Chapter 44: One Truth In the Darkness

Maria hurried past Franz, his nose wrinkling as he surveyed her once again. "Someday," he said again, muffled as he turned and stepped into the flurry of servants. "Maybe before you're finally out of my house" was the last she heard before one of the villa's maids stepped in between them.

Still standing in front of the door, Maria just breathed. I know I'm just a girl from a convent, and not even a postulant. Not that you know that. She yanked on her hair to flatten it—then clasped her hands together. A quick rub loosened the patches of mud around her fingers and knuckles, a few flecks fluttering away. Peering down, Maria tugged at one of the largest wrinkles in her dress; it was caked with mud from a moment when she found herself tumbling to the ground as she ran from Louisa's hands. There's nothing I can do about it now.

Hands tucked into her arms, Maria crept closer to the cracked door. The sun burnt a little warm line down her pink face and across a pale carpet crisscrossed with a few spindly shadows. She nudged the door open a little more with her elbow then rubbed at a small patch of dirt clinging to her skin, still itching where it had dried with her sweat.

Furniture dotted the bright room, gold upholstery shining on small settees and chairs with equally small tables here and there, large globe lamps wearing thin coats of dust as well. She took another small step, her shoe pushing the door farther open to off white paint lining the walls and dark molding breaking it into panels. Another push widened the crack, drapes in the same gold over the familiar curtains of filmy gauze appearing with the windows. And still, no one.

I don't know why I'm worried. Not worried, but why I wonder what will go wrong. Well...She glanced down her frame again: the wrinkles, the smudges, the muck. But if she cares about her grandchildren, then she won't mind, will she? Someone has to listen to them if their father won't. One swat at her dress loosened a little dirt, even a few blades of grass she hadn't noticed. Maybe she'll remember how children need to play.

Maria slipped into the room, cringing with every sound following her. The twisting of door's hinge—her shoes clicking on the tile—the swish of her dress— "Ah, tea." Maria shivered, and her sun burnt face was suddenly hotter. That must be her.

There was another row of chairs and settees she hadn't been able to see from the hall, and that was where the Countess had settled. It must be her. She held a little book as she eased into the rounded crook of a couch, lazily turning to the next page as she waited. Even from a distance, Maria noticed something different about her. Was it how she sat straight, but not at attention, relaxed as though she belonged just where she was? How she simply stepped into this new household and expected it to become her world? I don't know, Maria thought as she stepped forward, her old shoes finally thudding on the carpet. "I'm sorry, but you asked to see me—Countess?" she whispered.

The Countess closed her book, both hands wrapped around the spine before she looked up—and Maria's chest loosened. Even from a distance, somehow she looked kind. Her dark grey hair was pinned in large curls, a few large streaks of white running across the crown of her head. Her dress of dark green lay draped over her arms and legs, and a steel grey shawl clung to her shoulders perfectly despite what must have been a long journey. I don't know if I would have thought you a Countess, if I hadn't—

"Well, don't just stand there staring at me like that, my dear," the older woman said. The book toppled into her lap as she waved Maria forward. "Please come here."

"You'll have to forgive me," Maria said as she hurried, just darting around a lump in the carpet. "The children and I were out for the afternoon. We weren't expecting any visitors."

"I'm sure you weren't. Even I haven't been here often these last years since my daughter died." Oh, the Baroness's mother! "But sit down, my dear. Fräulein Maria, yes?"

Nodding—and feeling the bounce of her tangled hair—Maria took her seat gently at the couch's opposite end, stretching her skirt across her knees to hide the wrinkles. It was worse sitting beside the Countess. The woman's face was lined with age, but she didn't hide it. No powder or makeup, no jewelry but for an ornate wedding ring on her right hand. "Thank you, Countess." And now, a smile broke through those wrinkles. "I'm still finding new things to learn about the house and what I should be doing, even after a month."

"I didn't realize you had been here for such a short time. And you must stop calling me that like you're afraid I'll have you locked up if you don't." Twisting to her side, the Countess set her book on the table at her side. "Agathe, please, if you'll allow me to just call you Maria."

"For my beloved Captain. All my love, Agathe."

Maria dug her fingers into her dress, the fabric balling up as her hands closed into fists. It all feels like it's closing in, everywhere I look. Names and faces—and if it's much more, I don't think I'll be able to push it away. "If you wish," she croaked, one of her feet grinding into the carpet. And then Friedrich...Liesl said he's like their father. You always kept your thoughts to yourself, too, Georg.

"You're not normally like this, are you?"

Maria lifted her face. "I'm sorry—Agathe?"

"Quiet and reserved. You don't have the look of a quiet woman."

Opening her hands, Maria wiped her palms down along her dress. "I've had to learn to stop saying everything that comes into my head. The sisters don't really like it when I do, especially Sister Berthe."

"Sister?" Agathe asked as she leaned forward. "It sounds like you've lived a very different life than a governess. Certainly any I employed for my own children."

"Well, I was at Nonnberg Abbey in Salzburg." The blood throbbed faster just behind her ears, her face growing hotter. "Teaching at their school."

"Nor do you look like you belong in a convent, Maria."

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean."

Agathe waved toward the door, and Maria finally noticed the squeak and creak of wheels as she twisted around as well. Frau Schmidt was already halfway across the room with a small trolley in front of her, covered in china that rattled whenever it rolled over a bump in the rug. Teapot, cups, biscuits: everything for a perfectly ordinary afternoon teatime. "After the train ride, I need a little refreshment."

