Chapter 39: A Calling

Early afternoon, 9 June, Nonnberg Abbey

Tucked into a corner of Nonnberg Abbey, Maria's classroom was mercifully quiet. Her students were gone for an hour, hurrying home for lunch; a few of them never returned for the term's final afternoon lessons, too many chores and other tasks waiting for them. She always tried to sit with those children a little longer before the bell in the steeple rang out the first hour of the afternoon to answer any questions they might have for the work they had already packed away for the day.

She pushed her own papers together, ready to be marked once her classroom was empty for good. For now, Maria struck out the first few points on her lesson plans. Maths had been first, a subject that was never popular with her students and one she always got out of the way early in the day when their minds were still fresh. (Her own as well!) German had followed, then half an hour of the Bible tracts another teacher had strung together years before. She had been preparing to begin their history lessons when the bell sounded the time—and her own stomach reminded her as well. Rubbing at her eyes, Maria yawned. It was about time to make her way to the common room as the midday meal was being laid. At least Sister Berthe won't have that to levy—

A hand on shoulder startled Maria, and she drew a deep breath as she sat straight. "Maria?" someone rasped ahead of a muffled cough.

Her eyes rose as she turned her head. One of the younger nuns, though her face was already a little wrinkled, the lines by her eyes magnified by her thick spectacles. "Yes, Sister Hannah?" she asked with a nod as she shrugged her shoulder free and scooched forward on her wooden chair. Oh, don't be so short, she told herself as she pulled the chair forward across the ancient stone floor as well. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that—it was just so quiet without the children. I just wasn't expecting you."

"Don't apologize," the nun said as she drew her hand back, almost into her sleeve. "You've done nothing wrong."

"You've told me that before, Sister Hannah."

"It's still true."

"I know," Maria said softly, legs twisting around to the side of her chair as she folded her hands in her lap, blinking heavily to force herself to hold her gaze still. But I've done it so many times in my life, sometimes I can't stop myself. She swallowed, trying to smile and loosen the knot in her stomach. "Did you need something from me?"

"The Reverend Mother would like to see you."

"What?" The little fear that sometimes bothered her was back, one scenario after another playing out in her mind. Was there a postulant as qualified to teach as she was? Had the Reverend Mother finally tired of what sometimes sounded like chronic tardiness, if some of the other senior nuns were to be believed? Was there just someone else who deserved her place more? Someone without my problems, even I know she can't know what happened years ago? Biting her lip, Maria tugged away a little dry patch of skin, then licked it away just as fast. "But…" She took a long breath in through her nose. "I haven't really—I mean, I haven't needed to talk to her in such a long time! And I know—"

"I don't know why. Sister Sophia didn't tell me why, just that the Reverend Mother would like you there as soon as possible."

Which was why fifteen minutes later, after tidying her desk and straightening her long grey dress and flattening her hair, Maria was standing in front of the door to the Reverend Mother's office. I really can't imagine what I've done. She pushed her right hand to the bottom of one of the pocket's just below her waist, down into the haphazard seam—then snatched it back out, now clasping her hands behind her back. "Don't stand like that, Maria, people will think we're not teaching you manners. Especially your father." Shaking her head, she just turned to walk back toward that corridor that had dropped her right here: across the little dip in the irregular tiles, footsteps echoing from the stone roof above as she willed one of her hands to stop trembling. I wonder how many other girls—

She hissed, almost biting down onto her tongue as a couple of long fingernails dug into the fleshy part of her left palm. She couldn't stand that word, even when she sometimes forgot herself and let it slip out. I'll never quite like that word anymore, anything like it. I don't think that will ever change.

Maria brushed a little hair from her face then turned away from the stairwell and corridor. Some time recently, candles must have burned along the walls, but they had been replaced by electric lights that only flickered when the wind blew hardest outside. Even though the plaster must have been scrubbed to within an inch of its life over the years, the worst smudges still clung to the arches. Pacing again, now she peered up at the mural on the wall: Christ right as he must have just come down from the cross. I'm sure it was bright and lively when it was just painted, she thought as she paused. The Apostles, the Blessed Virgin...Peter may have walked away, but no one else ever left You in that hour. She pushed herself up onto her toes, her smaller ones crushed against the hard leather. I suppose that must be nice.

The door along the wall a few feet away groaned, and Maria scrambled back from the wall, furiously tugging and smoothing her dress and then her short hair. But there was nothing to do, she was just as she was when she hurried from her classroom. And thank goodness, she decided as Sister Berthe stepped through the door and the capped pillars framing it. Despite how little time she spent with the nuns—even the novices or postulants—Maria learned well enough to avoid Sister Berthe if she could. I wish I could be one of you, she thought as she bowed her head for a moment as the older woman swept by in a flutter of black robes. But I know I made my own bed, now I have to lie— Maria winced. Oh, why can't I just forget all of that? Especially here?

