Where the End Begins

by Galan

"And why do you stare at me that way?" "I can't help but think, sir—" "Yes?" "We've met before." The Captain was no stranger, Maria discovered some time after being sent to the von Trapp household as a teacher and governess for the summer. No, she and the Captain were not strangers at all. (AU, main body of the story begins in 1933.)

5. Chapter 4: Again

Chapter 4: Again

Late January, 1933

Georg didn't quite understand why he couldn't resist wandering the streets twisting through Salzburg, whether the back alleys or the main roads as the cars sped by. Perhaps it was the need to be free, unconfined by the walls—the ceiling—the brick and stone. A different world—a new world—something unchained to the past, the world that had come undone just months ago. Perhaps it was the unwillingness to remember his children, wandering the rooms of the villa alone, still grieving their mother—wondering about him.

At least out here, I don't have to remember it, just...He lifted his face, scowling at the grey sky overhead, a few clouds floating on a restless breeze. Or maybe I can just shout at you, not the children. Not that shouting at God had done much good as he waited for her to die, listening to her breaths fade little by little, fainter and fainter as the weeks went on. "Don't forget to love them. You have to love them for me as well, now. Please, Georg, love them all."

How many times had she asked him that, begged him more and more as the coughs and sweats and congestion only worsened. He had lost count after the children had been forbidden from seeing her any longer, when they had both known that even having him at her side could be a death sentence...and he had first shut them out, preferring the few days he had left with her instead.

I suppose it's only time, he thought, drawing his coat closer as he always did on these afternoons. Someday you won't haunt me. But he still saw her everywhere: in a friendly girl's face when he stalked about the streets to escape; a woman walking past with children whose heads hardly reached her waist, clutching their tiny fingers with either hand; or just a family and a trail of children with...somewhere to go, a mother with long dark hair curling over her shoulders leading the train through the breeze and lingering snow, a father with equally dark hair and blue eyes behind to turn any curious little ones around. It tore the still tender wound open every time.

Georg didn't quite know what had driven him to Elsa's bed a few weeks ago, almost racing along the winding road to Vienna. Grief or loneliness...perhaps both in the end. Or maybe just a kindred spirit, another lost soul searching for something new. It had been so many years ago when he and Agathe met her, so long ago he couldn't quite remember where or when, only the happy times when they left the children in Salzburg to visit her alongside her husband. At least until the visits transformed into comfort for a newly widowed friend. Maybe it was that more than anything that had sent him to her, wondering how she had moved beyond the sorrow. (Though not how she had moved on so quickly, a friend of her husband's rumored to be a new suitor in just two or three months' time.) "But maybe I'm no better than her. I think I have to ask your forgiveness, Agathe," Georg murmured to the heavens. "Though we both know—we all know—I'm no longer tied to you like that."

And how I wish I still was.

At least this afternoon was a little warmer than the day before when the wind had gusted through the street, dry air biting at his face as it liked to these past weeks. He couldn't decide: somehow, the cold made it all easier, like he was back on the desk of a ship before he chose to spend his naval career sailing beneath the waves. But the barest warmth gave him the strength to be out of the flat, where the world couldn't contain him any longer, everything he hated rising up to the sky—

"Ow!"

What? he thought, a stitch growing in his chest as he searched for his breath. Hadn't he just done this a few weeks before? But this time, it had almost been something soft crashing into him. He peered down to the street and the stones...God, it was the same golden hair twisted in a braid over her shoulder, the same thin legs shivering in the winter breeze, the same pair of brilliant blue eyes shining in the afternoon sunlight—but no bundle of papers thrown from her bag this time.

"You really need to learn to watch where you're going," he muttered, this time not waiting to offer her a hand, instead just reaching down with both beneath her arms to haul her to her feet, holding her for another moment as she stumbled about for a second. It was a different dress she wore today, though the shape of the garment and her body beneath it were the same. Still something that could never have been bought from a dressmaker or tailor like his children's were, probably stitched by hand or beneath a machine's needle in her spare time. And her frame...still so small, now beneath a pale blue dress and a bodice cinched about her thin waist. "If you've walked into me twice."

Her eyes finally seemed to find him, widening as perhaps she recognized him, her mouth opening, then shutting again before she twisted herself from his grasp. "Oh," she whispered, her cheeks glowing bright red. She busied her hands with her dress and that same grey jacket and the bag hanging off her shoulder just like before, struggling to tidy it all, perhaps to hide herself from him again.