The tea trolley parked between them, Frau Schmidt poured the steaming brew into the pair of cups and Maria stared at the rippling tea as she folded her hands together again. I know I don't belong here—in this house, let alone talking to a countess. And I know everyone else knows it. I feel it every time I have to talk to Franz. You must think it as well, even if you're just nicer about it. With both cups poured, the housekeeper handed the first to the Countess—Agathe, Maria reminded herself—then the second to her. "Thank you, Frau Schmidt," she muttered as she balanced it on her lap. A circle of heat burned through her dress, so she picked it back up, pinching the saucer with her fingers instead.

"That's everything, thank you," Agathe said, nodding a quick dismissal.

"As you wish, Countess."

As Frau Schmidt shrank across the room, Maria waited for the Countess to do anything. She didn't want to reach for anything on the cart before her companion, and her tea was scalding even in her lap, let alone on her tongue. She was already tapping her toes inside her shoe—hearing a little clink of her cup on her saucer whenever her fingers faltered—

"What are you waiting for, Maria?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't wait for me if you want something for your tea." Agathe set her saucer on the end table next to her book, then freed a tasseled end of her shawl from her elbow. "Enough of my children had a sweet tooth."

Maria dutifully reached for the spoon in the sugar bowl and added two large scoops, then poured a large dollop of milk in as well. A quick stir with the spoon on her saucer brought it to the pale tan color she remembered from so many cups of coffee, and it was cool enough that it didn't burn her mouth when she took her first sip. Another calmed her, stilling her hands and feet. "You'll have to forgive me—Agathe, but I don't understand."

Next to her, the Countess—Agathe—had her shawl folded into a small bundle in her lap, setting her saucer on top of it. "Understand what?" she asked as she topped up her own cup with a sprinkle of sugar and splash of milk.

"Why you're here, or—how you know my name."

Agathe smiled behind her first taste of tea. "The children."

"The children?"

"They wrote to me, the day after Marta's birthday. I don't blame you if you don't remember, it's enough to look after so many children. Especially when you're just learning who they are."

As she drank a little more tea, Maria tried to remember. She was so excited about her parasol, she didn't want to leave it out of her sight. And..."Oh, yes!" Maria said as she set the saucer back on her knee. "Marta wanted to thank you for her parasol."

Agathe smiled again as she turned back to the end table. "Gretl, too, it seemed. They were very excited about you, my dear," she said as she exchanged her teacup for her small book.

"But what does—"

"Here," Agathe said as she opened the covers then plucked a few pieces of paper from the front. "See for yourself."

Maria tried to balance her teacup on her leg, but quickly pushed the sugar bowl on the trolley back and set it there instead. As she took the folded paper from the Countess, she giggled quietly. The crumpled corners were smeared with pencil, like two pairs of little hands hadn't quite been clean enough and too eager to fold their letter properly. Oma was scrawled across the front, the characters large and blocky and underlined twice. "I didn't really think about what else they might write," she whispered as it crinkled between her fingers.

"I haven't known them so excited for years." As she nodded, Maria flattened it on her legs, the silvery sheen smearing onto her fingertips as well. "I'll forgive their spelling, Maria. I know that comes with time."

"Yes." Even the first line was filled with a few simple errors and the handwriting grew and shrank here and there, the letters messier when Gretl must have seized the pencil. "Maybe it's time I had the two of them focus on that."

Oma,

Thank you for my parasol! It's so pretty! I took it outside yesterday when it was sunny. Friedrich thought I'm silly but I like it. Father gave me a pink dress too but he's gone. He's always gone. But now Fräulein Maria is here. She's our new governess since Father never stays away if there isn't a governess here.

WE LIKE HER. SHE LET US STAY WITH HER ONE NIGHT. THERE WAS A BIG STORM AND WE WERE SCARED. I DON'T KNOW HOW LIESL AND FRIEDRICH AND LOUISA AND KURT AND BRIGITTA WEREN'T SCARED.

Fräulein Maria's favorite color is pink, too! But I don't think she has anything pink, or any pink dresses like mine. Her dresses aren't very pretty. She said she's from the convent in Salzburg, but we don't know what that means. She prays a lot, so maybe she lives at church. I think she goes to church on Sundays when she isn't here. It doesn't sound very fun, but I don't remember it.

WE DON'T WANT HER TO LEAVE.

Liesl would say we just met her, but we like her.

LIESL DOESN'T LIKE HER.

"It goes on like that. They're quite fond of you—and that was some time ago." Maria nodded as she shuffled the papers apart, just wanting to know how much more there was. The writing grew worse on the third page, like they were rushing. Maybe I told them I wanted to collect it? she thought as she returned to the second page, trying to find her place. But the Countess cleared her throat. "May I have the letter back?"

Shoving them back into a pile, Maria nodded and thrust it back. "Of course. Thank you for letting me read it."

"Nothing of it," Agathe said as she folded them into small book before she retrieved her teacup from the table beside her. "But I've rarely heard them so excited."

"But of course. It was to thank you for Marta's—"

"Not even about Christmas or birthday presents. And they are just children."

Maria seized her own teacup from the trolley; a little silvery film immediately smeared from her thumb onto the china. "Gretl always likes to make sure she's heard," she murmured into her lukewarm tea.

"Typical of the youngest child."

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know."

"Oh?"

"My only brother was grown when I was born."

The Countess laughed quietly before taking a long sip of tea. "They did mention that as well." Maria felt her face burning, quickly busying herself with her tea—but emptying it left her nothing to hide behind. "I told you, my dear, they are very fond of you."