"What are you waiting for?" Maria started again, half turning back down the hall she had hurried down a few minutes before. Arms crossed, one shoe peeking from beneath the hem of her habit, Sister Berthe was shaking her head. "Don't keep the Reverend Mother waiting all day."

Peeling her fingers apart, Maria just nodded as she smoothed down her dress again, hands searching for wrinkles that probably weren't there despite how often she folded the grey frock to store in her carpetbag. "Of course not," she whispered. Sister Berthe probably hadn't heard; she was already at the end of the corridor, turning away and vanishing into the depths of the abbey. I suppose I'll never know what that's like.

Creeping forward up the gentle slope of the medieval floor, Maria rapped her knuckles against carved wooden door. It was still cracked, a little spray of electric light escaping across her arm—and a faint breeze, welcome in the hallway's stagnant humid air. "Mmm," she sighed to herself, leaning forward and coming up off her heels just a little bit. "It must be lovely outside today."

"Ave."

Maria's shoes slammed back onto the floor, one of them twisting under her ankle. "Oh!" She wobbled for a second, throwing one arm out against the carved doorframe to right herself—to steady her breathing. Drawing her hand back and with a final wipe of it against her dress, she pushed the heavy door open.

The Reverend Mother's office might have been a little ornate, but it was still spare and half empty and old, almost as old as the abbey itself. Old wooden floorboards stained and scuffed over the centuries; old wallpaper that might have been bright long ago, like the mural just outside; an old desk and chairs and sideboard that must might have been assembled in the office, they looked so large and heavy; the old altar where the Mother Abbess said her own prayers in private. Even the shutters over the windows were old and probably scratched through the years, to say nothing of the glass panes melting in their tiny iron frames. Really, the newest thing must be the phone on the corner of the desk, and it was old as well. And then the Reverend Mother!...Just the untamed gentle breeze beneath the window must be the only new thing the room had seen in decades.

"Reverend Mother," Maria whispered as she pushed the door closed behind herself, a quick nod of her head brushing her short hair against one of her ears. One of her hands instinctively rose, her fingers fidgeting and ready to braid the strands around her knuckles—but instead, she just pushed it back as the pulse in her ears raced. Sometimes, even after the last years, she still forgot how short her hair was. I really wish I knew what I've done to be here.

"Please sit down, Maria," the older woman said with a wave of her hand toward the old chair before her desk. Hurrying forward—sitting carefully on the front edge—Maria smoothed another imaginary wrinkle from her skirt. Across from her, the nun rustled through a few papers, though she momentarily pressed one hand to her wrinkled face as she coughed, her wimple quivering. "How have you been finding the last few months with us?"

Maria breathed out, her heart suddenly slowing as though she had seen the very end of a race rise up over the horizon. "Oh, they've been wonderful, Mother!"

The Reverend Mother glanced up though her spectacles slid down her nose. "I had hoped to hear that."

"But of course! I knew they would be."

The nun's gaze fell back to the paper she still had in one hand; she peeled the old spectacle loops from her ears with the other, gently setting them to the side of her desk blotter. "Did you?"

"Yes," Maria added, now setting her hands on her knees. "And I'm so grateful, I can't quite tell you how much! I only wish..."

"Yes?"

"I just with I could do more for God, like I've told you before."

The Reverend Mother nodded slowly, hands now folded below her chin. "That is why I've asked you here."

"But—" Maria bit her tongue, grinding her toes against the front of her shoes as her eyes fell to the front of the desk. It might as well be the abyss, the black wood against the dark room; not even the pair of lamps on either side of the office were enough to shine through it all. "I don't understand," she managed after a moment. I don't know what you could mean. No one knows—no one! No one here knows who I really am.

Those first few days, maybe even the entire week, Maria had taught herself almost as much as the children spread amongst the desks in her classroom. How to say things just so, how to smile for a moment when she had to stop herself before some of her miserable youth and younger years tumbled out, how to answer only part of a question when the rest of it left her squirming and embarrassed. Her prayers had been longer than ever in those days, but those questions faded quickly. After all, none of them were at the convent for friendship and the sisters only asked to know enough for polite conversation.

