Chapter 38: Old Routines

Evening, 4 June 1936, Aigen

Liesl fidgeted on the hallway carpet, rolling her shoulders up and her shoulder blades against the wall. She hooked one finger beneath her nightdress's collar and tugged it away from her neck, a little of the warm summer air escaping. Her skin was already clammy with the humidity, the little breeze from the open window in the room she shared with Louisa and Brigitta held back by the door. The hallway lamps had already been dimmed for the night and she had to squint just a little to really see across the hall, both of her brothers against the opposite wall next to their own bedroom door. Maybe Fräulein Isolde was right, always telling me I shouldn't read when the overhead light was turned off. She yawned, muffling it with her elbow. Probably just the time, she thought as she stretched out one of her legs. And she told me that years ago, before she decided to leave, too.

A little way down the hall, sitting cross-legged as well, Marta and Gretl were squirming, the youngest only persuaded to stay on the cream colored carpet by Louisa's arm over her shoulders. Beside her, Brigitta was playing a little game with string with Marta, the loops going back and forth between their fingers just like their whispers. They didn't have to be too quiet, they all knew that; with Fräulein Mathilde gone at the beginning of last week, Frau Schmidt had returned to looking after them as well as the house, leaving her as tired as ever and the maids a little less cautious when she retired to her room and a good night's sleep earlier than usual. I know I never like it when you have to do that, but we don't really know what else to do.

As the last years had gone on, it had almost become a normal task, really, gathering in the evenings like this to decide what to do when the newest governess arrived. Last summer, with Gretl finally four and Marta nearly six, Frau Bauer had finally left the house for another position, their father finally deciding there was no more need for a nurse and a governess. Not that he ever really knows what's happening here anyway, Liesl thought as she pulled her leg back. He's always in Vienna except for times like this.

"What do you think she'll be like?" Kurt asked suddenly. Just like Friedrich's, his pajama trousers were a little too short for him now, shirtsleeves as well.

"Probably the same as all the other ones," Louisa said.

Brigitta shifted on the carpet, her backside knocking against Liesl's thigh. "Not as bad as Fräulein Josephine," she said softly as she slipped the next shape of the strings from the tips of her fingers to Marta's. "I don't think she even likes children."

"Who do you think—"

"I don't remember her," Marta said suddenly, on her knees to peer down at the thin string knotted between her fingers.

"You were too young," Liesl said as she leaned forward, seeing Gretl struggling against Louisa's embrace. "And you, too, Gretl."

"Why do you always say that?" the little girl asked, arms crossed on her chest as she pouted.

"Because you are," Brigitta said quickly, pointing at one of the twists in the thread just beside Marta's left hand. "Turn it that way."

"Like this?"

"Yes," Brigitta said with a nod. "And then like that again—over there."

"And again?" Marta pulled one of her fingers away, a loop dropping into the middle that Brigitta grabbed for, but it just tightened into a firmer knot. "But when she comes, maybe we could—"

"Be nice?" Louisa said loudly as she pulled her arm away from Gretl, folding her hands in her lap. "You say that every time we're waiting for a new governess."

Brigitta took the string from Marta, a quick tug at one inner loop pulling the loose end dangling between them through, releasing the misstep. "But why not?" she asked as she undid the one before.

"Don't you ever want to see Father?" Friedrich snapped from across the hall. No one answered for a moment, just the gentle buzz of the dimmed electric lights overhead crackling and arms and feet rustling in the quiet.

"He's home!" Gretl said.

"Right now!"

I know you miss him, Liesl thought as she peered across the hall. Her brother now pulled his legs up against his chest, the lower half of his calves now exposed to the air. Maybe more than the rest of us, the same reason I think I must miss Mother a little more than all of you. There's no one here to show us anything.

"I wish he wouldn't go away so often," Brigitta whispered. Liesl started for a moment, eyes flashing to her side. Her sister had picked apart most of the string game, but a knot still hung in the middle, taut and firm like she had pulled on the wrong end one time too many.

"You wouldn't be able to sneak into the library so often if he didn't," Louisa grumbled. Gretl had given up her little attempt at independence, it seemed, now pushing herself into Louisa's side—almost into her lap despite the older girl's hands already there—but her sister turned her back with a nudge of her elbow.

"But he would be happier—and maybe he wouldn't mind, then."

"You know that's not true."

"Is it?" Kurt asked.

"Why do you think Father doesn't even let us play? Not even during the summer."

Sitting on Louisa's other side, Marta turned toward her, the twin pigtails she now wore most nights whipping about her neck. "But—"

"He's not happy," Friedrich interrupted as he scratched at the hair behind one of his ears, "so we can't be happy, either."