After quickly refilling her cup ("Do you mind—Agathe?" "Of course not."), Maria was content to just drink it as she took a moment to think. And at least for the moment, the Countess didn't seem to mind; but it must have been a tiring journey from Vienna, she decided.

No matter what she says or what I hear from the rest of the staff, it can't be what I'm afraid of, can it? Even with the names, the navy...She shivered. Whistles. But then...the children. I see him so much in some of them. It would be troubling if I just somehow saw one of them in my classroom, let alone here. But—it was the only thing my uncle told me that was true that day, he seemed to know Georg somehow. That he served honorably in the navy. And if that's true, then he would know he can't—marry that baroness. Just looking for something to hold—to touch—Maria stirred another spoonful of sugar into her teacup. The Countess seems nice enough, so maybe I can ask? There's more I would like to know just to—understand for the children. As the tea stopped swirling, she brought her cup up to her mouth for one more sip. And you told me not to ask what you couldn't answer, but...I'm not asking you, am I, Georg?

Returning her teacup to its saucer, Maria cleared her throat. "Cou—Agathe?" Oh, it's no use.

Agathe smiled. "Yes, my dear?"

"Frau Schmidt says that the Captain is rarely at home."

The smile faded. "Unfortunately."

"I know she said that the children remind him too much of—your daughter, but I can't understand exactly why he would stay away like he does. They must need him more than ever."

"They do. It was all a little sudden, I suppose. No one quite expected her to take as sick as she did."

"What happened?"

"I beg your pardon?" Agathe asked sharply.

Maria looked down immediately, already uneasy. "I just want to understand a little more. For the children."

The older woman's gaze softened. "Just what happens in many families, Maria," she murmured. "One child took ill, then the next and the next. Even with a nurse, she couldn't really stay away from them."

"I'm sure not. I like to think my mother would have done the same if I had been ill."

"I don't think he blames them."

"How could he?" Maria said loudly. "They're only children—they couldn't have known any better!"

"You don't have to tell me that," the Countess snapped, and Maria shrank back into the couch. Someday, I'll learn how to stop saying all the things that come into my head. "I don't know if I would have been able to stay out of my children's sick room. Well, I know I didn't."

"Oh," Maria breathed. Is that it, Captain? You don't want to be around them because she was sick from them?

"Did you say something?" Agathe asked, reaching for one of the biscuits piled up next to the teapot.

"I…" Lifting the cup and saucer off her lap, Maria dug her heels into the rug and hauled herself out of the depths of the settee. "I just think I understand a little better."

The older woman dropped the biscuit onto the saucer in her other hand. "Sometimes, I wonder if it was just the last thing for him to lose."

Maria nodded slowly. "I suppose he can't be a captain in the navy anymore."

"No. They had to put an end to the navy when the war ended. It took its own toll."

"I didn't think about that."

Picking another off the pile, the Countess dropped the next biscuit beside Maria's teacup. "A navy's no good without a coast or port."

"I already had several on—" Maria bit down on her lip. She may be kind, but remember who she is. She smiled instead. "But—why are you telling me all of this, Agathe?"

"You asked me a question."

"Well, yes—"

"You're only young. Someday you'll learn not to ask questions if you don't want the answers." Silence filled the salon for another minute, just the sounds of sipping and china on china to break it. "But that's enough of my family's story," Agathe said finally. "I'll have to ask about yours."

"Mine? Why?"

"If the children are so taken with you, then I would like to know you as well."

"I'm not sure there's much to tell," Maria muttered as she struggled to stop her shoulders from rolling forward and her arms drawing into her sides. "I was born and raised in Vienna and, just like the children, especially Marta and Gretl, I didn't really have my mother. And my father…"

"Yes?"

I don't have to tell her everything, Maria thought. She folded tightened both hands on her cup before they began to tremble, curled her toes in her shoes before her feet began beating away on the floor. No one knows all of it. "He left me with my foster mother—a cousin of his."

"So you do understand, at least some. But how did you come to Aigen and this house?"

"I went to teacher's college. I was younger than Liesl when I started. And—I just wanted to be somewhere else once I was done." Maria took a sip of her fresh tea; this time, it wasn't as sweet as she liked. "So I came to Salzburg for a time."

"Only a time?"

"Well, I was confused by the time I left for Vienna again." Maria's eyes dropped, her gaze running along along the carpet. Searching here and there, wishing there was something other than the scuffs from the trolley to follow. I'm really not doing well with keeping my thoughts to myself now.

"Why back to Vienna?" Agathe asked as she dipped her biscuit into her tea.

It's really nothing I should tell her. It's my foolishness—I don't have to share it with anyone else. But...she's already asked me—twice? She's used to having an answer if she asks a question. Maria licked her lip as her cup clattered onto the saucer again, a little tea spilling over the edge. "I made a friend soon after I arrived and—eventually, everything changed. And I didn't want to worry about—him any longer."

"I'm sorry, my dear," Agathe said, turning toward her.

Maria forced a smile, teeth gritted behind her lips as she brought her eyes back up. "I just don't like to think about him."

"Perhaps. But your demeanor changed just now."

Her right foot was already tapping along the floor; she couldn't stop it, could only try to keep her knee still under her hand. "Please don't ask me anymore."

"As you wish." The Countess twisted around, leaving her teacup on the table beside her little book. "I'm just very curious about you."

"There isn't all that much to tell you, Agathe."