It just doesn't seem real, even though I know it was—is, Maria thought as a few beads of sweat dripped along her lower back. In the June heat, her dress and shift both already soaked right above her waist. But who would know? If I said everything in my bag is from my parents, not just some of it, no one would know any different. The certificate must still be in the courthouse, but I know that clerk wouldn't have remembered us an hour later, let alone now.

"Maria?"

"Yes?" she muttered quickly as she crossed her feet and looked back at the Reverend Mother, smiling again. You're the only one I told much at all, and even then, I really just begged you not to ask me more.

"Don't look so confused. Or worried."

Maria leaned forward, both hands catching on the front edge of the desk to steady herself. "But I told you I can't do what—"

The Mother Abbess waved her hand again, and Maria fell against the chair's back with a gentle sigh. "I haven't asked you here to talk about what you can't do."

She pulled her hands back, shoving them under her legs despite the scratchy upholstery. "Yes, Mother."

The Reverend Mother was rustling through the papers on her desk again, and Maria glanced back up as the nun chose one. One from before, she decided; it was right on the top, creased a few times from probably being crammed into an envelope. "There is a family near Salzburg that needs a teacher and governess until September," the Reverend Mother finally said, running a thumb along the page.

Maria's heart pounded again. "September?"

"To teach and look after seven children."

Her eyes widened—her mouth opened for a moment before she caught herself again. "Seven children!"

"But you like children, Maria."

"Well, yes, but seven?" she stammered. She dragged her hands from beneath her thighs and braced them on her knees, feet and ankles now free as she pushed herself forward again. "And lessons in the summer?"

Another nod as the nun shook the crinkled paper. "That's what the housekeeper said in her letter."

"But why? I've tutored in the summer before—I'm about to again—and no one was ever happy to be there. Surely children should be allowed to be children."

"Apparently, he has other ideas."

Maria balled one of her hands for a moment, then opened it again, flattening her trembling fingers along her leg. She cringed as another line of sweat dripped from inside one of her knees along the back of her sweltering calf. "That makes me quite sorry for them."

"A father must train up his children in the way they should go."

She shook her head, but Maria knew there was no point in protesting further. Though she had little experience with the Reverend Mother—even the lay sisters crossed her path more often—she was a formidable woman who stood almost as strong and sturdy as the mountains surrounding the city. But..."It can't be right, not letting them have time to play. Really—"

"Maria—"

"I was already looking after half of a house by the time I was ten," she went on, things she had never said before in the abbey bubbling up and out of her mouth. "I never quite had—"

"Maria," the Reverend Mother said, her voice low and deep as she reached toward a stack of blank paper just to her other side.

"Yes?" she whispered. I really shouldn't say anymore. I didn't even tell you, Georg— She drew a deep breath like there was a sudden stitch in her side. It was rare that she really thought about him when the sunlight burnt through all those memories, his name almost foreign after so long. She couldn't even recall the last time she said it aloud; but even when the thought of him managed to anger her now, at least she had never been afraid of him. I had other things to be frightened of.

"May I?"

"I'm sorry." Maria bowed her head and steadied her hands against the chair's upholstery. "Sometimes, I just keep saying things before I really have time to think about them."

"Your own honesty." Paper settled in front of her, now the Reverend Mother reached for her pen with just one pause to dip it in the pot of ink, already scribbling a few quick words on the page. "But...You're a teacher in our school."

"Yes, what of it?"

"And we're happy to give you a place with the lay sisters. You're doing God's work as much as them. And we wouldn't have you here if you weren't willing to do God's will." Her wizened face down again, the Reverend Mother added a few more words to what must be an answer to that first letter. "But you know you needn't be behind the convent walls to do that."

"Of course—"

"So the Lord will show you in His own good time."

"As you wish, Reverend Mother," Maria whispered, slouching forward as the scratching continued across from her. If you're sure it's what God wants from me. I don't think I can really know myself after all the messes I've made through the years. It feels so wrong, though, all I was doing was trying to find my way and place in—

"I will tell Frau Schmidt to expect you tomorrow."

"I—I'm sorry?" Maria asked softly as she sat up again. I'll have to be better at that if—when I have seven children to mind all day.

"The housekeeper," the Reverend Mother said as she added another line to her note. "Apparently, Captain von Trapp is rarely at home."

Her mouth went dry and Maria caught her bottom lip between her teeth, wincing as patch stung where she had peeled away the skin. "Captain? Captain von Trapp?" she asked softly. She had to fold her hands in her lap again, right one wrapped around her left to stop its shaking. "Captain of what?" No, no. It wouldn't—can't be, of all the people in or around Salzburg.

The Reverend Mother added a final flourish to the letter before she returned the pen to her desk and then pushed the paper away. "A retired officer of the Imperial Navy. A fine man, and a brave one. His wife died several years ago, leaving him alone with the children."