Gretl shoved herself up onto her knees, tumbling forward for a moment before she grabbed for Louisa's knee. "He would if he played with—"

"With us?" Louisa asked as she peeled her younger sister's chubby fingers away, a fold of her nightdress pinched between two of them. Gretl nodded as she sat down again, her hand coming away after a moment. "You wouldn't know—you don't remember anything."

"Everyone says that—"

"Because it's true," Brigitta said as she crumpled the mess of string into a full ball in one hand.

Kurt snorted. "You're too young, too—"

"And you," Louisa went on. "You're only a year older than Brigitta—"

"So?"

"None of you remember things that well." She wished she knew the time, or that the window at the far end of the corridor didn't have a curtain drawn across. At least then, the moon would give her some idea how much had passed.

"And you do?" Friedrich asked.

"More than them—"

"You aren't that much older, either!" Louisa hissed as she dragged her knees up, legs folded in half against her chest. "Besides, all you think about now is whenever there's a telegram for Father—or from him."

Liesl blushed, then turned away.

"You see," Brigitta said,grinning as the string dropped into her lap. "Your face is all red."

"Oh, quiet," Liesl muttered. I shouldn't have bothered coming out here, she thought as she rubbed her hands along her arms, her brothers and sisters already chatting back and forth, their little plots rising up between them.

"Why?" Louisa asked as she sat up straighter, just able to see over Brigitta's head. "You're not that much older than the rest of us."

Liesl set one of her cheeks onto her knees, her gaze down toward the end of the hallway again as the conversation grew a little louder. I'm not a child anymore. You're not always here, Father—hardly at all, really. But I'm not. Even if I'm always with the rest of them. I love my brothers and sisters, but sometimes I wish I just had—something more. Or at least that you would send more telegrams. She bit down a grin; she always had to when she remembered his eyes and hair, the former darker and the latter lighter than hers. If only Father did send more telegrams—but he doesn't seem to want—

"...you think, Liesl?"

"Hmm?" she muttered as she lifted her face, turned back to her brothers and sisters. They were all looking at her, though Gretl was now firmly sat in Louisa's lap, the older girl's arms around the little girl's waist to keep her still. Brigitta had the long string in her hand again, fingers twisting a new set of knots together for a fresh game with Marta. "About what?"

Friedrich sighed as he stretched his legs out, his pale calves gleaming even with just the dimmed lamps. "About what we did with Fräulein Josephine."

Kurt nodded beside him. "The glue."

She smiled. The governess's shriek that morning had woken them all, even the maids scrambling into the foyer to find the source of the sound. "It wasn't very long before she left," Liesl said as she tucked a hand behind her neck to scratch at an itch. Really, it had only been the time she needed to pack her bags. "But you know Frau Schmidt is watching us closer than ever," she added as she scraped her fingernails at that itch.

"So?" Louisa asked as she set her chin on the top of Gretl's head. "She does that every time when we're waiting for a new governess."

"Do you think she'll be here longer than Fräulein Mathilde?" Kurt asked after a moment of quiet.

"There's no way to know." Liesl pulled her hand back just before she fell back against the chilly whitewashed wall. "She was only here for a few weeks—but at least that was longer than Frau Schulte."

"But everyone's been here longer than Frau Schulte."

"But she looked unhappy when she got here."

Beside Kurt, Friedrich frowned as he scratched at his own face. "Don't they all?"

Louisa gently pushed Gretl out of her lap, the little girl catching herself on the carpet with her hands before she tumbled forward. "We could start the way we usually do."

"Glue under her shoes?" Kurt asked.

"That? It's never been enough to send them away right away."

"But that's what—"

"She's right," Liesl said, already hearing the first rising voice that would draw someone's attention. "We don't need to start there. Father's already at home."

"But we still don't see him," Marta whispered. She snagged one of the strings running between Brigitta's hands and pulled it taut, now wrapping it around one of her sister's fingers.

"We won't ever if he's always in Vienna with Baroness Schräder," Friedrich hissed. He gathered his legs up—shoved himself onto his knees and then onto his feet. "That's where he always—"

"Why can't Father just be happy?" Brigitta whispered. Her hands were suddenly limp, the strings dancing between her fingers loosening despite Marta's hold on them as well.

Louisa sighed as she nestled one hand around Marta's shoulders, the game with her sister now forgotten. "He still misses Mother—"

"But not us?" Friedrich muttered as he pushed his pajama trousers down along his legs as far as he could. They had fit him just right only a few months ago, ordered by Frau Schmidt just before his fourteenth birthday after Frau Schulte grumbled at the state of the last pair one time too many when she followed their father's instructions regarding early wake ups at the weekends.

"Maybe…" Liesl's voice trailed away; she coughed to fill the silence. You don't even know us anymore, not really. I know we look like her, at least some of us, but it can't be that bad, can it?