"Well, that's more than I ever expect from Georg whenever I have questions for him."

A rush of nausea rose through Maria's throat, both hands trembling—another wave of tea splashing up, out of her cup and across her hand—her heart pounding—her breathing harsh and fast. Is someone talking? "...all right?" I can ignore everything else, but I can't ignore that. Georg Trapp, it's what you called yourself, what I always called you. "Maria?" You didn't even tell me the truth about that. "Is everything all right, my dear?"

Maria opened her mouth, but it was a moment before she spoke. "Uh...yes, I'm fine. I'll—I'll be fine."

Agathe reached across the couch, touching Maria's hand. "I don't think so, you look like you've seen a ghost."

"No!" she said quickly. "But I just didn't—realize we would be talking about—the Captain."

She snorted as she tugged the saucer from Maria's hands and reached for the teapot. "He's hardly the topic of conversation. I don't think you'll even meet him, he always avoids the house in the summer."

Maria's blood throbbed in her ears, her head beginning to ache as she dully watched the Countess pour another round of tea. "Frau Schmidt said the same." Her voice was so far away, not even hers. "Even Brigitta told me that."

"She's always been brighter than perhaps she should be."

But then—what does Frau Schmidt mean, that...Maria choked; even breathing was suddenly impossible. That he's thinking about marrying someone. He can't, he can't. There's so much I don't know, but I know that!

"Maria?"

"May…" She had to start again; her voice was thin and high. "May I—go?"

"Certainly not," Agathe went on, now busying herself with the milk and sugar on the trolley beside the teapot. "My daughter wouldn't have it, if she was here. Finish your tea. And...You'll have to forgive me as well. I've never known them to be so excited to have a new governess. There haven't been many bright moments in their lives in the last years."

The minutes dragged on. The Countess, perhaps deciding that Maria was done talking about herself, instead returned to the children. Maria tried to answer her questions cheerfully, and thinking about the children did help her smile. But she couldn't bring herself to ask that last question. They had discussed Louisa's drawings and the Countess was beginning to talk about Friedrich's enjoyment of books set on the sea when someone knocked on the door. As eager as Maria was to hear more about the elder boy's interests—to dull what she now understood—she was more relieved to be interrupted.

The Countess, however, looked annoyed. "Yes?"

The door opened slowly, Frau Schmidt slipping through with a quick bow of her head. "Countess?"

"Yes, Mina?"

Mina? Maria thought as she finally took a bite of the biscuit she had forgotten. Her stomach was beginning to rumble again despite the large picnic lunch with the children. Frau Schmidt hurried forward— Oh. I just never asked. Something I'm good at.

"The children are asking for you," the housekeeper said.

The Countess nodded as she set her cup down on the trolley, nudging the sugar back from the edge. "Then show them in here."

"I'm afraid the Captain—"

"He likes things in a very particular way, I know. Unfortunately, he isn't here to maintain order on his ship." She folded her hands on top of her shawl. "They were in here often enough when they were younger. And my grandchildren aren't ruffians."

"I didn't mean to suggest—"

"Then show them in."

Frau Schmidt sighed and bowed her head again. "As you wish."

Maria rubbed the greasy crumbs from her fingers onto her saucer and placed it beside the Countess's, wishing she had a napkin. "I—should go, then."

"Yes, Fräulein Maria, I'm sure you have some papers—"

"Of course not," the Countess interrupted. "I'm sure the children won't have it."

"Countess—"

"Or at least Marta and Gretl."

Maria laughed before she could stop herself, at least until she noticed Frau Schmidt's small frown. "I think you're right," she murmured. I'm sure you're thinking about how the household should be run. Even when you don't like it, I know you keep it this way. And I really shouldn't be sitting here with a countess, even if she is the children's grandmother. But I'll just worry about them instead.

The housekeeper disappeared as quickly as she had appeared, the door left open this time as she wheeled the tea trolley out. The Countess must expect to see her, Maria thought as the silence grew heavy again. I can't think Frau Schmidt would serve tea to every visitor. Maybe if the Captain— She squirmed on her half of the couch, fingers shaking again. "I'm sure they'll be happy to see you," she said, rushing over the words. "The little girls seemed to have a lot to say to you. They kept coming back for more paper."

Oh, why did you say that? She knows that already, Maria thought. She was still squirming, her dress riding up past her knees as it caught on the upholstery. I wish I could go. No matter what she thinks, I'm sure the children would be perfectly happy just with her. I'm sure it's been long enough they'll be talking over one another for hours. Even Friedrich! She could already hear the din of the children growing, though she could only pick out Marta's voice. But if I'm still here, I might as well ask the Countess about what Frau Schmidt said.

"I've missed that sound," the older woman said as she unfurled her shawl, a quick toss bringing back over her shoulders.

"I know I will," Maria said softly. "And I hope—" She stopped, the blood drumming in her ears again. "Well, maybe I shouldn't."

The Countess waved her arm as she settled back against the arm of the couch. "Please speak freely, Maria."

"I do hope they'll have a new mother someday." I don't know what Frau Schmidt would say if I tried to ask her. I'm not sure she even remembers mentioning her to me. I'm sure she has too much to worry about without thinking about every little thing like that. "Frau Schmidt mentioned a—friend of your daughter's."

"Ah." The Countess nodded as she shrugged, a few grey tassels falling down around her upper arms. "Mina doesn't always hold her tongue. Yes, Elsa was a friend of hers when they were in school. She lives somewhere in Vienna, although...I can't say I've ever met the woman. Not even back in their schooldays. But yes, I have heard Georg is fond of her."