They must be hearing her pulse throbbing all the way in the cafeteria where the lay sisters had set out the midday meal. And thank goodness for the heat, just this once, masking the perspiration coating her palms. It doesn't have to be real, does it? I know you were a sailor, or at least you told me you were a sailor. But I remember enough of the flat, the pictures I didn't understand and books I didn't read. It all seemed so real, but...So were you, until suddenly you weren't.

"Is something wrong?"

"How many years ago, Reverend Mother?"

"She didn't mention the time in her letter." The nun seemed to decide the ink before her was dry, though she still waved the paper a few times in the air before folding it into thirds. "I don't understand how that is important."

"I don't…" Maria shivered even in the afternoon heat. They had haunted her these last years: the slant of each letter and the loop of the vowels engraved on that whistle, the questions she could never answer as the polished steel gleamed in the light. "For my beloved Captain. All my love, Agathe." "I don't know if it is, Reverend Mother." Now her legs were trembling, her feet tapping out a rhythm against the ancient floorboards. She stood, wiping her palms along her grey dress in a trail of damp smudges, one of her knees almost buckling for a second. But I can't explain, not without saying more than I want to. No one knows—they can't know—and how can I stop it without saying something? "Must I really?" she murmured, hands now behind her back again. It's like you still have me trapped—Georg.

The Reverend Mother crossed her arms on her desk. "You're the most qualified teacher in our school."

"But—"

"I doubt anyone else could keep seven children in order."

Maria dropped her face, scuffing her shoes along the floor. They were still the same shoes she had worn for years, even years ago when Salzburg had been a new mystery she was uncovering little by little, repaired more than once with the money— "How old are the children?" she blurted out. I won't think about you now.

With more shuffling across her desk, the Reverend Mother unfolded that first letter again, one wide sleeve snagging on the corner of the phone's boxy base as she offered it to Maria. "It arrived yesterday. See for yourself, if you must." It crinkled between Maria's fingers as she brought it closer, squinting in the dim lamplight.

Reverend Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that you will be able to help me. I look after a large household near Salzburg and am desperate for a governess for the summer, perhaps even the first few weeks of autumn as well. There are seven children in the household, aged sixteen to five, and unfortunately, the Captain has rarely been at home since his wife died a few years ago. It's almost as though they remind him too much of her.

I do hope you will be able to help me. Over the years, I simply haven't been able to keep a governess in the household, especially once the little girls' nurse left last year. The Captain is a great believer in discipline after retiring as a submarine commander during the war and unfortunately, none of the women—young or old—have been able to keep the children in line.

Please write to me at your earliest convenience if you are able to recommend someone, or even if you have someone at the abbey you can spare for the next few months while I try to find an agency to place someone more professional for the future.

Regards,

Mina Schmidt

"No," Maria murmured as she folded the letter again before she handed it back across the desk. "I can't, I just can't."

"Pardon?"

"I…" Sitting again and licking her lips, Maria peered down at her hands, and then away—away from her bare hand as it flashed across her eyes, the thin gold ring that had glinted on her right hand for those few short months. "I'm still just—confused about the children," she said loudly as she looked back up.

"Again, she didn't mention their ages, though I suppose some of them are older." The Reverend Mother was already busying herself with an envelope.

It doesn't have to be the same man, Maria told herself as her stomach twisted. Even if submarine commanders aren't that common here. And even if it is—he isn't—I don't have to be afraid. (The Reverend Mother had the letter tucked away.) I just have the be wary, that's all. Though maybe I'm a little afraid—no, not even that. (She was now scribbling something across the front.) I should have been afraid before when—he asked me if I was, but not now. Even if it is him—well, the letter says he's never at home. (Now licking the seal on the envelope, setting it back on her desk.) And even if he's never at home, and it's just for the summer—

She shook her head, eyes clenched shut. Her head was suddenly full of the quick memories that never quite died. The good: her hand in his for little walks, his small smile whenever his troubles faded from his mind, the pure satisfaction and carnal joy of those evenings and nights. And the bad: how quickly his mood shifted in those last weeks before he walked out into the darkness, the loneliness of the times when he was gone...and that last morning...I can't see him again, but if it's just for the summer, maybe I'll never actually see him. Her fingers full of pins and needles, Maria looked down again; her fingernails were slowing turning white, so she loosened her grasp. I said I would never run from the thought of you again, Georg, but now that it's here...it's so much harder than I thought it would be.