"...liked animals—Frau Wimmer hated that snake so much, she left...When did she?" Kurt asked, already working his way to his feet beside his brother.

Louisa shrugged—then grunted as Gretl scrambled back into her lap, hissing as one of the little girl's elbows jabbed into her growing breasts, still uncomfortable as she learned how to tame them in the mornings. "I don't remember, it was so long ago."

"Wasn't she the first?" Brigitta asked as she crumpled the string into a ball and lobbed it into the center of the hallway.

Louisa nodded as she spun Gretl about a little bit, trying to make her sister's weight a little more tolerable. "I think so."

"You don't want her to get used to things this time?" Friedrich asked as his hands scraped against his thighs. He missed the little pockets in his uniform's jacket, sometimes, the only thing he missed about the silly things they had found themselves wearing through the day—every day—for the last year. At least with his fingers hidden, no one saw them fidgeting and twisting when the pains in his legs were too sharp.

"Why not?" Kurt asked, making no attempt to straighten his own creased nightclothes. "At least if she leaves fast, Father won't—"

"It hasn't made a difference before," Brigitta said softly, a soft sniffle wiped away onto her shoulder.

"Maybe it will this time," Liesl said quietly.

O O O

Georg scowled as he flipped the next page of the household accounts behind his study desk. It was a simple task, if a little long, just verifying where money had been allocated the previous month. Which vendors had been paid on which date, the interest available for any upcoming bills—always far more than could be used for years—any old staff members who had departed or new ones who had arrived to take up the mantle, more than in the past...Georg hated it.

He was rarely at home at all these days, and the job of looking after the finances had fallen to the accountant Leon had recommended two or so years ago. Well, everything but the trust in Vienna, he thought as he squinted down at the ledger. But at least it's in more capable hands these days. Georg leaned forward, closer to the fine ink letters neatly printed in each row, always either Frau Schmidt or Franz's script. Name after name...No discipline at all. First thing I need here. "To hell with it," he muttered, slamming the ledger closed. Folding his hands together against his chin, Georg took a breath—then coughed as a bit of dust caught at the back of his throat.

He hated it because he hated being at the villa. It suffocated him whenever he trudged through the heavy front door, leaden feet dragging on the carpeted steps down into the foyer. "Probably what those sailors I hunted down felt if their captains took them a little too deep." Sitting at the head of the dinner table, one chair always missing just at his side where his wife at once sat as the breath choked in his chest. (It was now at the far end, sometimes occupied by some woman who had answered Frau Schmidt's latest desperate advertisement—far too often empty, but set to be filled the next evening.) Hearing the children scatter whenever they thought he couldn't hear or forgot he was in Aigen for a brief stay. Even seeing them, whether from the window here as they walked about the grounds with order usually long forgotten or in the dining room as forks and knives on the plates were the only noise to be had. No more laughter, darling. It died with you.

But Vienna was as wretched as well. Not most days, every day. Some days in Vienna, cloistered in Elsa's townhouse, he might as well have been alone. She rose late every morning, and well into the afternoon if a party had gone on too long the night before. And even whenever she received one of her friends or many cousins in her parlor, persuading him to sit alongside her with her painted smile and sparkling teeth, Georg counted the minutes until he could escape. Into the great hall—outside—even down the road as cold winter air nipped at his face or his skin sweltered under the summer sun...Somewhere else.

"Of course," Georg whispered, chair legs dragging against the deep red carpet as he pushed it back from the mahogany desk. You always come back to that, and somewhere else is what landed you— A long breath through his nostrils calmed him as he stood, hands around his front to fasten the buttons he had loosened when he finally forced himself to sit and open the damn book. Not even somewhere else—maybe just someone else.

He didn't think about her all too often, about that whole year, really, all twisted up with the grief and pain. None of it simmered beneath the surface now, but lurked deep within, cold and hard. I'm sure you're still out there someplace, Maria, he thought as his eyes darted about the room. Nothing much had changed about the small room in the last few years: it was still laden with dark wood and framed pictures from his naval years, decorations he had once worn on his uniform when decorum rather than the scent of smoke and blood were the day's demand. The wooden floor polished weekly by the household staff peeking from beneath the very edge of the deep red carpet still untouched by the children's shoes. At least you know never to come in here anymore, Georg thought as a chill ran along his back despite the night's dissipating warmth. Turning around, the thick rug twisting under his shoe, Georg relaxed, dropping back to sit on the very edge of his desk.

The sunset that had gleamed through the window had vanished hours ago, a waning moon left in its stead. Someplace out there, under the same sky just like you always have been, Maria. Arms across his chest, Georg shoved his hands into his elbows, even the tips of his fingers cold and frigid. Never like this even when we took our submarines as far as they could go, those days.

