least at some point." Most days began like today, her mind and heart confused: missing him and angry at the same time, always wondering what exactly he had kept so hidden, where his business took him so often, what was so important to look after. By the evening, it was often a sadness overwhelming her—a weight on her chest, really—or perhaps just a fear of waking the next day, not quite remembering that it was no longer something new. Waking alone in her little room in a house in Vienna, the sounds of his breathing and snoring nowhere to be found, replaced by the creaking of the wooden beams in the walls and the shouting of the neighbors who had already risen.

"I wish I could talk you, just ask why?" She returned the eagle to the shelf, then shook out her cloth again, the black and brown smudges holding on to any dust. "Even if I don't think you would tell me."

The next trinket wasn't even a figure, but a ceramic statue of the Austrian flag. "I still don't know what that one you had in our—the bedroom was." The base in her left hand, Maria rubbed the end of the flag carefully, the very end thin and probably brittle. "I don't think I could ever—"

She started and stumbled forward against the sofa, her knee landing in the middle of one of the sagging cushions as someone knocked on the door, a heavy rap of knuckles on the pale blue wood outside. That little flag almost flew out of her grasp, her hand with the cloth breaking her fall against the sofa's back.

Her heart slowing despite another round of harsh knocking, Maria slipped the flag back onto the shelf before she folded the dirty cloth and set it on the small table standing between her and the door, bare except for the ashtray she had cleaned first. Now she chanced a glance at the clock: a few minutes past one. At least I'll have time to finish before Mother and Aunt Hannah are back, even if Frau Grüber needs a cup of flour or sugar the way she always did when I...No, she was never that loud— Yet more rapping, quicker and even heavier. She banged her knee on one of the table's corners, the wood shiny with the years of cups and saucers and pots of tea and coffee, the corners worn smooth and round, probably by friends long gone doing just as she had. Maria slapped her hands in the air to loosen any dirt then wiped them along her dark dress just below the seam at her waist, though her fingers were still sticky with the residue of years of smoke. I'll have to wash my hands after I open—

The door was almost rattling with the weight of the visitor's hand, and Maria hurried around the table, across the old rug to the door. Maybe...She shook her head, bit her lip before she could even finish her foolish thought as she brushed a few wild hairs from her face. I don't know why I think it might be you—I know it won't. You don't know anything about this place. Or why I even hope. Maybe I still just need to ask you all the same questions. She turned the bolt above the knob—until it stuck, so she wrenched it into the plate harder, then back again with a little squeal from the mechanism. The doorknob was easier, turning easily, the hinges quiet as the door swung in with a sudden pool of sunshine— "Good afternoon, Maria."

She took a step back, heart racing again as she took a deep breath. She didn't think—closed the door as quickly as she could with shaking hands—only for him to grunt as it slammed on his black shoe already sitting in the middle of the threshold. "Quite a rude thing to do," Uncle Josef said softly. He wrapped his hand around the edge of the door, pushing it back toward her steadily as her sweating hands slipped on the knob, finally opening it again just enough to slip through. With his hand gone, it slammed closed, a little rumble coursing through the walls.

"For a moment…" Maria swallowed as she clasped her hands together behind her back, taking a step back into the front room, trying to remember where one of the bumps in the carpet lay where she had almost tripped a few days earlier. "I just hoped—thought it was someone else."

Her uncle snorted, though he didn't smile, his thin lips twisted in a snarl and brown eyes narrowed as he peered down at her. She shivered, his gaze running from her head down to her feet—back again, though it lingered on her body before returning to her face. "And not a very kind thing to do say to your uncle, dear."

Another step backward, then another—and now her hands, then her backside were against one of the little side tables that jutted away from the wall into the short hallway in from the front door, another surface laden with the empire and the war, framed pictures of the emperor and his Hapsburg ancestors from the prior century. "Mother—isn't here right now." Her palms damper; she had to tease her fingers apart and wipe them against the back of her bodice one at a time. "Is there something—"

"I know exactly where she is, she's with her stupid daughter at the market. I came to see you."

"I don't know why you would—"

"I worried over you for years after you left for college, girl, after so many years in my house." Just beneath his chin, her uncle began unfastening the thick buttons on his coat; even a few feet away, Maria cringed, his yellow fingernails shining in the electric light. Beneath the dark suit coat, his white shirt and black tie were wrinkled, a few little stains running along the row of buttons. "Take this, won't you?"

"Where would—"

"Come here!" he snapped, one hand in the air and a finger beckoning her toward him. "I don't have much time to waste here with you."

"Then...then maybe you should come back when Mother—"

"Now."

Maria hurried forward, though she still tried to stay as far from him as she could. "I'll hang it up for you, Uncle Josef."

"It's still on me, girl. You'll have to fix that first."