"But…" She opened her eyes: the Reverend Mother was already looking at something else, the letter meant to send her away forgotten, the matter already settled— "Please, Reverend Mother!" Maria cried, on her feet again, her hands on the desk to stop herself from tumbling forward. "Please don't send me away." Her nose running, Maria sniffed harshly, wishing she had a handkerchief. "And...oh, just please don't!"

The Reverend Mother's hand paused in the air in her reach for one of her books. "I know there is something you haven't told us," she said slowly, her hand dropping to that ledger.

Maria shook her head. "I can't, not any of it—"

"And that it is something you don't think you can face."

"It's the only thing I can't do, you can't ask me to tell you—"

"If you're that upset about it, I can think of a reason." The burn running across her face, Maria stumbled back, the curve of one knee knocking into the chair. "You've said more than once that you would rather be a postulant and a part of the novitiate rather than a beloved teacher at our school. Even though the children cling to you like no one else."

"I know—"

"But you say you can't," the Reverend Mother continued as she opened the ledger, flicking through the pages until they fell open to one only half filled. "There are few things to keep a devout Catholic woman—"

"I am—"

"I didn't say you weren't." She reached for her pen again. "Just that there are only a few reasons to keep true Catholic women from joining the abbey if it truly is their calling. Divorce is one—"

"It's not like that, Mother!"

"If you say so, I will believe you." She was already writing something else, though the scratching stopped quickly as she pushed one large sleeve aside. "But why do I think you forgot what Christ said about lust and adultery at some point before you came here?"

Maria's heart throbbed again, palms now drenched as she tucked them behind her back again. But...I didn't, not...not really. Whatever I did or wanted back then, I didn't do that. "But I didn't…" Not even when I...we could have—so easily that day. Her lower teeth were cutting at her lip. I don't think I really knew what you would feel like until— Eyes closed again, she had to turn away. "I…"

"Maria?"

"It wasn't quite like that," she whispered. But I suppose I did, enough that I didn't see.

"Look at me, child." Turning back, Maria opened her eyes, hot with a few tears she refused to shed. Whatever the Reverend Mother had been writing, it seemed to be forgotten, the pen left on the blank half of the page. "I'm not judging you, child, Christ told us not to judge lest we be judged. We have all fallen short of what He asks of us." Hands on her desk, the old woman shoved her chair away and stood with a little rustle of her habit and wimple. "But you're still trying to hide from it."

She shook her head again, faster than before. "I'm not, I just left it there—"

"You're frightened of it. You've never been like this before, not even with the wildest pupils in your classroom."

"But I know how to control them—"

"And you'll learn to control your fear of this as well. And the Lord might use your past to His advantage, and show you in His own good time."

"If…" Maria nodded slowly, her other hand falling free. "If I must." At least that might be enough to help me forget what else happened.

The Reverend Mother smiled a little, her gaze back on whatever she was writing. "It's what God wants from you. Your light shines brightly, and you might not know where He needs it."

She nodded again as the older woman waved her back into the tired chair. As she sat, Maria pulled her feet back, the toes of her shoes balanced on the floor to stop her shaking. "There are so many more children here, though."

Finishing whatever she needed to write, the Reverend Mother closed the ledger. "And plenty of other teachers to look after them."

"But—"

"I have already written the letter, child. You watched me as I did."

"But…" One of her shoes slipped forward on its worn sole. "Why did you ask me here, if you knew would…" No matter what?

"Because you have to learn to do what God wants of you. Even if you don't like it."

"Yes, Reverend Mother." Brushing her still damp palms along her dress, Maria stood—then dipped her knees with a little curtsy. I'll have to write out where we've stopped in lessons, I can at least do that for whomever takes my class for the last few days. Though I don't know if I should tell my students goodbye at the end of the day when they go again. If the—the Captain's children are so unruly, I might be back sooner than—

"And, Maria?"

"Yes?" she answered softly.

"Someday, you will have to learn to forgive yourself, whatever it was that happened."

It's not that, Maria thought. Or not really, it's...She still saw the dark braids and dark eyes, felt the little fingers sometimes smudged by pencil tugging on her sleeve. I didn't see what was happening. "But…" Or I didn't see it enough, I was so lost in you. "I don't know if I can." She couldn't quite look at the Reverend Mother as she listened to the rush of blood in her ears, eyes running over the floor instead. "Not really."

"It's one of the most difficult things to learn, letting go of those things. But go in peace, child." The nun reached across her desk one more time, the little scrap of paper in her hand. "And Maria?"

"Yes?" she asked as she plucked it free. Where I'm meant to go, I'm sure.