He laughed for a second. There's no chance of that if I wanted otherwise, girl, I was well practiced with more willing women than you at many an Adriatic port, before...Not again, love. He had to swallow, bring himself back to now. "Is this an enchanting little ritual of yours, walking into other people?"

Now she glared at him, almost angry before she twisted her hand around the straggly end of her braid, twining her fingers into the tiniest bits of hair below the band as she glanced away and her blush faded. "I haven't done it since the last time."

"Does that matter?"

Her gaze came back at him. "Can't I ask you the same?"

"So this is my fault?" She crossed her arms across her chest, just beneath her breasts, so small on her chest— Stop, he told himself again, just like those all those weeks ago. Why are you paying so much attention to a little girl?

"As much as mine. At least you didn't spill all my students' papers into the puddles this time!"

"You don't have any today—and you dropped them then—"

She shook her head, approaching him for a moment, her next words louder. "I did not—"

"I didn't rip them out of your hands!"

"You might as well have done...sir."

Georg sighed, just watching her clasp her hands at her waist as a new flush spread over her fair skin. "And I did not, I'll tell you that again."

"I had to make them sit their tests again because I couldn't mark them after..." She turned her face away for another second, and when she looked back at him, any embarrassment or redness was gone. "But I don't know your name," she went on, a little smile breaking on her mouth beneath those bright blue eyes that he somehow couldn't look away from.

"You don't need to know."

"And after you've knocked me to the ground twice, I think you owe me an apology."

"Why should I apologize to a stranger I've just met on the street?"

Her right hand was in her braid again, twisting in the tangled ends as he walked around her, to run away from the past anew— "Maria."

Georg turned back around, catching her with her arms crossed again to hold her jacket closed, his own winter coat snapping as the breeze rose up anew. "I'm sorry?"

"My name is Maria. Maria Kutschera, from Vienna." Vienna...just the escape I need again if only I could stand it. Clearly, they had never walked the same paths: when Agathe had happily clung to his arm, it was from one salon to another with her friends from school, his comrades in the navy, quiet and pleasant as a calm day on the ocean. Coffee and tea, plates laden with slices of Sachertorte and the rest on a platter, tempting as the first slice disappeared one forkful at a time.

All those weeks ago with Elsa, it was instead a whirlwind of parties laden with waltzes and violins, men in their finest tuxedos, women in satin and silk, waiters with silver trays laden with one glass of champagne after another, the bubbles clouding his head as the relentless music he could hardly stand any longer numbed whatever remained beneath his ribs. Where he was, why...And always...Elsa's fingers curled tight around his elbow. Almost as if to tell him that he belonged to her.

A girl like this, though...She had probably never seen that city's grand sites, even if she claimed to hail from it: the opera house, the Vienna Symphony always performing one of the Strausses or even Wagner, the national art museum beneath its grand dome. But if her wide eyes were anything to consider, Georg knew she would be speechless—for once, he presumed. "And what sort of name is that?" he asked, already forgetting how she had pronounced that jumble of consonants. What would it be like to see a new world through fresh eyes?

"It's mine," she said, her blue gaze narrowing, "that's all the matters. But see, we aren't quite strangers anymore. So now you can apologize properly."

He snorted, though he took a step toward her. "To a girl I don't know and will probably never see again, despite you walking into me again today? It's not my fault you can't keep your eyes off the sidewalk."

Her hands curled into fists, her skirt swishing in the gentle January breeze. "Maybe I thought you were a gentleman. The last time you walked into me, you seemed kind enough to ask how I was—"

"You won't say that—"

"But I see I was wrong," she said, not waiting for him to finish. Her breasts ached with the force of his body, and she probably had another bruise on her backside, the last mark he had given her finally gone in the last week or so. "Forgive me for being so foolish." She stepped around him, huffing as she felt his gaze following her down the road, ready to turn onto the next lane.

His heart pounded as he twisted around to follow her. If one of his lieutenants or sailors had talked to him like that...Petulant little girl, he thought, her tiny frame already fading into the darkened street. Though not quite five in the evening, the daylight was still vanishing early, and it would soon swallow her whole. Absolutely not. "Georg."

A shiver rose up her spine, hearing him call out his name to her. It was a deep, warm voice, and maybe if its owner had been less grumpy, it might have been comforting. Almost kind. She turned back, just looking at him, still a few feet from her. Under the darkening sky, she still caught how strong his frame was: broad shoulders and a tapered waist hidden beneath a fine tailored coat; how severe his face was—sharp nose and harsh jaw; and just how blue his eyes were. Like mine. "Georg...?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it, before finally muttering..."Georg...Trapp."