Maria's hands trembled as she peeled the collar away from his neck, a thin spray of unshaven beard covering his chin and the very top of his throat. As she managed to slip the jacket's sleeves down his arms, the black suit coat underneath was wrinkled as his shirt. The reddish-brown hair with its little slivers of grey was just as unkempt, as though it hadn't been combed in the morning, perhaps for days, and...She glanced up. His pupils were dilated, mouth just open with his teeth shining with their own yellow stains behind his lips; through the heavy stench of cigarettes, she thought she smelled alcohol.

After freeing his hands from the coat's cuffs, Maria folded it over her arms, ready to hang it on one of the hooks in the corner just beside the door where all visitors' coats waited for their departure— "Keep it, Maria."

"But—"

"I don't know how long I'll be here to…" Raising a hand, Uncle Josef lifted her face, finger and thumb in a tight hold on her jaw. He was smiling now, the same sort of smile he had sometimes worn her last days of secondary school before she packed her things for college. "Enjoy your company."

"I don't—have much time," Maria said loudly, walking away from him quickly as she could. Folding the sleeves in, she dropped her uncle's coat on the sofa's far arm, turning around for the dirty rag on the center table. She shook it open, though there was no dirt to fling away now. "Mother asked me to finish—cleaning these before she returned from the market. I don't know when she'll be back."

"They're cleaned every day," her uncle said, his own paces slow as he followed her, arms now across his chest. "Missing a few won't trouble her." He dropped his right hand, scratching at a spot beneath his suit—just above his waist. "And I wouldn't worry about Elisabeth. She and Hannah will still be a few hours, that's what my wife told me when she left."

"Oh…" Why aren't you at your office or in your court room? Maria asked as she turned back to the endless row of statuettes. The next was another soldier of some sort, a musket in his hands that had lost its paint long ago. Shouldn't you be on a Monday? "Well, she asked me to look after them, so I do want to finish it." This little soldier was heavier than she expected; solid instead of hollow, she discovered, no hole in the bottom. "It's one of the few things she asked me to do when I arrived Wednesday evening." Maria braced her knee against the sofa, one of the springs creaking gently under even her weight. "Or I guess just whatever she asks me to do each morning—"

"Very kind of Elisabeth to let you stay for a time."

"Yes." Maria nodded, almost dropping the soldier onto the cushion, her hands suddenly shaking again with the measured thump of his old shoes on the carpet. There's no reason to be scared, she thought, her grip tighter. I saw him like this so many times when I was younger, and everything turned out fine. "I just wasn't sure where to go."

"Weren't you? I'm surprised to see you here at all, especially alone after what you said in your letter." His voice was still soft—right next to her ear, and Maria shuffled down the narrow aisle between the table's edge and the sofa. Her left shoe caught on her right heel, but her knee against the front of the sofa's cushion kept her on her feet. She didn't hear any more footsteps, so maybe be had decided to just— "Odd of you to come here—Maria."

"Why?" she asked quietly, loosening her white knuckles to turn the soldier in her hand around to attack an invisible smudge on his coat. Oh, I want to talk about him with you even less than Mother!

Now she heard the footsteps, the floorboards beneath the old carpet creaking—coming nearer and nearer. "It wasn't the last place you lived in Vienna, was it?"

"No—"

"So why here?" he asked as he settled one of his hands on her shoulder—then clenched his fingers, digging into the muscle beneath her collarbone.

"Why?" she gasped as she fell back toward him, his other hand right at her waist as she tumbled toward him.

"Yes, Maria, why?" he hissed into her ear as he leaned forward. His hand was tightening above her hip, his fingers digging into her dress—now the thin layer of fat over her spine. "Not the last place you called home."

Maria shook her head, the knot of hair at the top of her neck slapping her skin. There's nothing to be afraid of, it's just like before, really. I've seen him unhappier. "I didn't—didn't know if you and—Aunt Hannah would be at home."

"So late in the evening? Why on earth would you think anything else, you stupid girl."

Opening both of his hands, Uncle Josef pushed her forward into the ancient settee: her knees landed at the front but the force of his thrust threw her into the sofa's back, both of her arms forward to break her fall. The rag in one hand might leave a smear of smoky gum, but Maria heard a faint snap, felt a little fissure against her other palm. She twisted around just to keep him in her sight—still a few feet away—her knees still digging into the cushion, only then opening her hand. Right down the little toy soldier's front, a thin crack ran from the base where his feet disappeared up to the very top of his coat. "I just didn't—"

"Learn to keep your thoughts to yourself for once," her uncle snapped, slapping the top of her arm. "Put that rag down."

Oh please, can't you just leave? I don't know where else I could have gone—not right now. "But I need to finish—"

"And I told you to put it down, girl," he went on, fingers in her hair just long enough to yank her bun back, a faint whine of pain rising out of her throat. "Coffee, now."

"But—"

"Do as you're told, you little…" He paused. "Don't make me say anything I've already said before."