The Reverend Mother was smiling at her, though for a moment Maria thought she looked almost sad. "Don't discount what the Lord can do, child, even if you don't understand it yet."

O O O

Lunch didn't sit well with Maria after the short meeting in the Reverend Mother's office, bolted down rather than eaten during her abbreviated break before she returned to her classroom. Her instructions were brusque, and when two of her students came to her desk with questions after they read the short assignment in their history texts, she almost snapped the answers at them before quickly adding an apology before they returned to their seats.

She only had a few notes when one of the newer postulants came to look over her work, a woman a few years her senior who had also been raised in Vienna. Perhaps we even attended the same college, Maria thought as they talked through what had been covered already, what she had intended for the final days of the term. But it doesn't matter now.

Returning to the common room for dinner ahead of the evening mass, she was hardly able to eat a thing. Her fork mainly tapped on the edge of her plain ceramic plate between small bites until one of the eldest lay sisters begged for her to be quiet. And as mass commenced, Maria hardly heard a word from her place at one of the back pews, her own little prayers her sole focus instead. (She always felt that was where she belonged, since she didn't quite belong here.) And when the night finally swallowed the abbey whole, sleep was elusive and fitful, had in little bursts under the early summer haze.

By the time morning came and she pulled her lightly wrinkled dress from the day before over her head, Maria was tired and irritable, choking down a few grumpy words here and there over the morning meal. But at least she felt she could eat something, her stomach still grumbling after a hungry night.

It was a strange walk back to her shared room in the lay sisters' quarters in the silence, sitting on the edge of her rough bed as she glanced around. I've loved this place in my own way, and now I have to leave it. The stone walls were frigid with their small windows up at the very top, a ray of sunshine cut in half by the stone frame as it shone overhead, almost as cold as they had felt when she arrived in the middle of the winter. I'm never here by myself. She rubbed her hands along her arms before she bent forward, elbows balanced on her knees as she tucked her folded knuckles under her chin. I'm not sure I like it.

Maria shook her head before she dropped to her knees with a little clunk on the stone floor, then turned toward her old bed with just a pause to pull her dress free before it twisted too much. She pushed her carpetbag to the right with the bottom of her hand, then out from beneath her bed frame as it spun to the side. There's no point in looking through it, she thought as she reached up toward her pillow at the head of her bed. I just need my nightdress and dressing gown, I...Letting out a breath, Maria collapsed against her bed, one cheek against the scratchy sheet. I'll see it all this afternoon, since I suppose I'll have a little more space than the corner of a small room.

She pushed herself up again, her backside on her heels as she folded her her nightclothes and then unfastened the latches on her bag. Lips still pressed together, she began to hum as she pushed them down along the side, the notes rising and falling little by little. Through the layers, she could feel the edges of all the pieces of her past, long before she ran back— No, Maria told herself as her little tune stopped. Not now. Each handle of her carpetbag in a hand, she jostled it gently to settle her possessions. A few books thumped about, probably her boots as well—and something gleamed despite the dull light. Oh, why now? she wondered as she slumped onto her side. It was her wedding dress shining out of the dull clothes smothering it, still silky apart from the small spray of blue flowers at the bottom hem. I should have left it behind long ago—but I can't do anything about it right now.

Shoving the handles together, Maria closed the clasp before she turned, her bottom smarting as she dropped to the floor faster than she meant to. Just think about something happy. Like...She shook her head, now wincing as she smacked her head into the wooden slat along her mattress. Don't think about then, unless it's just those little things. Like whiskers on kittens. Maria laughed quietly as she stretched out her legs, kicking one of them as the end of her shift poked out from beneath. Brown paper packages tied up with string…

The laughter was gone, her little smile as well as she drew her legs back as quickly as she had let them out, arms around her knees. Around a white dress with a blue satin sash, almost. Clenching her eyes closed, Maria muffled a quiet sniff against her skirt. I still don't know how those would creep in right then when I was trying to think of anything to cheer myself up. Kittens and roses and snowflakes, yes, but why those? They should have just made me unhappy. She turned her face onto her cheek, peering back to her left and her carpetbag. But then again, I still don't understand why I can't let it all go.

The money had been easy: lived on simply and plainly, given away little by little until it was only a small fraction of the schillings, still in the bottom of that bag. She probably should have given it all to the abbey right when she arrived, but something held her hand. After all, she hadn't surrendered her other worldly possessions, not even her guitar! I shouldn't feel bad about it. I just don't like having it near me even though I think I'll need it someday.