"See? That wasn't so hard."

With another few steps shrinking the distance between them, he held out his hand. Like he's waiting, Maria thought, a sudden nervousness twisting in her stomach. For me. But what are you worried over, if you're just waiting for him to apologize? Reaching out her own, she seized his palm. Warm—she hadn't noticed the first evening they collided and he pulled her back to her feet—and more calloused than she recalled, as though he'd spent an entire life working with his hands rather than behind a desk or counter.

"I suppose not," Georg said quietly, tightening his grip. If that was what she wanted, then she wasn't going anywhere just yet. A few more minutes, somehow, he wanted a few more minutes with her. But why...he didn't quite understand.

"I feel I'm treating you like one of my students. They're seven and eight."

He laughed roughly. At least Max admits he's a child. "That sounds an accusation you should level at a friend of mine in Vienna, not me."

His hand was becoming painful, and Maria tried to hide her wince as another breeze whistled through the narrow street. "I've broken up enough quarrels."

"Have you?" Even as she tried to hide her grimace, Georg saw her eyes widen, finally releasing her hand. Her fingers were almost white where they had been folded into his own. "You say you're a teacher, but you're barely older than..." Don't, he told himself, his eldest daughter with her dark hair and bright blue eyes rising up from the memories he refused to relive here. They can't be here. And she doesn't need to know anything more about you. "You're barely more than a child yourself."

"I'm going on twenty this year, come the end of summer."

One arm across his chest, Georg pressed his other hand to his mouth, hoping to hide his grin. Barely more than a girl. "Nineteen going on twenty at the end of summer...In January?"

"Are you making fun of me?"

He shook his head, finally letting her see his amused smile. All indignation aren't you, Maria? "Not at all. Just in the navy, you would still have a foot down on your shoulders at that age."

Her eyes went wide and she seemed to forget she was already hardly a foot from him, almost falling into him again before he caught her—righting her with a hand on her shoulder. "You're a sailor?"

A sailor? I was sent off to the naval academy to avoid being a common sailor, but..."I was," he said slowly, trying not to trip over his own words as she—Maria—did over her own two feet, "there's no navy now—"

"Did you see the world?" Maria went on, not even waiting for him to say anything else as a smile broke across her face. Sometimes, especially when she was lost in her father's books, she wondered what lay beyond the boundaries of her tiny world. Her foster mother's home in Vienna had been laden with Austria and memories of the empire. It had been scattered across every table and shelf, even a few ancient newspapers mourning defeat in the Great War and the impending dismantling of the empire tucked into a few books on history and grammar that were never touched, weathered and brown despite never seeing the light. But whenever she found herself in her father's apartment during his rare visits home...the world was transformed.

Small icons of saints from Athens, strange paintings of Japanese gods—she couldn't remember what he had called the beings with silken black hair and long flowing robes, something that began with a k—painted and nested wooden dolls from Russia, even a bright blue rug, fringed with dark blue tassels and white flowers and odd swirls embroidered about a strange looking window. "From Persia," he had said when she first saw it on the floor just inside the door, desperate to embrace him even as her eyes always wandered, looking for what new adventures he had just returned from. "For prayer." All the little memories he had brought back with him, the new places he had to be when he couldn't stand to be in Vienna and look at her. (She tried to forget the last bit whenever she thought of him.)

Her gaze was lost for a second, Georg thought, somewhere far away rather than a narrow cobblestone street in an Austrian city in the mountains, winter still bearing down like a demon most days. "Some of it," he murmured, suddenly bringing her back from wherever on the earth she had been. Before the Great War—before the loss of the coasts and the end of the Austro-Hungarian Navy—he had seen more than a few far corners of the world, starting with his first voyage to Australia after the end of his time in the naval academy. The Holy Land—though he didn't give a damn about it now—the very southern tip of Africa and the western coast of that continent as the frigate sailed north to Europe—what felt every port in the Adriatic Sea...and all the pleasures that could be found there, until Agathe...It always comes back to her.

"That's what my father spent the first part of my childhood doing."

"And where did you go?"

"He went everywhere, and passed through more just deciding where to go. Japan and China—some of French In—Indo—I don't remember what he said it was called. Through the Middle East and Greece, even into the Soviet Union when he was feeling...brave."

"And did you enjoy everything you saw?"

Her smile vanished. "Oh, no, it wasn't...I'm so sorry, I can't remember your name."

"You wanted it so badly and you've forgotten it already?" A teacher indeed. "Georg."