Maria clenched her teeth hearing his name again. I'm not worrying about him right now, I won't. But I feel like you've told me everything else about her. Or anything that might help me make more sense of the children and—the Captain. She swallowed against a hard lump in the back of her throat. Just not one thing. "May I ask you something?"

The Countess nodded again. "If you wish."

Maria dragged her dress back down over her knees to stop her hands from shaking. You said not to ask a question if I don't really want the answer. I'm not sure I do, but I think I need it. I might not ever have another chance to know. I don't think anyone else in the house would be willing to tell me. "What was—your daughter's name?" Maria asked quickly—before she could change her mind. I know what you'll say. "You've told me so much about her just now."

The Countess looked at her strangely. "We gave her my name, of course. Agathe."

O O O

Maria struggled to have a moment to herself for the remainder of the afternoon. The children were a blur as they charged into the salon, still unkempt and dusty. Any hint of the Countess's elegance vanished as her grandchildren threw themselves into her arms, all of them eager to tell her about this and that. She winced each time she heard one of them call her name. Please don't. If it is what...But it's not if anymore, I know that. I'm not that foolish anymore.

She couldn't even escape as evening arrived, 7:30 and dinner coming too soon. Maria hurriedly said she would join the staff in the kitchen—to give the Countess and the children much time to talk, make up for lost time—but the Countess still wouldn't hear of. Though, Maria realized as dinner progressed with the Countess opposite her at the table's head, the children wouldn't have been happy at her disappearance either. They were all trying to talk at once, even Friedrich who had finally changed into something cleaner; the others had been too excited to leave their grandmother's side. Questions and shouts bounced along the table without rhyme or reason, the meal nearly forgotten in the chatter, much to the maids' irritation.

Dinner might as well have not been there, Maria hardly touched it. The children's voices, now so distinct and sharp for her, melted together, almost static crackling in her ears. Seated beside her, Brigitta had to draw her out of her thoughts time and again. "Louisa was talking again about sending her drawing to Aunt Hede. She finished it yesterday— Fräulein Maria?" She didn't have an answer for anyone, just nodding as she struggled to remember anything that had been said. I told myself that it couldn't be what I was afraid of. If what Frau Schmidt told me that afternoon was right, I knew it couldn't be—but I can't imagine anything else. A sailor in the Imperial Navy—a captain!—with his name, whose poor wife's name is the same engraved— "He prefers to call them down with a whistle...Everyone in this house answers to one—you as well, if he's at home."

"Fräulein Maria?"

"I'm sorry, Brigitta, what is it?"

But at least by the time their plates were cleared of fish and the table was reset with forks for dessert, she begged heartily enough that she was granted her freedom.

Stepping out into the enormous hall, Maria hurried around the polished stone pillar sprouting from the coppery tiles. She almost knocked her leg into one of the golden upholstered chairs tucked into the little corner beside the short stair up to the front door, but just tucked her hands behind her back—knotted them into her wrinkled dress—and she took a deep breath. With the happy din in the dining room was dulled by the wall, it was a roar in her head.

She turned her gaze up to the hall's ceiling, the beams in the shadow of the sparkling chandelier hanging beneath it. A little sunlight still gleamed from the window behind her seat in the dining room—a little peeked from around the strange wall running behind the villa's façade—but it all sputtered out before it touched the corners. I never belonged here.

Maria shivered as she crept along the curving railing and turned toward the back of the hall. I forgot. I let myself care for them too much. Love them too much and...I could forget sometimes. Even when it was all right in front of me. I just didn't want to know. I should have known the first time I stood here. But if I ignored what I saw, then none of it could be real.

Maria saw the children standing in line again, uniforms matched and pressed. You troubled me the most, Marta, but...I should have been more frightened of Liesl, what I saw in her face. I saw him here and there with so many of the others, but it was all right there in your face. Your nose, your hair, your eyes...Especially your eyes. I didn't want to know, that—

Deep in the dining room, something crashed—someone laughed—and the spell was broken. Maria spun around toward the door and nearly threw herself up the short staircase onto the landing, up the staircase away from the children and the Countess. Her hand slid on the banister, but she dragged herself up and along, the sound fading as the distance grew. Her breathing was ragged when she reached the flat floor of the gallery—then stopped behind the first column. The chandelier was too harsh, blinding her as she tried to glance down—across the hall. But I—I still don't know what to do. I don't know how to know what to do. But...I can't. Maria pushed herself away from the gallery's edge—the foyer—the little whir of life below. And with her first steps down the corridor, she almost ran toward her bedroom, the sounds and memories already nipping at her heels.

Time was meaningless once the door closed, her own thoughts finally released to roam free. She sat on her bed gulping down stagnant air, hands tightly clasped in her lap until she had to shake them free of the tingling needles. She curled up in the chair by the window—first trying to read one of her father's books—next crying as she tried to smother the sound with her elbow. The sun sank into the horizon. Her back, her hips, her legs ached. Her nose burned and her eyes were dry and itchy. As red as her burnt face, she knew.

She wanted to shower. The old filth was clinging to her again, sinking deeper into her skin each second. She needed to shower. I can't—I don't want to see and remember. She needed to be clean—wash it all away. But I'll remember again. It's enough when I'm asleep. Her arms and legs itched—she wanted to scratch and scratch until it stopped. Even if her nails drew blood. I don't want to see it. She closed her eyes, buried them against her sleeve. I can't stop it. She gulped down a dry cry. There was never any stopping it.