"Yes, Uncle Josef," Maria murmured, both the little cracked statue and dusting rag dropping from her hands onto the cushions, the former with a gentle thud. She pulled one of her legs around, her skirt caught up above her knee as her feet found the floor, but she dragged it back down, pulling so hard she almost thought she heard a little pop along the hand stitched seam at her waist.

Maria didn't look back as she ran into the kitchen, happier than ever that most of the kitchen lay behind that short wall, the stove, small refrigerator, even most of the cupboards. The percolator sat out just the way it always had in the flat with Georg, used so often that it was silly to put it away. I don't remember where you keep the coffee, Mother, you never really let me in here even all those years ago when I was still here before, and you usually have everything ready before I'm downstairs. She took a quick look over her shoulder—then turned back even faster. He was in the doorway, his body filling the frame, simply...looking at her. "I'm—I'm sorry, Uncle Josef, I just can't remember where—"

"Right beside the pot, Maria, if you'd open your eyes for once."

Her hands shook as she tipped the percolator lid back and twisted the little rod to remove the basket for the ground coffee. At least I know this much, Maria thought, the lid on the tin of ground coffee stuck tight. She wedged a fingernail beneath the lip and the metal came away with a soft pop, the smell already wafting up into the air. The steel scoop with its short handle was half buried and just picking it up left a layer of finings across her fingers. After a few spoonfuls, she pushed it back into the grounds—just the very end of that handle peeking out—and pressed the lid on once again, not so tight as her foster mother had done that morning. The percolator beneath the tap in the basin, Maria filled it with water then set the basket with the coffee on top again, a few drops of water already rising up through the grounds, as though she had added a little too much water. I always did that for you, too, Georg, she thought, pressing the lid into place with the heel of her hand.

With one of the burners now back to life, Maria set the pot down gently, the wooden handle facing out rather than in. I did that once, but I don't think you saw, Georg. I don't think you were asleep, you rarely sleep later than I do— Across the kitchen, her uncle coughed, Maria standing straighter at the faint sound, almost buried by the coffee pot that was already gurgling. She shook her head, hands on the chipped tile counter to steady herself. I forgot for a moment.

"Do you want anything else—Uncle Josef?" she asked quietly, opening the first cupboard above the stove, already warm with the heat radiating upward, handle covered in a tacky film of cooking grease. "I'm sure Mother has something, if you—"

"You're the one with the sweet tooth, Maria darling."

Maria kept her eyes straight ahead as she opened the next cupboard—filled with plates and bowls—and then the next. Something—anything—not to turn around and look at him again. It would be so much nicer for you, Georg, she thought, that cupboard door closing with a snap on noisy hinges. I wish it was for you because...The next cupboard had a shelf of coffee cups already squatting on matching saucers, cream with pale pink flowers and fine golden handles. She brought the first down carefully, hands on either side of the delicate saucer and the cup clattering against it. It was even louder as she placed it on the counter, the clatter muted by the growing whistling of the pot next to her. She turned the heat down to a low hiss before she reached for the next cup. It, too trembled in her hand before she placed it on the counter, then...She turned slowly, just far enough back to see—

Her uncle still stood in the doorway, now leaning against the scratched frame. His suit hung a little looser from his shoulders, shirt and tie more mussed than before, hands in his trouser pockets. He was still smiling, that unhappy little grin until he licked his lips— Maria spun back to the counter and coffee cups, her breathing louder as she grabbed for the knob on one of the drawers below to steady herself. You looked at me that way when I was a little girl, I remember it, when you thought no one else was looking. Her vision blurred with a few tears. And now, no one is. Something swelled in her throat: swallowing the saliva now flooding her mouth was nearly impossible—even breathing was harder. I should have—

The coffee's moaning grew louder, so Maria turned it down again. I should have just done something—anything when I saw it was him. Along the back wall covered with peeling paint, the dish of sugar meant for the table was nearly empty. A quick search of the tins beside it first revealed flour and Aunt Hannah's tea bags, then the sugar, already half empty. I don't know what, she thought as she tipped it into the little ceramic pot, a dusting of sugar falling onto the counter as well. But something—

Behind her, her uncle coughed again, this one deeper and raspier, almost damp like he was struggling against something in his chest. I'm frightened, Georg, with him right now. Never like I was when I was a child. She returned the lid to the sugar tin, but it clattered away from her trembling fingers to the counter. You asked me before if I was frightened—of you or...or really that night, and I wasn't, I never was...But I'm frightened now. There was always someone else, or I could hide in my room. I'm alone now, just—

Maria picked up the cheap metal lid but it slipped away again, her hand still too shaky to hold onto it. This time, it landed atop the refilled sugar pot—bounced forward against one of her foster mother's prized coffee cups—tipped it forward— Both hands up, Maria caught it before it tumbled away onto the old tile floor, a little gasp escaping her mouth as she pitched forward herself, elbows smacking the counter's edge and shooting the tingle along her forearms. I didn't manage to catch it, that morning, she thought as the turned the cup right side up again and placed it back on the saucer with a faint rattle. But you didn't care, at least not that much. She pushed it away from her, from the edge, then wiped one her eyes with the heel of her hand. It's not even his house, but I know he would use it for—I don't know what, I don't want to know. I just wish…For a moment, Maria thought she felt his arms around her waist, his breath in her ear as he sometimes did whenever he surprised her, dragged her into an embrace she hadn't expected. Just like—that night when everything changed. Did you realize it then?