"He did it alone."

"And what of you?"

"He left me with my foster mother. He said it was better for me than...being with him."

No father or mother, he thought, just like...Stop. It's not your fault that her father ran away from her, too. "I'm sorry."

"Everything's fine, it's been so long since...I'm used to it."

Georg tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, both against the chilly January air and the shaking he didn't want her to see. Left alone with...someone, while her father wandered. Just like your own children. But she still managed another smile now, still, trying to straighten her creased skirts around her waist and legs. Like she had managed some forgiveness. "But it wasn't your fault."

"No, but I can't change it."

Can't change it, he thought, now running a hand over his swollen cheeks, the cold at last too much for his skin. I can't change anything either, either what happened or what I can stand to see. "And did he have many stories to tell you when he came back to Austria for good?"

One of her hands rose to the end of her braid, her eyes on the cobblestones for a moment before coming back to him. "No. It was only a few months before...I'm sorry, Georg. I don't mean to tell you all of my unhappiness." Her fingers were twisting tighter in her plait. "You seem to have enough of her own."

It was something new to Georg, a girl letting her tongue go on ahead of her thoughts. In the glittering Viennese ballrooms Elsa had insisted on dragging him to those few short weeks ago, there was always a new gown shining beneath the chandeliers rather than a handmade dress dusted with a few stray snowflakes. Everything was hidden behind a façade, almost a game they all played. Who possessed the grandest house, the most beautiful wife, the most expensive coupe, the smartest hound...Truth and honesty and impulsiveness were nowhere to be found, a stumbling block as play intensified and competition raised the stakes. Even in Salzburg society, the local barons and aristocrats—himself included whenever he and Agathe could be bothered with parties and balls before everything changed—the game never quite stopped.

It might be pleasant, he thought, wishing her smile wasn't so false as she was clearly lost in an unhappy past as well, at least for a moment, knowing someone who talks of whatever imaginings come into her head. No more talks of illicit affairs whilst ignoring the goings on to the north; no gentle whispers that Germany's still rising party was already infiltrating its leader's native Austria; and all the eager hope for unity from those who had never known the horror of war. Someone who might understand...something.

"Fräulein..." he said quietly, and she jumped as though she was surprised to hear his voice. Yes, lost in her own past. "I mean, Maria, what do you like most about Salzburg, if you've just come here from Vienna?"

She took a deep breath and another step forward, like she forgot they were really still strangers who had just shared their names to dash away the worst of the embarrassment, how she stumbled into him once—then again—to find herself sprawled on her back before him. "So much of it!" she said quickly. "The mountains, the forests, the music, the parks...It's all so lovely."

Lovely. Georg's eyes raked over her again: the long fair hair that might be pretty if it was trimmed and styled, the pale skin of an alpine winter, the tiny waist beneath her small breasts, and the thin legs he didn't quite believe held her upright. And I don't think I'll quite forget her, even if I don't understand why. "Do you like any of them more than another?"

She nodded, that long braid slapping at her chest. "The Mirabell Gardens. All the statues, it's like one of the stories from my father's books. He had so many books...I can't quite stay away."

Head in the clouds, indeed. "So you go there often?"

"Whenever I can. I can't quite stay away after mass on a Sunday, even now that it's January. I know I'll be lost there tomorrow."

Damn, he thought, his hands back in his pockets. When I have someplace I have to be tomorrow. Something about her fascinated him, from her bright blue eyes that had nearly cut through him a few minutes ago to her mind half lost in a fantasy world mere moments after she shouted her frustration at him. Why not another day, Maria? "Will I see you there next Sunday?"

Her mouth fell open for a second, until she seemed to remember herself and she closed it again. "What?"

"Yes or no, Maria," Georg said softly, knotting his fingers into the inner fabric of his pockets, everything shaking just a little. She's hardly more than a girl, so why is she so hard to resist talking to? "It's not a difficult question, like I'm sure you would tell your students."

Her nod was slower this time. "Yes...after mass."

"Eleven, twelve?"

"By twelve."

"Then I'll see you next Sunday."

"What?" Her cheeks flushed pink as she seemed to consider what he said, as though she needed a moment to understand what he was asking. I'll see you next Sunday.

"It sounds as though you'd like that. Despite your anger at me a few minutes ago."

"Yes, but—"

"So I'll see you then. I like talking with you, I think, even if I don't quite understand why."

She looked away for a second, tucking her hands beneath her jacket against the fresh bite of the wind. She didn't want him to see them trembling, either. "And I...But can't you stay and talk now?"