The chill rushing through his bones always ran the harshest when she crept into his mind, her brilliant blue eyes and long blond hair. Her slight frame so fragile at times, he wondered how he hadn't snapped her like a twig when he was too forceful with her, particularly that last— No. He never quite allowed himself to remember that night. Dragging his right hand free, Georg dug his fingers into the corners of his eyes, one long fingernail scratching at his eyelid. It was bare, that hand, the fine but plain ring he had bought in that wild fit three years ago somewhere out in the world, probably thrown aside by that girl. And rightfully so. The one he treasured was still tucked away amidst his wife's trinkets and jewelry by some servant who found it in the library long ago: never glanced at, but always remembered.

Never again, Georg thought as he folded both of his hands around the desk's sharp edge, a wooden sliver ready to come loose against his naked fingers if he moved them he wrong way. And not just because of you, girl. Even without being trapped with you, I don't think I ever could. He caught a rough laugh in his throat as he stood again. Even without that license somewhere in the Salzburg courthouse, I'd still be trapped. He winced, a little laughter and chatter from somewhere floating through the crack beneath the door. The children, he knew, already laying plots and plans for their new governess who was set to arrive tomorrow afternoon. You're not as quiet as you used to be. But maybe I'm in Vienna so often, you've forgotten me.

Hands in his jacket pockets, Georg strode around his desk, squinting a little as the overhead light gleamed against the glass in the frames along the wall. Her as well, though I know some of you never quite knew her—even you, Brigitta, if you're ever quite honest with yourself. The photographs and portraits had reemerged over the years, now dusted the same days the maids straightened and polished. Even that last, Gretl in his wife's lap, limbs flailing this way and that as she squirmed against the gentle arms around her. "It's so long ago," he whispered, wiping a little film of dust from the wooden frame's rounded top as the sound of a few footsteps in the hall drifted through the crack beneath the door. Another lifetime, really. Like it was somewhere visited, not something I ever really lived myself.

O O O

It was always dark when the little gatherings ended, and tonight was no different. Not just outside with even twilight gone, but inside as well. Corridor lamps already glowed faintly as they would until morning, and even in the kitchen where they often whispered amongst themselves, the lights on the stove were burning lower.

It's all progressing nicely, Franz thought as he surveyed the kitchen while the last maid hurried through the door into the hallway. It gave way to the staff's stairwells that ran along the main paths reserved for the household: the family, visitors, them whenever it was deemed appropriate for them to be seen. We will be someday when the rest of the country understands what's better for them.

The chairs were all pushed back beneath the table where they gathered for their meals, unless he was at the head of the table in the dining room in the Captain's absence. No late night glasses waiting to be washed in the morning by the cook and kitchen maids who were long ago in bed. No fresh cigarette ends in the ashtray in the middle, though he wouldn't have permitted any smoking anyway. Another thing the Führer has correct.

Making his way through the narrower hallway himself, Franz frowned as he glanced into the foyer a final time for the evening. The light still gleamed beneath the Captain's study door, though at least the odor of cigarette smoke was old and stale rather than fresh. Everything was simpler when the man was away; it always had been. Whether he was visiting Vienna and Baroness Schräder as he often did these days or Salzburg like those first months after Baroness von Trapp died, the conversations were a little less stilted and hidden whenever he was absent. He won't be here for too long, Franz reminded himself as he eased that door closed.

The household Jews were finally gone, the last purged from the villa months ago; what had begun with the gardener and his wife three years gone had finished with a maid at the beginning of the previous December. A perfect time before the Christmas holidays began. A twist in the hallway brought him to the stairwell that led to the staff's corridors, the steps shadowy with the fainter lamps.

The lingering question now was the one that was on his mind so often: the new governess. I don't know how the Captain let the children grow so wild, Franz thought as he passed the first landing. It only opened to one of the little halls that hid the staff—his staff—behind the walls of the gallery, ghosts that only appeared from the dark when summoned. The servants' rooms, including his own larger quarters, were all confined to the second floor beneath the thick beams and shingles, except for the little suite for the governess directly below.

Time will tell. Franz hurried along the landing, then turned onto the next set of stairs. They're frustrating, these new governesses, but never too troublesome, at least for me. Worse, I think, will be Frau Schmidt, whenever things finally change. With just a few more steps to the row of staff rooms, he at last loosened his tie about his throat. Perhaps a little too loyal and certainly too set in her ways to see what's waiting right in front of her that's far better. He peeled it away, the satin wrinkling as he closed his hand. But she's never found anyone too troublesome since that Jewish girl last summer. Hopefully she'll know better whenever this one fails as well. He twisted the doorknob to his quarters, a wall of muggy air rushing over him. But if she does manage those little monsters, at least the Captain will have no need to be at home.