"Why did you have to go, why can't you come back?" she whispered, now opening the little refrigerator. It must still be somewhat new, something she didn't recall from her early years in the house, yet to be scratched, probably polished daily like everything out in the front room. Now I'm in Vienna, I couldn't stay in Salzburg any longer. Taking the little jug of milk from the top shelf, Maria poured a healthy dollop into one of the cups, just for herself. But I...I want to be back with you. Returning it to the shelf, she closed the gleaming white door slowly, her hand lingering on the edge. I don't want to go, I don't want to turn around. Wherever you are, Georg, I know it's silly to want after you just...disappeared and I don't understand why, whatever you said...But more than anything—

Outside, a loud sound ruptured the quiet, almost like a car engine that didn't quite work right any longer, roaring again and again—a squealing like tires that couldn't catch the road, gravel grinding, all the sounds cutting through the thin walls. "Oh, please…" Maria murmured, leaning against the refrigerator's side for a moment. "Why can't I be back there with you—"

"What are you sniveling about?"

"I—I'm just thinking, that's all," she murmured, twisting the dainty cups around on their saucers. Something to stop her hands from shaking. Please just stay there. If you do, I can just think that nothing is different than before. Her eyes darted to the far corner; the door to the back garden had been locked for years, well trimmed hedges maintained to hide it from the outside. I couldn't even go that way if I tried.

"You never did that before, even with your school work."

His voice was closer, Maria heard, and she shrank into the counter, wincing as her hips knocked against the rounded edge of the tile. "But I—"

"Is that done?" It was right behind her, his voice that was suddenly velvety, soft...If it was anyone else, she might have thought it was gentle.

"Yes." Maria nodded even though she didn't turn around. I don't want to look at you, she thought, switching the burner off slowly, her fingers gripping the knob even after the hissing began to fade. "Could you take—"

"Turn around when you speak to me, girl." Hand on her shoulder again, her uncle forced her around, now her lower back against the hard tile. His eyes were red, like he had been up most of the night or already had too much to drink this morning. "Answer me now."

"Yes," she whispered, nodding again. "I can—can lay the table now if you'd—"

"Out there, Maria. There aren't too many of us for Elisabeth's little table. It's a little too hideous in here to—talk with you."

Maria had to make several trips from the kitchen to the front room; her foster mother had no use for trays to hold china. "Another thing to dust," her foster mother had always said. Uncle Josef had already taken a seat on the sofa, the cushions sagging further around his thighs, just watching her come and go: cups and saucers, one in each hand; napkins, still neatly folded; sugar pot for her and spoons for them both, though he wouldn't need one at all…As she set each on the table, she twisted them around this way and that, handles all pointing the same direction as though she couldn't make up her mind right where they should go—only to hurry back to the kitchen, lingering in the corner hidden from view.

"I can't make it go on forever. And I don't know what to do," she whispered, her shoulder blades digging into the walls. "I know he's unhappy, he always is." Her hands up at her neck, Maria's fingers tore at her knot of hair, needing something to twist and tangle between her fingers. "I remember how angry he was when I left for college without asking his permission, how I—I wouldn't have anyone to look after me." Dropping one of her hands and crumpling one of her dress's folds in a fist, Maria swallowed a dry sob. "And even if—Mother doesn't really believe me any longer, he'll be angry just thinking—"

"Maria! How long are you going to dawdle in there?"

"I'm sorry, Uncle Josef—"

"Then out here, now!"

Maria had nowhere else to sit but next to him, her legs tight together, almost right against the sofa's arm beside her. Lazing back, one hand to his side and the other across his lap, Uncle Josef's gaze was wandering, almost listless. "Why are you waiting, for it to go cold? Get on with it, girl." She didn't move, but just stretched her arm as far as she could to reach the percolator's handle, the bottom on one of those napkins to stop the hot metal from adding a fresh scorch ring to the battered table. The pot shook as she lifted it, and Maria finally steadied it with her other hand, the coffee still splashing up and out of Uncle Josef's empty cup onto the saucer. Her own was easier, the percolator a little lighter, but the pale milky coffee still splashed up here and there. She tipped a large helping of sugar into her cup, stirred it in with one of the spoons she had brought— "I'm surprised you didn't bring the milk as well, girl," Uncle Josef said behind his cup. He had moved forward as she poured the coffee, now sitting on the sofa's front edge. "Another time for you to go back to the kitchen." She glanced up as he took a first sip, a few more drops falling onto the saucer in his other hand. "But talk, Maria."