Georg shook his head, finally taking a step back. Much more of this and he would learn whether or not it was possible to be irritated to death. "Not today, and definitely not in this weather. But then, yes. So long as...God doesn't bury us with another blizzard."

With a step of her own, Maria was again too close to him. "So we've survived. Why then, not now? Or tomorrow, that's Sunday."

"Because..." He already saw the winding road beneath the starlight, the trees growing taller and thicker, looming over the curves he usually drove too fast these days. Occasionally, the leaves and branches were so numerous, hardly even the moon broke through, only the thin headlights left to pierce though the darkness. By the time the villa would break through the gloom, the children would be in the dining room, perhaps already sat with slices of apple strudel in front of them. Easy enough, then, to avoid the crush of their hugs; he only saw them when he was coming or going and failed to remember where they were in their daily routine. Some days, he wondered if the older children would be inches taller when he could finally face them again, when the pain was finally dulled with the passing of months and years. But it had to be done, no matter how much more he strangely fancied another chance to see those blue eyes and golden hair in the light of tomorrow's afternoon sun. "I have somewhere I have to be."

O O O

Maria hardly remembered the route to the boarding house, turning around twice when she found herself down an unfamiliar alley or beside a strange fountain in a square she didn't recognize, unexpectedly wandering into one of the nicer areas of the city. Oh, bother, she thought, squinting in the lamplight for one of the street signs. She was several blocks to the north and west. Just what I need with all the snow that's about to turn to ice. She stamped her feet against white drifts piled on her toes, a little of the cold falling away.

It was so quiet, tonight, hardly any cars or voices to keep her company and just the moon and a few of those streetlamps to stop her tripping over a protruding cobblestone. Maria still had to right herself on one of those poles when she stepped on a slick patch invisible to her, sliding forward and almost onto her backside again. At least it wasn't properly the second time tonight. It was a journey she hadn't been happy to make this evening—another trip to the greengrocer's—but there was no other option; she had nothing left on her shelf but a few scrapings of apricot jam.

After a full morning and afternoon marking her students' papers, Maria had wandered to the kitchen for a late lunch to find only that and a crusty half loaf bread, two or three days old by now. And a stomach that refused to fall silent complaining heartily deep within. Well, at least it was still early enough that it would just be the beginning of twilight when she returned.

Her grey jacket did enough to hold back the cold, though some of the seams were wearing out and splitting open. Some night I'll have to mend them, she had thought, again tucking her hands away, her gloves forgotten as they almost always were. And at least in the last of the sunshine, the trip was easy enough, and the stacks of produce at her local shop were not too sparse; she only parted with a small handful of coins for her apples, onions, carrots, and cheese. It would have to do until the next time her cupboard was bare, likely at the beginning of the next week.

As the rumbling in her stomach grew only stronger, Maria couldn't resist one of the small, red-orange apples she'd purchased, wishing she had the will to wait and slice the peel away. But it was delicious, the juice sticky and sweet on her fingers, though she resisted the urge to lick it all away, wiping it on the very edge of her jacket instead. It was time, anyway, time to decide on the rest of her evening: filling her bathtub with warm water and washing powder to scrub the little touches of grime and patches of dirt away from her dresses. And then another hour writing plans for the next week's lessons...only instead—

"Ow!" She had lain full on her back again on a city street—legs bare as her dress tightened high around her thighs in the cool night air—and those same icy blue eyes stared down at her, unashamed as they looked her over from head to foot. "You really need to learn to watch where you're going."

"Oh, why did he tell me this is my fault again?" she snapped, looking for the next sign to lead her home and out of the past. "I've always been doing different things, he's always been wandering around miserable."

"Will I see you there next Sunday?"

The chill cut through her jacket, leaving her shivering beneath the rough cotton. What does that mean? I don't understand, I really don't. Perhaps her foster mother might be able to explain it to her— No, I don't think I could ask her about it. She never liked hearing about those things from me. Not that I ever had much to say about anyone like— No, don't think about him.

A few more twists in the narrowing streets brought her back to the slightly broken building and the little room she called her own, where she held onto the best memories of her childhood and shut out the worst. Those last remained in Vienna, where they had to stay. She pushed open the heavy door and took her first cautious steps onto the bent wood just inside after knocking off the worst of the snow onto the threshold and kicking it back onto the road. "Why did I even say that, about Sundays?" she asked herself, loosening the top buttons of her jacket. "Why can't I just stop saying things? It wasn't anything he needed to know!" But it was more than that, Maria knew: such an unpleasant man—she hadn't seen anything that looked happy on his face until he was nearly making fun of her—why couldn't she let him walk away? After all, any apology wouldn't mean a thing, not really from someone she didn't know.