O O O

With the door to her bedroom closed, the latch clicking into the plate with its usual fit, Frau Schmidt sighed. Her hands around at the back of her waist, she was already picking apart the knot in her apron strings. At least they're quiet tonight, she thought, arms now full of her apron. It was wrinkled and dusty from the day: not just from the daily needs of the house, but the final preparations as well. Frau Cäcilia Adler. I've always liked that name, Cäcilia.

She folded it between her hands though she was about to drop it into her bin of clothes to be laundered in the next few days. In between looking after the maids and chastising the gardener and household manager over the mud on their shoes over the freshly cleaned floor, she had supervised the final preparations for the new governess. The mattress had been turned and dressed with newly pressed linens, the furniture dusted and fresh flowers nestled in the vase on one of the side tables, the curtains ironed and drawn back to let in the summer light and breeze when the air cooled. "It should be nice enough for you."

It...Well, I really mean the children, I suppose, Frau Schmidt thought as she opened her wardrobe and dropped her soiled apron into the wicker bin. In the days since Fräulein Mathilde finally ran out of patience as the others before her had done, they had been quieter, keeping to themselves more than usual even with the Captain home to look in on the household and meet the new governess tomorrow.

And you, too, Captain. Her fingers were already making quick work of the buttons down her front to loosen the heavy shirt she always wore despite the June heat. I know you've taken to running the house like one of your ships and treating the children like sailors. And us, even if you don't have us wear those uniforms while we answer to whistles.

O O O

The same evening, Vienna

Elsa shuffled through the stack of papers on her vanity: crisp postcards, creased letters, even a few telegrams crumpled from a young boy's pocket or messenger bag. Nothing too important. A note from a cousin currently exiled to London, desperate to be back on the continent and hoping to visit Vienna soon. A letter from friend returning to Paris from a trip to the east who might drop by during her sojourn in the city the next week. "It would be nice, Natalie," Elsa said as she brought the postcard closer to her eyes. It was postmarked from Istanbul. "Though I hope you were on the European side of the city." But of course, there was Georg's telegram to consider.

New governess in a day or two STOP I'll be in Vienna the day after STOP

It was terse as always, though his correspondence had grown shorter over the last years whenever he was in Salzburg or traveling elsewhere. If I didn't know any better, I would think you're tiring of me, darling, she thought, a shake of her head tossing her platinum curls over her shoulder. Though you are still here quite often if you are tiring of me. Her household maids always kept the suite just down the all ready: the linens clean and pressed, the furniture dusted, the ashtray polished. They had all been surprised by an abrupt appearance from Georg one time too many to allow it to fall into disarray.

But you always have your own suite, even these days. Her dressing gown rustled as she pulled her her left leg over her right, the lilac silk cool and just right for the warm summer night. But even with just that, she felt the heat along her arms and back, sweat dampening her white linen nightdress. A wave of her hand sent her hair over the back of her chair, away from both her neck and shoulders before it stuck to her skin. At least tonight, I don't think I would be upset to have you anywhere but here.

It wasn't clear when it began, though perhaps nothing had never quite changed at all, just grown more stark. Reaching out across the dark table, Elsa snatched for her comb, the mother of pearl along the handle iridescent as the silver shifted to pink and then green. Sometimes I think it must just never have been what I wanted it to be. A first tug at a chunk of her hair drew a little hiss as the teeth gnawed at a knot. A shame, really. We would have done well together, Georg.

Whenever Georg was with her in Vienna—at least when they were out, or her own house was filled with guests and music—she clung to his arm. Smiling and laughing as her jewels and silken stoles sparkled beneath chandeliers and candlelight. But when the party was over—the guests dwindled and music faded—it was now always an increasingly terse kiss on her cheek, nothing more. No matter how she asked him to stay with her for the night, reminded him how long it had been since he shared her bed. Every now and then, Georg indulged her, it seemed, making love to her quickly and forcefully, nearly awkwardly.

Elsa seized a handful of hair on the other side, sweeping her comb through roughly. "It feels like a charade sometimes. They must all wonder if we're playing some strange game." Despite her solitude for the evening, she hid a sudden yawn behind her arm—then ran her tongue along her front teeth as she peered into the mirror with her lips drawn back. No lipstick stains from the day, always an embarrassment whether she was by herself or she happily had Georg...

"It's getting old, Georg. I know there's nothing you can do about—her." Elsa pulled the gleaming comb through the last tangles at the end of her hair. You've still never even told me her name. Through the end of 1933 and the beginning of 1934, little details had slipped about her: the girl's teaching, what sounded to be a wayward love of music, some fervent Catholicism...Georg never said much else when that last came up, though. But it's something to do with all of this, I suppose. With another stroke, the air crackled beside her ear. She really can't be anything to you, if you've left her behind in Salzburg the way you said you did. I don't think I could ever know if you indulge yourself with a bit of fun with her when you're at home. I know you don't like to spend too much time there with the children. One final stroke left a fluttering of strands biting at her pale purple silk sleeve.