"What about?" she asked softly, settling the spoon on the saucer with a clank, then picking up her own cup of coffee. Even balancing it on her palm, the coffee still rippled from edge to edge.

"Anything I wouldn't know now. I know there can't be that much in your pretty little head."

Maria didn't pay much attention to whatever she said of her life in Salzburg, only pausing when he had a fresh tirade. Her classroom and her students (she didn't mention the reprimand from the headmaster the day she overslept as he went on about the foolishness of such a pretty young girl taking a job), saving her coins for a cheap ticket at the music hall for a Saturday afternoon ("A waste of your money."), even a Sunday afternoon at the Mirabell Gardens despite the lingering winter chill ("You can see brambles anywhere, Maria."). As he drank his coffee, her uncle had a fresh cigarette smoldering between his fingers, the growing haze drifting between them. She breathed a little easier, even as she held in a cough or two; at least as the smoke grew denser, he wouldn't see her legs shaking, one of her shoes tapping away in a dull rhythm against the carpet.

I don't know what to do, she thought with another sip of coffee, more bitter as it cooled and a sludgy patch of sugar scratched at her mouth. But—he can't mean to stay much longer—and it will be just like it was before he knocked on the door. Now she was talking about the little markets around Salzburg, the ones she rarely visited except with Georg. I wonder, I really do, if he's hoping I'll mention you. He'll say something, I know he will. When I was young, nothing was ever right for him. Another sip of coffee, the edge of the cup hitting her lip hard, splashing a little of the milky brew onto her cheek. It was always something—

"You haven't told me anything about him, my dear."

"Him?" Maria whispered into her cup as she glanced up, wiping the coffee off her skin with her free hand. Her uncle was leaning back again, limbs loose and lanky again; his coffee cup was on the table just beside the already half-filled ashtray, looking nearly forgotten in lieu of his cigarette. "What do you…" She nearly bit down on the top edge of the thin ceramic cup. I don't know what to say that won't make him angry, and I don't know what to do—where I can go when he is. "What do you mean, Uncle Josef?"

"Elisabeth may not believe you any more, but where is this husband of yours?"

Her leg was shaking harder, the saucer almost turning in her lap. "In—Salzburg."

"And he's let his pretty wife go to Vienna on her own? But…" Her uncle pushed himself up straight, sliding forward again to tap away the next piece of ash at the end of his cigarette. "Put that down."

"Why?"

"Don't ask me questions, Maria, do as I tell you—like you tried to do when you were a girl." She returned the cup to its frilled saucer, the base clicking a few times against the little lip in the middle. He seized her right hand, lifting it up for a second before his thumb began to run along the back—along her knuckles—lingering at the base of her ring finger. "Even I still have the wedding ring my idiot of a wife gave me years ago."

She tore her hand away, rolling her fingers to loosen them, his grasp had tightened so quickly. Even though his cigarette in his other hand, the grime of a dozen already today coated his left, and she wiped it on the edge of her dress. At least washing it out will be something else for me to do tonight, not think about you, Maria told herself, bringing her coffee cup up for another shaky sip.

"It's no wonder Elisabeth doesn't believe you anymore." The sofa squealed as he stood, the pressure on the springs finally vanishing. "You did always like to tell stories."

"But not…" I know it's not a story, Georg, but the longer I'm here, it all feels more like a dream.

"Maria? Shall I tell you about him?" But everything I ever told them about you, Georg, it was all true, at least so far as I knew! It's not a story of my own if you lied— "Maria!"

She slammed her cup down, the last dregs of her coffee splashing out onto her skirt—a few onto the stained sofa cushion beside her—cool enough that it was chilly as it spread along her knee. "Yes, Uncle Josef?" she whispered as she looked up.

He was still grinning as he peered down at her, his cigarette balanced between his lips at the corner of his mouth. "I asked you something."

She set her saucer and cup on the table carefully, sliding it forward with a little trail of milky coffee she would have to wipe up when she cleared the cups and percolator. The napkins already needed to be washed, her foster mother hated reusing linens even when left untouched. "I'm...I'm sorry."

"You could never keep your mind on anything." A few steps saw him out of the narrow pathway between the table and sofa. "But I'll ask you again: shall I tell you about him?"

"What?" She couldn't help herself, following him as he reached the front room's far edge. He turned back, reaching for one of the little figures on her foster mother's shelf: a little boy in a sailor's suit, all white and trimmed with blue.