But at least she was back home: inside, away from the snow and the cold and the wind. Him. Most days, Maria would head to her room first, peeling away anything damp or wet. But tonight, the growling in her stomach was simply too strong, too gnawing, like she might still wake up hungry through the night no matter what she ate for dinner. Well, she had to leave her purchases in the kitchen anyway…

Even in her soggy clothes, Maria wandered to the kitchen with its scratched counters and smoky stove, setting her apples, onions, and carrots in her corner, holding onto the cheese before snatching up the bare jar of jam. At least it's something. She pushed her bag far over her shoulder as she reached for one of the knives the landlord kindly provided, first cutting two pieces from the overly crusty loaf of bread that remained, then scraping out the final spoonful of jam across them before adding two thick slices of cheese. But...why? she still wondered, reaching back for another one of the apples, turning it upside down on the counter. Why would he even want to see me? And why...Really, why did I say anything at—

A sharp pain shot through her left thumb, in her mouth before she realized, a rough cut coating her tongue with the taste of copper. Beside her, the blunt knife had a film of blood along the front half of the blade, and when she dared pull her thumb away, the gash was slashed into the very top, just below her nail. She shoved the apple back into her cupboard, her stomach already turning over. Maria had never fainted at the sight of blood, but seeing what was beneath her own skin—was it pink or red, she couldn't quite decide—what was there beneath the surface…

A hand wrapped around her wrist, fingers long and gently wrinkled and pale as a cheap wristwatch with a band far too large fell halfway down her palm. "You need to watch what you're doing, Maria," Johanna said quietly, spinning her around and away from the counter. "Count your blessings, dear, it's not that deep. Here."

The older woman pulled her to the sink, running the cut beneath the water that first ran a little brown and cold until it warmed and cleared, ignoring all of Maria's hisses of pain. "At least this way, you might not get an infection," she went on, gently scrubbing the cut open against the increasingly hot water.

"I'll be fine, I've done more—"

"And you should wash it with soap sometime tonight." Johanna wasn't even listing to her complaints, dragging her across the room to some of the clean rags the landlord left for them to clean pans and dishes, counters and knives. One to blot away the blood—tossed into the rubbish bin that was emptied a little too infrequently—another longer strip of cotton to wrap around Maria's new wound, the very tail to tie it tight. She could hardly feel the very end of her thumb— "You're lucky, you know."

Maria had to blink once—twice—a third time. Even with the tight bandage, a few drops of blood had already dripped past her knuckle, already drying crusty and brown, crackling whenever she bent her thumb. "Thank you," she said quietly, a small taste of sick at the back of her throat, melting with the film on her tongue. Don't think about it right now.

"Of course." Johanna dried her hand on her skirt before she straightened it, ignoring the grey hair falling from the knot she must have put up that morning. "But do that again, and it might be too deep to mend at home."

"I know, I just...have something on my mind."

"I could tell. Your head's more up in the mountains you love than usual."

"Will I see you there next Sunday?" Maria gulped down a deep breath, her stomach turning as the last hours washed over her anew. She couldn't quite get his question out of her head, and especially her answer. I was just running my errands—thinking about everything I needed to do this evening..."It's not that."

"Then what?"

She let out that same breath, spinning back to the counter where her dinner wore a few drops of her blood. It will still have to do. But I can blot it away. And it's only me, after all. "I'm just confused, I suppose."

Johanna crossed her arms, almost as though she was waiting. "About what?"

Maria's cheeks were already burning anew, still remembering those shining blue eyes examining her from her head to her feet, though thankfully not lingering too long on her bare legs. Not that it mattered, feeling so exposed on her back on the damp Salzburg street. "It's too embarrassing, Johanna, really," she muttered after a second, twisting her hands together and wincing as she held her cut thumb a little too tightly.

"I think it's troubling you—and you don't have anyone else to talk to. I know that much."

Well, she's right about that, Maria thought as she turned around slowly, catching that rough bandage on the very end of her braid. Not even Mother would want to hear about what you've gotten yourself into. "I can't help it," she said softly, falling back against the counter and cupboards below as she tangled her bare fingers tighter in her hair. She winced, the ache flaring where she would certainly have another bruise by tomorrow morning, and shivered as her damp skirt suddenly clung to her thigh. "Walking—really walking into a man. Well, just one man."