Dropping the comb onto her dark vanity and shoving it back toward the mirror, Elsa ran her fingers through her hair. Once or twice, a fingernail snagged on a curl, probably a chip in the polish that would need to be remedied the next morning. "I know it would always have been difficult, darling. I know how you loved her—perhaps too much. Even without that girl, Agathe would always have been in our...Not our way, but she always would have been there." She slipped her leg loose, foot back on the carpet as the heat her thighs had been holding onto rushed free. "I adore you, Georg, but why couldn't you have just taken me when I first let you know that I wanted you?" Elsa yawned again, almost pressing her face into her dressing gown; she just stopped herself, probably stopping a smear of powder from landing there as well. "I'm sure I could love you better than that girl ever could."

O O O

Later that night, Nonnberg Abbey

It was chilly in the lay sisters' quarters, even with the June heat wafting through the corridors. Something about the stone walls and cobblestones always left a clammy film over her skin, no matter how tightly Maria pulled her heavy cotton dressing gown abound her. She smoothed down the rough cotton coverlet falling over the edge of her bed, always laid out just so in the mornings after—

In the far corner, Sister Evi snorted in her sleep as she often did, now probably turning to the far wall given the creaking of the old wooden slats beneath her mattress. "You did say you sneeze every summer," she whispered as she knelt beside her own little bed and began to cross herself. "Perhaps I'll have to add that to my list of things to thank God for, that I won't."

Her prayers wandered through her growing list as she kept her folded hands pressed to her forehead. A fresh purpose after her first months adrift and on her own in Vienna, a year equally alone in Innsbruck. An unexpected home amidst the lay sisters of Nonnberg Abbey after finally making her way to back to Salzburg, the ache of the memories faded enough that she could sometimes walk those same streets with a smile. A new way and future opening little by little, new possibilities that could soar free and almost above the clouds.

But the life she had once lived, the pleasures and joys and sorrows...They might as well be someone else's world, like a play she put on with classmates when she was a little girl. When I didn't know anything, Maria thought as she dug her elbows harder into her coarse bedding and straw mattress. All I really knew then was how much I missed my father. She sighed, a shake of her head whipping her cropped hair around her ears. "You told me when I got here, Reverend Mother, that when the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window. I just can't see where or...how. I told you I couldn't join you and the sisters, no matter how much I longed to be one of you." She sniffed as she blinked, a rare tear blooming in the corner of her eye. "I still can't tell you why, Reverend Mother, it would just be too humil—" In a different corner, another of the lay sisters was squirming in her bed, a girl only a year or two older than her from one of the local farms that dotted the countryside. I suppose I should finish, or I'll just be talking about things I don't want to.

With the last of her prayers finally out of her mouth and drifting up toward heaven, Maria pushed herself to her feet with one hand, wincing as her mattress creaked. Her head spun briefly as she straightened and slipped her dressing gown from her shoulders, her nightdress sweeping forward as she folded it in her arms. Her mattress groaned again as she sat on the edge, toes wiggling in her woolen stockings. "I'm sure I won't like you come morning," she muttered as she reached beneath her bed. "I might like the sort of woolen mittens I wore as a child, but not in the summer."

The base of her carpetbag was worn and smooth, sliding quietly over the stone floor with a gentle bump against her guitar case. But the only other sounds in the little dormitory room were the lay sisters breathing and snoring and sniffling in their sleep. At least they all seemed to sleep soundly, much more so than the young girls she had first shared a room with. She unfastened the latch with a flick of her fingers, the metal just as smooth after a lifetime of holding her possessions.

Maria didn't look down as she shoved her dressing gown away. Though she still had everything she had brought with her to the abbey after the Reverend Mother kindly offered her a roof and home in exchange for her time in their school, she rarely rifled through it. Not simply because of the women milling around her without even a dress to their own name, but...She nearly snapped the latch on her fingers, she clasped it so fast. I'll get rid of it all someday, Maria thought as she slid it back beside her guitar, right beneath her pillow. Or at least most of it. She nearly had—more than once! But whether at the dawn of 1934 in Innsbruck or the last night in her own room before she took her place with the lay sisters of Nonnberg, something always stayed her hand from throwing so much of it away. Her mother's little crucifix and black lace head scarf were all well and good, her father's watch and books…

Maria pulled her rough coverlet up to her neck,now dragging the bottom back toward the end of her bed to cover her ankles and feet. She wrinkled her nose as the hem scratched at her neck and she rolled onto her side, toward the stone wall that gleamed a little in the moonlight flickering through the windows at the very top of the wall. It always starts there, doesn't it? They must still be stuck between the pages of one of her father's books; she had nearly forgotten about them when she opened it one evening after the papers for her new crop of students were marked. Her own words scrawled across the crinkled pages, a little sloppy here and there. "Georg, I'm lonely. I know you said you wouldn't be gone forever, but it feels like it has been."