"Something," he muttered, the word muffled through half-closed lips. "Anything." He dropped the sailor back onto the end of the shelf she hadn't cleaned yet. Even a few feet away, Maria thought she heard another little crack. "Would it bother you to hear it?"

"Nothing you say…" But how—how would you know anything? I hardly told Mother anything at all. I suppose I hardly knew anything at all. "And I don't understand how—"

"I think I know this sailor of yours," he went on, one hand in his trouser pocket. He kicked at the floor, like he had caught his shoe on a lump in the rug for a second. "Strange how that works."

"Sailor?" Maria pushed herself harder against the sofa's side, arms and legs pulled in as tight as she could. Just a few more minutes and I know you'll be gone, Uncle Josef. "But—"

"Letters to your foster mother don't just stay in this front room, stupid girl."

Maria knitted her hands together, suddenly missing the cold metal of her wedding ring on her finger, wrapped in one of her woolen socks alongside his in her room upstairs. "But how would you know anything about Georg?"

Uncle Josef turned around, leaning over the coffee pot and china to smack another chunk of ash away from the end of his cigarette. "He served well in the Imperial Navy, if that matters to you. Very well indeed."

Maria opened her mouth, but the question died before she could say anything. She shrank back as his little walk around the perimeter brought him back toward her, now between her and the staircase to her room. I could do what I always did when I was younger, she thought, her pulse pounding like a drum in her ears. I'm sure I could, but would I have the time

"Quite honorably."

"But you know him?"

His left hand out of his pocket, her uncle had his fingers up before his face, turning them this way and that as though he was examining something. "No, of course not, I can't say our paths ever crossed, not even in my courtroom." But Georg wouldn't ever need to be in a courtroom, I know that much. "But best that he disappeared now before he learned anything about you."

"What?"

He spun around, still smiling, and he was more disheveled than ever. His shirt was entirely pulled away from the waistband of his trousers, his tie askew, his jacket threatening to slip away from his shoulders. "Why are you so confused?" he murmured as he stepped closer. "With all your little stories, would you expect another man to ever keep them all straight? Maria?"

I don't know what to do, Maria thought. Sweat had bloomed along the back of her neck right at the top seam of her dress, down underneath her arms, even at the back of her knees. I just don't—

"Maria, for god's sake, say something!" he snapped, walking over to her, dragging her face up with his hand. "I know you can manage that!"

His finger and thumb were so tight on her chin, it might leave a bruise. Maria shook herself free—but now, even though he couldn't quite stand in front of her, one of his legs pressed her knees back into the couch, pinning her right there. "But I didn't do a thing—and I don't know what you mean about Georg—" The sting shot across her cheek—a new pain throbbed along her nose—and a sudden warmth filled her nostrils. She brought her hand up beneath her nose—and it too was warm. A few inches from her face, a pool of blood was already filling her palm, more dripping little by little, a few drops through her fingers onto her dress. She shivered, her vision clouding—

Her uncle wove his fingers into her knot of hair—yanked it down to pull her face up again, so hard the back of her skull cracked against the top of her back. A deep breath just filled the back of her mouth with more blood. "Play all you want, Maria—"

"I don't understand what—"

He slapped her again, his hand shoving her back into the cushion so hard a long buried cloud of dust set her coughing, her throat gurgling faintly as he wiped his hand on her shoulder—shook it with another little spray of blood on her cheek. "You'll always be what you are, you little wretch."

O O O

Just before midnight, Elsa's townhouse, Vienna

Something was wrong. It had been troubling Georg since midday, like something in the air now drifting by on the breeze. All through dinner as the veal and potatoes were served, the wine poured and refilled, the cook's special cake on dainty porcelain plates set before each of them...it lingered in his stomach, though it might have been Max and his enthusiasm for dessert even after the afternoon pastries.

Mercifully in the privacy of his own suite since the conversation after dinner had ended, he had sat in a thick cloud of grey smoke for...well, too long, probably. My own little sanctuary, he thought, finally standing from the desk tucked into the far corner, now walking to the window. He threw it open to the chilly evening, a little outlet for that veil of smoke and a breath of fresh air for him. And then...the same uneasiness. "Something's wrong," he muttered again as he extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray on the desk, already filled with a few days of crumbling white ash.

She was still on his mind, had been ever since the morning he peeled himself away from her in silence. Neither the villa nor Elsa's townhouse that he intended to call home for the next weeks had pushed her from his mind. I don't know if I ever thought walking away from you would, not really. He rapped his fingers along the windowsill, taking a deep gulp of the cool evening. Despite his silk nightclothes—far nicer than he had ever bothered to bring to the flat in Salzburg—he was too warm with too many thoughts and worries cluttering his mind. Where she was, what she was doing, how she was faring...It wasn't something I wanted to do, darling, Georg thought as he bent forward a little, both elbows now perched on the sill. Not really—not at all, Maria.