The abbey's bell was clanging overhead, though Maria didn't bother to count the numerous chimes. I'll be late like I always am, she decided as she pulled out her guitar case and threw it on top of her bed, rewarded with a creak under its weight. She then climbed to her knees, a quick push forward scraping her skin along the stone floor too fast and probably rubbing it slightly raw. "Just what I should do," she murmured as she stood. "Even though I don't think...I mean, it can't really be what I'm worried about." She stamped her feet in turn, stopping the tingling right at the tips of her toes. "I mean, I don't know if I ever thought it would be forever—you don't know what word really means, do you…" She bit her tongue, refusing to say his name aloud. "Maybe I won't, but I won't let you scare me away. Not again."

There was no more reason to stay, Maria decided, just opening her bag long enough to find a few coins and shove them into one of her dress's pockets, just beside the note the Reverend Mother had written yesterday. She hadn't recognized the address before she crushed it into a ball and pushed it to the bottom of that pocket—and had ignored the rest. It's just a name, I know that, she told herself as the carpetbag's clasp snapped closed again. I'm sure...She cleared her throat. I'm sure Georg isn't the only one who has that name. It's still my name, even if I won't ever say it again. And I don't even know what to make of that whistle, I don't even know if it was really yours. Because I don't know—how you could give no sign at all. But maybe I shouldn't be so surprised, since I don't think anyone here knows a thing about my past either. She stamped her feet again, now seizing her guitar with one hand and carpetbag with the other. But it's not the same. I'm not running away from something like you were. Not now.

She hurried across the room, suddenly a little chilly despite the June heat. She hadn't closed the door behind her when she returned from breakfast; she had almost forgotten and walked down to her classroom instead. Now it opened easily with a nudge of her elbow, though she didn't stop to hear the latch catch as it closed. It was only ever really my things in there since I'm the only one who doesn't belong.

The old corridors and old ways disappeared behind her, the weight of the centuries lightening little by little as the ceiling gave way to the open air of the courtyard, the sunshine broken here and there by ancient stone arches. Where sometimes the silence seemed to throb in waves against the walls, the noise of the city in the late morning washed through the gates on a little breeze, the smell of dirt and exhaust mixed in.

With her guitar shoved up under her left arm—she nearly dropped her carpetbag—Maria dragged the heavy iron gate open with a gentle squeal. "I suppose that's fitting," she whispered as she stepped over the threshold, the gate crashing closed behind her with a dull clang. "Not too many people come and go here. I might have been the last."

Her case down at her side again, Maria didn't hurry along the road hugging the abbey's outer wall, still just the gentle wind for company as the trees funneled it along the hill. It descended little by little, the grade dropping quicker in one spot before leveling for another brief moment. The roar of the city was a little louder whenever the road veered away from the safety of the abbey, only for the weight of that stone fortress to nearly drown it out, like her ear was filled with cotton. Every fifteen or twenty steps, Maria paused—turned back for a moment to peer at the way she had come. It was just cobblestone behind her, uneven and rough as it lazily climbed back to the convent's threshold. There was no trace of her, not even a footprint. "Sometimes, I feel like it's been that way my entire life," she said as she turned back to the road ahead. "Like I might as well have not been there."

She walked around the next bend in the lane, the thickening trees no longer holding back any of the city's noise. Despite the growing heat of the day, she shivered, a few unexpected clouds floating across the blue sky dropping a patch of shadow across her path. I would say that's how I feel now, Father, but it wouldn't be quite right. It's how I've felt the last three years, nearly so. One toe snagged against a stone, but she righted herself before tumbling forward. Not too much farther along the way, there was that long set of stairs she had struggled up months ago, still not certain why—or where she was going. Waiting and tempting..."I don't still don't know where I'm going," Maria murmured, her heart pounding quicker as the first few steps dropped out of her sight and into the hillside. "I've been there before, out in the world like this. It's how I…" How I ended up stuck the way I am. And I know you meant well, Reverend Mother, that maybe it will all be for the Lord's good. I don't know how, not after so long. "But...I won't be frightened of it. Not again."

It was a flurry of quick paces down the steps, the stone old and worn like the staircases behind the abbey walls, sometimes so smoothed by the centuries Maria thought she might slide down to the city. Though she found her footing on even the slickest step, she still paused halfway to the street, mostly to wipe each of her hands dry on her old dress. But it wasn't too long before her feet were on the road passing beneath the shadow of Nonnberg, the cloud's shadow disappearing into the deeper darkness easily.