Johanna's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Two or three weeks ago—I can't remember which—and again this afternoon, on my way home." Maria pressed her hands to her stomach, hard, struggling to hold back a flurry of sudden flutters turning over and over in her belly. "I didn't do anything, but somehow I keep managing to do it. Or more likely, he keeps walking into me." The color was blooming in her cheeks again as she still remembered those eyes running the length of her body. Not quite staring at her, but not eager to look away. "And both times, I've been flat on my back in front of him, my skirt up around my legs. And he didn't stop looking at me, at least for a few seconds."

The older woman shook her head, a few more long strands of grey hair escaping from her bun. "I wondered why you were half soaked tonight."

"He was coarse the first time, and today he was almost rude. And...I refused to let him walk away without a proper apology, this time." Oh, why couldn't I have just let well enough alone? Maria wondered yet again, still tugging on her braid, finding a few specks of dirt from the cobblestones clinging to the very end. "He wasn't about to bother because we were strangers, so I told him my name—and that we weren't strangers anymore."

Johanna sighed. "Maria."

"I deserved an apology, didn't I?"

"There were better ways to get it."

"Maybe, but..." Now, Maria had her hands buried in her skirt, shivering against the damp fabric. "When he said he was a sailor, I couldn't stop thinking or talking about seeing the world. I think it...amused him."

"Do you even have his name?"

She nodded, the pink flush still burning in her cheeks. "Yes, but I don't know why I mentioned the gardens or that I'm always there on Sundays or that I would see him there next Sunday!"

Curious, that little smile on Johanna's face, and a gentle laugh to go with it as she shook her head again. Just like his. "Maria..."

She turned her eyes back to that bandage, picking at the dried edges that were already stuck to her skin, her face ever brighter. "I don't even know why I said yes, or why he even asked!"

It was a louder laugh, now. "You don't?"

"Not really, other than he wanted to talk with me more than just there."

"You really are very young, Maria, and you don't know much at all about men."

"Johanna—"

"And you are quite attractive as well, even if you won't ever trim your hair."

"Please, Johanna—"

"He asked you because you don't have a mother or father to ask. It sounds like, whether you meant to or not, you told him just as much."

The blush burned hotter than ever as Maria covered her cheeks with her palms, pressing her backside harder into the counter and cupboards. That's not what you're saying, Johanna, it isn't! "That's not true—"

"And your face is all red."

"But...it's not true, at all! I don't even know him."

Johanna settled a hand on one of Maria's shoulders. "And there was a moment when your parents didn't know one another either."

Maria shook her head, squirming away from the older woman's touch. "It's not the same thing." But didn't Mother always say my parents hardly knew each other before...Her stomach was twisting again. Why am I letting him bother me like this? Just one—two afternoons and he's still in my head? I don't want it, I just want to find my way on my own. It's all I've ever been able to do.

"Perhaps, dear." Johanna pressed a hand to her mouth, holding back a yawn. "Forgive me, Maria. I didn't sleep well last night."

"Of course," Maria whispered, at last pulling her palms from her face. "Please don't worry about it."

"But do be more careful the next time you use a knife. Try not to hurt yourself like that again."

"No."

For a moment, Maria was back in the street, the clouds threatening to break open in the darkened sky and soak her to the bones, leaving her dress plastered to her skin. Laid half bare before that man. Georg, she reminded herself; she'd demanded his name, after all, she might as well remember it! "Try not to walk into anyone else, Fräulein, especially on a rainy night. Not everyone might be as pleasant as I am." Are you really going to follow me like this—

"Good night, Maria."

"Of course," she said with a shudder, finally awakening to the evening, the warmth, and the low light of the cramped kitchen as the chilly road faded, almost burning away like mist in the morning. "Thank you."

Maria always enjoyed her short conversations with Johanna, but as soon as the older woman walked through the door—no doubt making her way up the staircase to her own small room, hopefully not catching an ancient shoe on one of the rough steps—she let out a deep sigh, falling back against the counter one more time. "What do you mean," she murmured, "there wasn't anyone but me to ask? It wasn't like that. It might just be nice to know someone who's seen more than Vienna and Salzburg."

She looked over the counter, brushing away the worst of the crumbs left when she sliced into the bread, cheese, and her thumb. There wasn't much else left clean, just the jammy spoon that she rinsed in the sink with one of the same rags from the pile Johanna had wrapped around her cut, leaving it on the board to dry before she would put away later in the evening. I might as well finish it all off when I'm finished as well, Maria thought, pinching her thumb between her fingers again before she reached for her plate, a new pain rushing beneath her nail. There probably won't be anyone else here to see what I've left until I come back.