The sun had set hours ago, earlier with each passing day as the end of October approached, and now it was the moon hanging in the sky, waxing larger each evening since it had finally disappeared the prior week. "I suppose it's fitting, darling, leaving you right then. Nothing much to mark your path." He scratched at his face for a moment, the night's beard already sprouting along his jaw. "I don't have anything either—and I could find my way beneath the ocean. Something about you has always left me wandering, darling." He snorted. "Perhaps those who wander are lost."

It was only a couple of days after that disastrous morning that Georg left Aigen and the villa for Vienna, but he hadn't been able to stop himself. Driving through the shabbier segment of Salzburg in the convertible he had taken back from the chauffeur, he felt the pedestrians' eyes following him, more out of place than ever. The flat's key was still on his master ring, but he hadn't needed it; the door yielded when he simply turned the knob. And really, he wasn't surprised.

One of the lights down the corridor still blazed, but the rest of the flat only had what sunlight managed to burn through the cloudy sky. But even squinting through the gloom, Georg could see the touches of disarray. Her guitar case was gone, her fanciful books as well. Without the overhead light, the kitchen was a mess of shadows, but he could still see the chairs pulled away from the table, one of them almost shoved back into the counter. It was the light in the washroom still burning, a woman's nightdress and underwear cast aside on the floor. And in the bedroom they had shared, the bedclothes were rumpled as though she hadn't touched them after she woke and scrambled for the clothes she had eagerly stripped away the night before. Both doors on the wardrobe were ajar and everything that had hung on her side was gone. On the shelf above, everything he had demanded she tuck away from her life before had vanished. He hadn't been able to stop himself, shoving his hand into the far corner above his own clothes still hanging there...Everything he had always left there, except for...Opening the quilt with a rough shake loosened nothing, not the one thing he had hoped to find.

"I did ask you to keep it safe for me," he muttered with a faint cough. Something had been scratching at his throat for days, a cold ahead of the winter season. He rubbed at his throat, a little knot growing just above his nightshirt's silk collar. "Perhaps in my own way, I did ask you to take it, even though it was of no use to you." Or me.

The clock on the mantle was ticking gently, over a fireplace that never glowed, had no marks from flame or ash. It wouldn't be too long until Elsa knocked on his door with her nightly invitation. "You're too lonely here, darling. Stay with me tonight." He always said yes, though he hadn't even touched her last night, simply lying beside her and listening to her breathing, those faint shuddering snores as she turned over in her bed. Wishing for something different.

Don't worry, I know, Elsa. I'm better off here—with you—than with someone else. I suppose it's easier with you. I can't break your heart. Agathe always enjoyed her time with you, but there was always something about you that was walled off. I suppose you've played the game in Vienna a little too long. And me...Georg turned around, peering at the clock—but it was too far away, the hands too thin to read properly. There's nothing left for you to have, let alone break.

It never should have been, Maria, I can see that now. It was hardly more than a year ago, all I had to do was try. No foundering, no struggling along a path I can't see. I can't look away from it, to the right or the left, or behind. At you or the woman I loved. All in the past, and that's where you both have to stay. Turning back to the night looming heavily over him, Georg shivered as a breeze flitted by; it tumbled over his skin but didn't bother him. Straightening his back, he folded his palms over the windowsill, the wood already cold and damp—but he didn't feel it, just the ache in his bones instead. The chill had already burrowed through to his core. For the best, Maria. All your passion for life, it would be gone so quickly. I would snuff you out somehow, like water in a furnace.

The click of the clock's hands were maddening in the quiet, but he pulled both halves of the window in anyway with a crash, twisting the latch closed with his thumb. Still no telling just how long until those knuckles and exquisitely painted nails knocked gently on his door. Turning back to his suite and the door waiting to rattle with the request he would never resist but probably leave unfulfilled, Georg dragged his fingers through his hair. It was already mussed from tearing away the suit and shirt of his daily façade, from pulling on his nightclothes instead. There's still no telling where I'm going, darling.

O O O

Just after midnight, Kagran, Vienna

The guitar strings danced under her touch, slow and low as the instrument's curve dug into her thigh. Pressed down here—plucked there—almost cutting into her fingers. Maria didn't know what she was playing: the chords, the notes, even if it was a song at all. I don't know what to do. It was the only proper thought she had managed since the afternoon as she escaped to her tiny bedroom, dragged the cupboard in front of the door with the last of her strength before her quivering legs gave way beneath her. Just how I had to do with my bedding before I left for college, she thought, another few notes tumbling out into the still air.

Her foster mother had pounded on the door late in the day, finally home from her errands with Aunt Hannah. Why was the front room only half clean, why was the china still sitting out in the front room like she had had a visitor, the coffee probably soaking in to leave a stain? Maria hadn't answered, curled up in her bed against the throbbing pain in her belly with her face buried in her arms. By then, her eyes were already red and dry, every tear she had left long gone.