Knees curled up against her chest, Maria yanked the coverlet over her head—and now sneezed as the coarse cloth irritated her nose. She had slammed the book closed, the sudden flood of tears unstoppable; the next time, she skipped over the entire section fattened by the folded papers. But it wasn't just those letters huddling beside the memories of her childhood in her carpetbag. The little trinkets he had brought her over those summer months, her wedding dress—heavily wrinkled and never again worn—their twin wedding rings that were now covered with dust, even that strange whistle and the note he had left on the kitchen table. I could let those go, Maria thought, fingers tightening around the blanket's uneven hem. But I can't—I can't let myself.

The little doll was always there, too, the dark thread hair wearing out from the years in her carpetbag, one of the button eyes sewn back on after she unpacked her bag after the train ride to Salzburg. Digging one of her shoulder blades into her thin sheet, Maria rolled onto her back, blinking up at the darkness opening up above her. Maybe I would have noticed, if you had been in my class last year—or now.

She shuddered, chilly again despite the damp heat trapped in her blanket cocoon. I never quite feel right here, Father. I'm grateful the Reverend Mother has allowed me to stay—put up with me, I sometimes think. I suppose it would surprise her if she ever knew about...what happened, but I can still follow Your will, even if I am...Maria tightened her fingers around her nightdress's cuffs, now sliding one arm under her neck. But I just don't feel quite right, here. But maybe I just haven't felt right anywhere in my life. Closing her eyes, she turned her head and pressed her cheek into her arm—then moved it upward, now leaving her jaw on the thick seam. It's so cold tonight, she thought, struggling not to yawn. Her arms and legs were heavy, too, some sort of a fresh weight holding her down…

"Maria, keep still," Georg whispered as he dragged her sweaty body against his, her back to his chest. "Neither of us will fall asleep if you won't stop squirming."

She struggled against him—tried to pull her arm free—but his grip was too strong, even just his forearm too heavy for her to move. "I'm sorry." It had only been a few minutes since her heart calmed and the little halo smeared across her vision truly faded. Since her limbs had finally loosened from the strange high, looking and waiting for something she didn't know and couldn't quite find. "I...don't know, this."

"This?"

"Being—" Maria twisted in his arm from her side onto her back, wincing as his tight hold pinched one of her breasts against his elbow. "I mean, trying to just fall asleep next to—like this."

"Well, first of all, you're about to keep me awake if you won't learn to stay still. And despite wearing you out like I already have this evening, I might forget it's not tomorrow morning yet, darling."

Maria's cheeks flushed despite the dark broken only by the very final lights of Salzburg at night. He couldn't see, she knew, the overhead light flicked off a moment after Georg seemed to trust her not to roll from the side of the bed with her trembling arms and legs. "But you're so warm," she blurted out, one of her arms coming up across her chest. Just don't talk about tonight, she told herself. I know it's only right. I knew that earlier tonight, but I think I still need time to learn that myself.

"I don't know what else—"

"And there's so much of you."

Somewhere in the darkness, she heard him laugh, her husband. "I wouldn't be able to tell you much about that, if you mean compared to another man."

Her cheeks burned even hotter. "That's not what I meant, you know it!"

"So what, then?"

She pushed her face into his chest, the very top of his coarse chest hair itching at her jaw. "I've always been alone at night. At least once I was—too old for small toys."

"But now you're not, now, and you'll have to become used to it," he said as he pulled her face up. "There's not much room for both of us." And then a kiss, softer than the ones he had given her before. "Go to sleep, darling."

Maria's eyes opened, a quick blink clearing a thin film over her eyes as they darted side to side. The faint moonlight was searing, at first too bright before everything faded and fell back into the shadows. Her arms were motionless at her side, only her fingers twitching as they curled into the rough sheets. Just those dreams again. It was the one thing that sometimes troubled her through the abbey's night: the quiet could grow so thick, nothing quite drowned out the thoughts and memories. I wonder if it would have been better to stay outside of here. At least I would have the noise to bother me. But at least they aren't the nightmares.

Even just a few months ago when her room with the lay sisters was new and unfamiliar, the dreams had stirred anger as her other life bubbled back up through the years. But these last weeks, the thoughts roiled for a moment as she crashed back into the night, her real world. "It was always a dream," she muttered while she peeled her fingers free, turned over again beneath the scratchy blanket. "At least I understand that now. It was never my life, Father."