She rocked forward against her husband, hands curled around his shoulders. He had shoved her aside just long enough for them to strip away their remaining clothes before dragging her back and pulled her down onto his erection, so swiftly it almost hurt. And now, he folded his hands around her bottom, guiding her forward and pushing her back down. You taught me, she thought as she ran her hands down his chest. Into the curling hair, along his muscles—until he tossed them away and yanked her down against him with a growl

"You're always mine," he whispered with a rough thrust up into her body. She moaned as his hold tightened, her breasts aching. "No matter what."

"No!" She threw herself from the chair toward the washroom—she nearly smacked her hip against the brass post at the foot of her bed. Her stomach was bubbling, the taste of bile rising even as her muscles tensed under her hand. She knocked the door open with her elbow, hardly catching the light before she was clutching at the toilet. Sick and panting and waiting…

"No," Maria whispered as the sweat dripped down face. "No." She dropped down onto the tile, a welcome cold spreading through her body even as her backside and elbow twinged.

What am I doing? Being frightened? Getting ready to run away? What was the worst that could happen? Frau Schmidt and the Countess could look after the children. And it wouldn't be too difficult to return to Salzburg, just the same bus that had brought her a month ago. I don't know when it runs, and I'm sure it's finished for the night. But—maybe tomorrow morning? If I have everything ready tonight, I could leave early. There are enough new people here that no one really knows what to expect. No one would have to know...

She pushed herself up from the floor with one slip on a little sheen of condensation. And then with a hand balanced on the toilet's edge, to her feet. She shuffled to the sink and opened the tap, filled her palms with water—lukewarm from the pipes—then tossed it across her face. I have to stop for a moment. I have to think—have some control. Never stopping to think is why I'm in this position right now.

Closing the tap and drying her hands, Maria turned away from the basin and back toward her small room. As she stepped through the door, she took a long breath. It was a little better out here, the air not quite so stuffy or stiff, like the window had come open again. Just start with something if you want to be ready for the morning. Still not paying attention to her dirty dress, she dropped down onto her knees beside her mussed bed and dragged her battered carpetbag out. It snagged on the rug, but a sharp yank freed it. And unfastening the clasps and pulling the sides apart—

The window across the room slapped against its frame and Maria gasped. She had woken a little with the water on her face, but the noise finally snapped her from the daze. "What am I doing?" she whispered. Twisting around, she collapsed onto the floor with a dull thud. "What? I told myself I wouldn't ever do that. Not again."

She shoved her hand deep into the bag. Through the little collection of watercolor cards, her wedding dress, something round she didn't remember— The first thing Maria pulled out was the old doll. Its hair was tangled and its dress rumpled, so she pulled the hem down over the scrawny legs, seeing a little tear she needed to mend. And what will I tell the Reverend Mother? She straightened one of the little button eyes. That I'm so afraid of what happened, I can't do the one thing she thinks God is asking of me? Finally admit to her why I couldn't join the novitiate? She pressed the doll against her chest, its hair shoved under her chin. I don't think I could bear it. But I—I can't. I told myself that long ago.

Maria dropped Sonja's old doll into her lap before she reached back into her bag, into the farthest corner. Cold, long, and thin, it was twisted up in its chain, but she knew the silver whistle's curves by heart. And the words carved on its side. "For my beloved Captain. All my love, Agathe." Even buried in her hand, it was almost blinding as it shone in the sharpening sun. Cupping it between her palms, Maria sighed, her gaze rising up to the ceiling.

I can't really tell myself anything else. I'm just lying if I do. I think I knew I was lying to myself from the first day. Maybe I told myself that even though Salzburg isn't as large as Vienna, it isn't really that small—that it was just a few coincidences. She pushed a few layers of the thin chain down, her thumb scratching against those letters. I know, and I don't know what to do with it. But maybe—maybe I should worry about it tomorrow. I ran away from Salzburg in an instant years ago and...She pushed her face into her dusty sleeve. I know what came of that.

With all the memories of her old life packed away and shoved back beneath her bed, Maria calmed as the hours passed. In the same chair by the window, she picked up her father's book again; whenever her attention wavered, she prayed instead. I'm trying, Father, I really am. I know what the Reverend Mother always said about closed doors and opened windows. I know all the doors I closed, but I still don't quite know what windows You've opened. Or maybe I do and I just don't want it. He took everything from me once—I don't want to think about what it might be like to face him again. She returned to her book, lazily turning the pages and not really trying to read anymore. I just don't want to think anymore tonight.

Maria nodded off in the small chair, finally jerking awake when the window banged against the frame just in front of her face. It was just the last hints of sun glowing somewhere in the sky, deep indigo and black ready to swallow it in a quick pounce. Time to get up to go to bed, she thought as she sat straight. Her back cracked faintly and her cheek ached, a deep line from the windowsill marking her face. And then looking down at her dress, she frowned. I'll have to wash it out soon, but...not tonight.

She knocked the worst of the mud and dirt away in her bathtub, then folded it and set her dress in the far corner of her washroom. She didn't think as she peeled away her shift and pulled her nightdress on instead. It was backwards at first, her mind was so far away. But finally dressed for bed—a comb tugged through her short hair—she shoved herself into the bedclothes, hoping for a dreamless sleep.