Another little melody bounced from the old walls as she peered down, her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, her rumpled skirt just below her knee. She hated her dress—she never wanted to see it again, wear it again—but she couldn't bear to strip it away and finally see what lay beneath. Her shoulders and arms ached, probably wearing a pair of identical bruises she didn't want to see. She hadn't gone to the washroom, not for anything; she still hadn't seen how much blood was on her face. I don't suppose you'll want to know, Mother, she thought, finally loosening her left hand around the guitar's neck. Sometimes, I think you like Uncle Josef more than your own daughter.

"I'll beat it out of you, don't think I won't."

Her stomach grumbled, complaining for something to eat as she shifted back toward the center of her mattress. She hadn't even left her room , despite a desperate thirst and the velvety bloody cotton coating her mouth. "I don't want to be out there," Maria said slowly as she slid her fingers up to the little knobs at the top of the guitar's neck. She twisted one to tighten a string, one of notes a little too low. "Not if you'll be talking about him the way I know you always do."

Her face itched, and she scratched at the patch of skin just over top of her lip; her fingers came away black with yet more blood, dried and crusty. Her nose still throbbed, probably would for days. I don't know where I would go, especially right now. She turned her guitar on its back, laying it across her thighs as she glanced down. Sonja's doll sat beside her, button eyes staring off into the distance and her dark thread hair tangled after the train journey in Maria's carpetbag. I don't think you knew either, Sonja. You kept asking for me when I know you didn't need to. After I told you the easier way to figure your mathematics, you didn't need to ask. But you weren't asking because of that, were you? She stroked the doll's little crop of hair—

"Do you think he'll ever want you again?"

Maria set her guitar aside right at the foot of her bed, then fell back against the quilt with a thud. "It was a different world when I woke this morning, Georg—" She hissed with a new pain that ran across her belly as her skin and muscles stretched. "I never should have come here, but I didn't know what to do, I still don't know what to do. But where—"

"I'll see you later this week, darling."

Her fingers digging into the sheets, Maria's hand was suddenly in a fist, one or two nails bending back as the sheets snagged underneath. The way he looked at me, Georg, it was like he'd been waiting for years. Back up, she winced as the muscles in her abdomen screamed again, and a bruise on her bottom burned against the hard mattress. Like he had been since I was just a little girl. Since I was a child. She sniffed, a clot of dried blood under her nose nearly cutting off air through one of her nostrils. From what he said, he's heard of you—or knew you. But why would I believe anything he said, when now I know I can't trust him with anything? Or trust you with anything? You wanted exactly the same thing, in your own way.

I have to find my own way, Georg, if you won't be there with me—and I don't know if I would want you there, either. And wherever you are, you're going to have to find yours. I know I can't stay here any longer, not with...She pushed her forehead into her folded hands as she took a harsh breath through her nose, the scab growing there scratching at the delicate skin. But I won't run away again. I can't. It's what you did—was it what you did before, too? To whomever Agathe was? Disentangling her fingers, Maria scraped at the patch of blackened blood again, less coming away; maybe there wasn't much left. I don't think I can stand the thought of being like you, no matter...No matter how much I thought I loved you.

I can't stay here anymore, there's no reason to stay. There's nothing left for me here, I know that now. But...I won't ever run away like I did, from Salzburg, from the thought of you. Never again. I don't ever want to be like you because...I wouldn't be here if I hadn't. She pressed her palm to her eye, almost aching itself, it was so dry. Maybe it's best that I can't anymore. I've already cried enough for you, Georg.

There wasn't too much to pack, Maria knew as she scrambled to her feet, only what she had come with. She wouldn't even have all that take with her! Hardly bothering with the buttons, she yanked her dress over her head, the frock inside out by the time she had her arms free. She threw it aside, not looking at the flurry of grey fabric as it sailed across her bedroom into a little pile just beyond the foot of her bed, the little drips of blood still dark and vibrant. A quick glance down…

Dark hand prints marked her arms: one at the top of her left, three on her right. I'm leaving too much here, Father—and I want to leave more, all of it, I think, but...I can't leave any of me here. She shivered, whirling around to her bed and seizing the quilt—throwing it over her shoulders with a harsh tug, all the sheets coming loose as well. I already feel dirty enough—

"She's easy enough to send away, Maria, if I want you again."

"Well, I won't be here if you do," she whispered as she sank to the old wooden floor, one hand scrabbling against her throat. Even without looking, she felt the bruise seared into her sore skin. "I don't think I'll ever be back again, even if I don't know where I'm going." She clawed her fingers into the quilt, dragging it tighter around her shoulders. "Just...oh help, Father."


A/N: Still a huge fan of the .hack/SIGN soundtracks, especially "A Stray Child". Seems highly appropriate here.