Still shivering under her damp dress and jacket, Maria pulled her empty bag over her shoulder before she hurried up the stairs to her room—a track of faint damp footsteps following her all the way—wincing as she balanced the plate on the fingers of her left hand as she opened the door and letting out a deep breath, falling back against it as it clattered shut. "It's always so quiet here," she said as she pressed her right arm across her stomach, hissing as the back of her head knocked against the rough wood. "Unless I have time for my guitar—"

Another cold shudder crawled up her spine as the small of her back touched the doorknob, finding its way down her arms until she almost dropped her meager dinner, just catching her plate before it slipped through her fingers. "Oh, don't!" she hissed, pushing her open sandwiches back into the middle of the chipped plate and setting them on her cluttered table. "Can't I have a moment for myself?"

Maria peeled her jacket away from her arms—shoved her dress sleeves up her arms—then took a first quick bite of her dinner, the cheese and jam melting away into her hunger. And with the rumbling in her belly, the second mouthful—and then the next and the next—didn't really taste of anything, the tang of the cheese and sweetness of the jam vanishing on her tongue as she devoured everything in a matter of minutes. "I suppose I can always have another apple when I'm downstairs again," she said as she licked her fingers, savoring the last few crumbs of bread and cheese—

She took another deep breath as she caught sight of the cloth around her left thumb, entirely crusted brown and dry. I suppose I'll have to take it off before the end of the night. Pressing her other thumb against where she remembered the gash, Maria hissed, another sharp pain rose up beneath her nail. Testing the bottom with her fingers, she hissed again. The bandage was nearly glued to her skin, the rough edge hardly moving. "Well, no one you work with will be all that surprised. And I don't think he would be, either."

Maria sank onto her bed, still trying to peel the cloth away for another few seconds before she crossed her arms, pressing them to her stomach. Her hunger had vanished, but everything in her belly was tight and almost swollen, a sudden knot beneath her muscles. He doesn't matter, not really. But...

What would it be like, actually taking a moment to talk to him in the light of day? Instead of hardly being able to see him in the last remnants of the sun as twilight fell, but under the afternoon sun? Surely it would to be different, Maria told herself, twisting around on her bed to reach for her father's book of fairy tales. There has to be something, she thought, her clean hand running through the list of stories at the very front. Something about a sailor. She read everything on the front page—then everything on the second before she returned to the first page of stories and The Fisherman and His Wife.

She remembered the story well, one her foster mother had read to her when she was young and always hoped her father would be back for more than a few days, bringing her home for more than an afternoon—an evening if she was lucky. "Is that really all there is?" she asked as she leafed through the pages gently, the worn binding cracking beneath her hands. Austria might not have a coast or navy now, but Germany does—and did then! She remembered that much from her school lessons when she was a child, murmuring the cities and states back to her teacher, as grey haired and lightly wrinkled then as Johanna was now.

What fortune, finding a flounder who could grant any wish, almost like a fairy godmother. Just ask and something might come of it, like a dream. A better house—a castle of grey stone instead of the tidy cottage with its lovely garden that the flounder had just granted them—then her wish to be king. Emperor. Pope! (Blasphemy, Maria reminded herself.) And finally, Lord of the Universe. Everything! (Just a story, she told herself, a caution for children, not something a real woman actually did.) Until it all crashed down around her, leaving her just wanting the pretty cottage the flounder had first given her, and her husband almost content with the house that was once again falling down around them.

Isn't it enough to be out in the world, happy and free? Maria wondered, closing her father's book gently—and pulling the frayed edges of her bandage from the teeth of the pages as she bit her lip against the sting. And just...love what you have? "Oh, I don't think I even know," she said quietly, pressing the ancient book into her stomach, a brand new hunger rising deep in her belly. Another apple or slice of cheese sounded lovely.

But maybe Johanna's right, she thought, rubbing at her eyes. It was hardly into the evening, but she was already tired, desperate to crawl into her bed—pull the sheet and quilt tight around her against the winter cold. And he asked me myself because...But I didn't mean to, I really didn't! It might be nice to know someone who saw the world, just like my father. That's all, just a friend who has seen more than Vienna and Salzburg. At least for a while, until he walks away again. I can't think he'll be here longer than he needs to be. He looks ever so unhappy.

Somehow, she couldn't quite forget those blue eyes. Beautiful eyes...with something else buried deep inside, something she didn't understand. And I don't think I should ask, either.