When she woke again to the middle of the night—she hadn't slept long enough to be haunted by a dream—the window was rattling, slapping back against the frame as a little breeze grazed the villa's façade. Maria sleepily bundled her sheets in her arm and threw them to the side, all her limbs bared to the warm summer air. Twisting around in the darkness and setting her feet on the floor, she dug her naked toes into the rug— Something thumped overhead—then again, like a couple of heavy footsteps, or a trunk being shoved along the floor. But it must be the middle of the night, Maria thought as she shuffled to her window, one long arm stretched out to seize the loose latch.

With the window closed—the rustling of the wind through ivy deadened by the panes—she turned her face up to the ceiling. More footsteps, these creeping toward her door. I've never been up there, but Frau Schmidt told me it's where the rest of the staff lives, no one else. She followed the sound, but it faded into silence before she could catch up. Oh—I'm sure that's where everyone who came with the Countess is, too. But...

Maria pressed her body up against the white wooden door, one breast pushed painfully into her torso and one ear against the thin gap between the very edge and the frame. Even with the warm air that had infiltrated her bedroom before she finally latched the recalcitrant window, she shivered. It's so cold, she thought, slowly flattening her palm to hold the door still. And I don't know why. I just wish I had picked up my dressing gown.

The footsteps were back: still overhead and now moving away from her toward the back of the house. Her breathing was too raspy, her heartbeat too loud, her belly taut. But—why so late? The entire household retires early. Even without the Captain— Her hand tightened and her fingers scraped down to the handle. No, I won't—I won't think about you because...I can't think of leaving the children alone. Not— More gentle thumps, this time probably to the gallery encircling the hall. "Oh!" she hissed. She couldn't stand it any longer.

Spinning around, Maria threw herself at her wardrobe. A quick yank opened the door and another freed her dressing gown from its hanger. She slung it over her shoulders loosely, then, back at her door, began gently turning the knob with white fingers. A pause—she closed it—then turned the knob again. As the door squeaked gently on its hinges, Maria held her dressing gown closer with her arm and slid a bare foot into the growing gap.

The house was silent, full of shadows fighting and struggling against one another despite the dimmed hall lights in their glass sconces. Maria twisted around as she pulled the door open, now taking a few nervous steps into the corridor, then a few more to the gallery. Why can't I leave well enough alone? she thought with a shiver as she scratched at the lingering ache in her breast. At the railing—one hand steadying her—Maria leaned forward. I never really have. Despite the little army of lights that never quite went out, the shadows were inky and thick. Even the chandelier that always glittered had surrendered, the faint gold paint along the molding in the corners refused to shine—

But across the way, down the corridor that mirrored the one behind her, a little patch of light glowed along the floor: brighter than the lamps, soft and golden. Oh girls, Maria thought with a step back. I don't know the time, but it's past time you were trying to fall asleep. She frowned. I suppose it could be one of you, Kurt or Friedrich, but I still don't quite know about either of you. And it might be nice to...She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to hold her heartbeat and breaths still. I can't. I leave any of you. She took a step along the gallery, toward the back of the villa...then back, right into one of the slender pillars that sprouted up through the ornate railing. I...I'll go around front. I don't know why, but—I don't want to be back there right now.

Tramping downstairs—around the turn of the staircase, down to the landing—Maria pushed herself up onto her toes, shuddering as a little breeze from beneath the doors tickled the bottom of her feet. She couldn't see anything at the back of the gallery, and there was nothing at the back of the hall. Not a sound, not a hint of anything moving in the muted light. It doesn't make sense. I've been here for a month and all that's different is the Countess. Everything else is just as it's always been since I…Spinning around, she turned toward the twin doors, her gaze running from the arch so high up, she could never touch it to the cold wood below. The bolt holding them closed wasn't very large, so Maria turned it over and pulled the door open.

There was no light to speak of, just a few drops spilling up from either horizon. The last of the lights from another fine house nearby to the east, and the shimmering silhouette of Salzburg to the west. And out in front—up above the trees' fluttering branches and leaves—the moon. It was nearly full, just beginning to wane for the month, but still bright despite the yellowy clouds drifting through the sky. Slipping between the doors, almost drawing it closed behind her, Maria stood. Just waiting.

Her eyes adjusted as a few minutes passed, stars breaking through the dark sky. It really is full of stars. I've never gotten to see quite so many of them until I came here, it was always so bright. I wonder what it would be like up on the mountain, if it would be far enough away to see even more of them. Like what...Maria stiffened against the door still standing in its place with a quiet squeal as the knob jabbed her back. If I just walked away now, surely the moonlight would be enough. There's hardly anyone around here during the day, so there wouldn't be anyone to bother me at night. And it wouldn't be too long until all the sisters are getting up, when I would arrive. The Reverend Mother said it was only until September, so she'll be expecting me back. A warm breeze whipped across her face, flicking a few longer strands of hair across her eyes, tangling them in her eyelashes. And...disappear into the night? Just like you?

Maria slipped back through the crack, eyes rising up along the staircase leading to the children's rooms. Even if I did...I know it wouldn't be right. She shoved the door closed; the thud was louder than she expected, a little rattle rippling along the wall. I've done enough of that for a lifetime.

It was indeed the girls, all still awake: Louisa sketching, Liesl and Brigitta reading, and all three of them talking endlessly about their grandmother. All that had happened since Maria went to bed, news of Vienna, the books she had brought them, the stories she told with all of them gathered in the little girls' room until she had to retire to her own room at the very end of the hall...Maria was smiling by the time she finally closed the door and made her way down the corridor to the gallery. (She doubled back once, firmly telling the girls to extinguish their lights again.) Almost happy.