They never brought any anger now, just regret. The pathways shut, the roads never to be walked...At least I can do this much. But for now, Maria knew, she needed to sleep. Her students' were preparing to sit for their last tests of the year and she would have to mark them swiftly before she began preparations for her summer tutoring. Just like the last few years. A long breath out against her pillow just rushed back against her face. Like I always do.

O O O

The next evening, Aigen

Georg tucked his left hand under his chin, other hand on the polished dining room table, fingers drumming away. I'm sure Frau Schmidt told you as she showed you up the stairs, he thought. The dinner table had been laid in anticipation of the schedule the household maintained whenever he was at home, with the first dinner course to be served at 7:30. Far later than the children ate on their own, much earlier than he did in Vienna. But the chair at the far end of the table remained empty.

He had only spoken with the new governess for a few minutes when she finally arrived, filled with profuse and pointless apologies about some sort of trouble with the bus from Salzburg. Frau Adler, he reminded himself, fingers rolling past on the wooden tabletop again. Frau Schmidt must have mentioned her given name, but after ten other governesses, Georg had stopped trying to commit much to memory.

The children sat in two rows leading down to the empty seat at the opposite end, hands in their laps as they waited. There was never any rhyme or reason to the order, mostly just determined by whom arrived the quickest. The older children usually left space for Marta and Gretl with their shorter, slower legs, and tonight, Georg's youngest children were sitting just to either side.

Really, how long can it take to settle a few bags of old dresses? Georg wondered as his fingers ran faster, one foot tapping in time. I know it's a new house with a large estate, but you've not concerned yourself—

Up above along the gallery, something clattered. No, not just something, it came again, quicker and harsher— Footsteps, Georg decided, faster and louder as the seconds past. And voices now, too distant and clipped to make out. A woman's, he thought as his eyes drifted up for a moment—then ran back along the table. Many of his children's gazes were squarely on their plates and napkins, not moving despite the growing noise. Gretl peered up beside him, almost confused as her face followed the sound: above his shoulders, then down until she was almost twisted around in her chair. "Sit straight!" he snapped as he pushed his chair back from the edge. The little girl spun back around, a few wisps of hair swaying above the little braided bun over her ear as her face returned to her plate.

The noises and calls grew louder, words finally slicing clearly through the warm June evening that had infiltrated the villa's walls. Georg swallowed a groan as he pushed his chair back from the table, the front feet knotted up in the rug that ran beneath the table. It was a different voice than the last time, of course, a new name about to become a hollow plea, but the same tired play—the same old lines.

The new governess, a woman of middle age probably no older than he: "No, no, no!"

The housekeeper, hurrying after the younger woman already disenchanted with the household: "Please, Frau Adler, it's only the first day, the first evening—"

The governess: "Why would I wait any longer to see if anything changes."

The butler, probably straightening his jacket as he scowled: "Just through—"

The governess: "Just? The last hours have been enough!"

The footsteps snapping against the foyer's tile told Georg the rest of the tale very well as he stood: it was the same finale he had watched play out nearly a dozen times, finishing with the slam of the front door lingering in the air and clinging to the walls. The children hardly moved, only Marta and again Gretl turning to follow him as he stepped away from the table. "Eat your dinner." A slam from somewhere in the front hall. "Before it goes cold."

In the foyer, Frau Schmidt was wringing her hands, her apron twisted up around her waist as her fingers wrinkled it. Franz, as always, was motionless, arms tucked behind his back as he gazed straight at him, staring and not seeming to see anything at all. The housekeeper was saying something, stumbling over her words. The same apology: she had been certain this time, that she had included all the information prior governesses had shouted about as they tripped over the rug and their own bags in their hurry to escape from the house.

Escape, Georg thought as he snorted, hand diving into his pocket. Nearly three years on, he sometimes forgot himself, still occasionally searching in vain: digging against the seam at the bottom and along the silky lining, desperate and scrabbling until he at last dragged it out and curled his fingers into fist to stop the twitching. It might still be with you wherever you are in the world.

"...no idea, her references said she had worked with eight children before. I can't imagine what—"

"Can't you?" he snapped, the housekeeper scurrying a step back toward the front door. He ran a hand along the side of his leg, a few trails of sweat now soaking into his trousers. "Do whatever you have to. I'll be leaving for Vienna in the morning." God, it was too stuffy, like the heat had seeped through every crack in the façade. "Find someone new if you can't keep them disciplined yourself."

"Yes, Captain."

"Maybe you'll finally find someone with the patience of a saint," Georg muttered as he shoved his hand into the pocket in his jacket, already feeling his case of cigarettes. "She'll need it."

A/N: There will be varying amounts of similarity to canon for a while...until there isn't.