The road was filled with cars, though fewer than she remembered from her time before in Salzburg, and even the little bench she assumed marked the nearest bus stop was almost devoid of people. Just one other woman sitting almost at one end and peering down at the road. Several years older than her, Maria decided as she rolled her left shoulder backward as a little ache sparked from the weight of her bag. Her hands were folded over an old black bag tinged with grey at the edges and her hair was just as grey, piled in a bun at the very base of her head. At least she might know the way, she thought as she swallowed, her throat suddenly scratchy. I already feel lost enough without really losing my way. "Um, excuse me?"

The woman glanced up, a few stray freckles speckled on her cheeks. "Yes?" she asked softly, fingers rolling along the edge of her bag. "Did you need something?"

"Does this bus go to Aigen?"

The woman shook her head as she slid farther down the bench to the very end. Maria smiled, propping her carpetbag on the opposite end. Peeling her hand free of its handles, she dried her hand on her dress again, her fare jangling in her pocket. "Not quite," the old woman said as she straightened her dress around her knees. "Nearly—and you can find one right around there to take you the rest of the way."

"I don't think I need to go quite all the way, or I don't know. Just to…" She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, not ready to say the name, to hear the name. "I think I'll just need to be pointed in the right direction, that's all."

"Then he'll be able to show you the way."

"He?"

"The driver," the woman said. "It will be a little while, if you want to sit down."

No, I don't want to, Maria thought as she did so with her guitar case balanced on its scuffed rounded bottom, her carpetbag left right where she had already set it. I want to be back where I came from—or I want to be somewhere else, in some world where my life could be different. My own fault and choices, I know that, but I just wish I could undo them all. Even though I know, sometimes I don't really know how it all began, this mess. If I had only answered differently that day, then maybe...She pulled the top of her guitar closer, her left fist now on the case's top curve. But that's the closed door, isn't it, Reverend Mother? It was a little warmer suddenly, a bit of the shadow from overhead lessening as though the cloud was fading into a few wisps. I just don't see how this is the open window you like to talk about. I certainly don't think it is, even if I'm frightened of something ridiculous. I may have found—Georg twice on the city streets by accident, but I don't think it could be like that a third time. Maria heard herself hiss even thinking his name, now frowning behind her guitar. I can't do that my entire life. It's just a name after all—Georg or Trapp. They don't—none of them belong to him anymore than "Maria" belongs to me. She gulped down a deep breath against her tightening chest. And neither do I, no matter what he said!

Maria and the other woman sat in silence for a few minutes, others with places to go and be scurrying in front of them on the sidewalk. Just behind her, Maria noticed a man standing, a newspaper open in his hands—then another joining him, a quick conversation springing up with the rustle of thin paper being folded again. A trio of girls probably hardly past ten running along the opposite edge of the road, maybe heading to the corner shop to purchase some sweets for the day despite the early hour. It can't be too early, though, she decided, the sun nearly overhead. Maybe they're just in the midst of errands from their mothers. Something ordinary for ordinary girls. It's just an ordinary day, after all. She relaxed, bringing her guitar with her as she leaned back against the warm bench, now having to squint as the sun beamed down without a cloud to break it apart. And I'm going to an ordinary house, no matter who owns it.

It was another few minutes before the bus shuffled up along the street, a little slower than Maria remembered. Though, she decided as she stood with guitar awkwardly shoved beneath her left arm, she hadn't even really looked at one since that day at the beginning of the year when she leapt into the cold with her winter coat buttoned snugly around her, all those steps covered in snow looming large as the abbey waited at the top. I didn't know where I was going then, either, she thought as she waited toward the back, almost impatiently as those men tarried like they meant for her to go after the older woman who had already climbed those little steps, smiling and greeting the driver as she passed. Maybe it's not such a bad thing after all.

They relented after a moment, hurrying up those metal steps as Maria followed them, slowly as the driver glanced over at her. "Well?" he asked, chewing at something beneath his thick mustache, just as grey as the hair plastered to his ears by his brimmed hat.

She dropped the coins into his hand and he tossed them into the little container with a clatter, not bothering to count them. "This is the bus to Aigen?"

The driver nodded, then wiped his forehead with one sleeve before he plucked that thing from his mouth, something like a toothpick he had been gnawing at for ages. "One of them, or close enough."

Maria forced a smile as she took a few more steps to the row nearest him, grateful the bus was mostly empty. Her carpetbag was full, but she slipped it down onto the floor in front of the aisle seat, then scrambled over it to the other beside the window. Now setting down her guitar, she dropped into the old seat next to the grimy glass, pulling the bottom of her skirt away from the her bag's handles. At least I can't get too lost along the way.

A/N: I set the date of the prior chapter a week too late. Oops. That's fixed now. And though I glanced at Google Maps, the area around the abbey is artistic license combined with some details from Maria's first book.