She still took the long way back, though this time she didn't linger at the front door. And she nearly ran down the corridor to her bedroom, almost nicked her side as she tried to slip through the door before she really had it open, slammed it closed with her back. And waited for a minute, listening for anything.

I know I'm being silly, Maria told herself as she finally pulled her sheets up over her shoulders, the bedspread forgotten. But I just didn't like it tonight.

When Maria woke the next morning, she couldn't remember why she had been so bothered. Perhaps it was the sunshine or the cooler morning. Or perhaps she just remembered everything else she still had to worry about.

O O O

Franz was growing impatient in the low lights of the staff corridor at the far end of the hall. Impatient for midnight, impatient for Benedict to make his way down from the extra staff quarters. I've been busy enough today without waiting for you. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and pinched his lips to stifle a yawn. The Countess could have sent us notice to prepare the house. But perhaps she was hoping to find the Captain at home.

Nothing much had changed in the last weeks. No news of developments in Germany or Austria, not even any fresh pamphlets handed over when that young lad had a telegram. Rolfe, he reminded himself as he loosened his jacket buttons. He'll do well as long as he isn't too distracted by Liesl. But at least it made the boy eager to deliver telegrams, even the one or two from the Captain in Vienna. Not that there was ever very much. Just an order or a question: short, precise. Just like you always were during the war. But that world's gone.

Franz slipped his arms from his jacket; his shirt was damp beneath his armpits and sticking to his back and sides. Folding it over his arms, he just tried to think for a moment. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so surprised by the Countess's appearance. The house had been reeling since the governess's arrival in the middle of June.

Footsteps broke through the quiet: distant and furtive, but distinct with nothing but the occasional creak of the house to muffle them. Down—down—down...but then up and away again. "Well, I didn't tell you to come that way to begin with." He wiped the back of his neck with his sleeve. "But...at least I already know I can't tell you what to do, Fräulein, and I'm guessing you're just looking after the children." It was still only the governess on that side of the house. The largest guest room in the family's quarters had been dusty, but quick enough to air out and dress with fresh linens and flowers before the Countess retired. And in spite of those other empty rooms around the governess's, the visiting staff had been put up in the extra rooms amongst his own staff's. Just as well. It might be a little harder—

There was a sputtering cough from the stairwell as the door opened, more dim lamplight casting someone short and gaunt in shadow. "Forgive me," Benedict rasped as he stumbled beneath one—then another of the lamps hanging between them. He smacked his fist against his throat—it must be his throat behind that long grey beard, Franz decided—before he coughed again. "It's been too long. I'd forgotten how much of a maze this house is."

"Did anyone follow you?" The old man shook his head, his beard shivering beneath his chin. "This won't take long."

Benedict jerked his head back toward the hallway he had just left. "What's wrong with up—"

"At least here, we can't always speak freely," Franz snapped as he stepped right up to him. "Perhaps the—situation in Vienna is different."

Peering up, Benedict just nodded—and coughed into his hand again. "Oh."

Someday we won't have to pick and choose our friends the way we do now. He tried to smile and not breathe too deeply. "What is the situation there?"

Benedict shrugged beneath his rumpled coat, a little more wrinkled than it should be. "It's not that different from the telegram a few months ago. The new girl Sebastian hired is from Germany. Replaced the last Hungarian Jew we had."

"And how is she?"

He shrugged again. "She doesn't say much, but I see her nodding sometimes if one of the boys her age says a little too much."

"Good," Franz muttered. Stripping his jacket from his arms, he shook it out and flung it back over his shoulders. There will probably be more of them who will see right later than they should. "What of the Countess? What will she do?"

"About Germany?"

"Yes." Beginning a languid walk to the door still hanging open, Franz waved for Benedict to follow.

"It's hard to know." Another scratchy cough. "She doesn't say much, even to those of us who have been around for years. And who knows what she really thinks. Her son died stupidly for the British and her son-in-law would rather hunt down their ships."

"There are worse countries to die for."

"I suppose."

Franz slowed to match the old man's gait. "The Captain never visits?"

"Why would he?"

"He's…" Franz shook his head. "Never mind. He's still distracted enough with his corner of Vienna, I suppose." I don't know too much about Baroness Schräder, but she's welcome to him for the moment.

"Honestly, I'm not sure the Countess would be too happy to see him."

Already at that door to the stairwell, Franz ducked to the side, tapping his foot as he waited for Benedict to go first. "He can do what he wants."

"And here I thought you had some loyalty to him," Benedict said as Franz followed him. "After all those years in the navy."

He yanked the door closed; the hinges rattled and the nearest lamp shook. "I did once. The world has moved on from him, fortunately."

"I'll like to know what he thinks when he's finally back for a while."

"Quiet!" Franz hissed as he paused, seizing the man's wrist to bring him to a halt. His grasp was tight and even with the faint lamps, he saw the wide eyes, the tensed mouth through the wiry grey beard. "It won't be until the end of summer. Maybe longer."

"He…" As Franz released him, Benedict wheezed gently, rubbing his arm where there were probably a few white fingers marked on his skin. "He has seven children—"

"That doesn't matter," Franz said, trotting on up the steps, too impatient and tired and hot to hang back with the fool. "He has no reason to stay."

A/N: This would have been finished earlier, except for being sidelined by a stomach bug the whole weekend. Fun times. And if last chapter had "The Age of Not Believing" running in the background in my head, this feels like something from one of the Jane Eyre film adaptations about Mr. Rochester. At least the first part.