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Fitz took a breath of the refined, Austrian air and discovered something very curious.
He was smiling.
He tried to hold on to these moments, knowing that the despair would return. He was happy because this place reminded him of her , because this was where she raised him and fed him and taught him that he wasn't too young to make his mark in the world. This was the safe place he came to when the sound of gunfire rang too loudly in his head, where she would cradle him in her arms and tell him that he was a man, yes, but he would always be her boy, too.
And yet, this was also the place where she was not, and he knew that every tree and flower mourned her a much as he did. She had cared for every blade of grass, and he had no idea how to start filling the shoes she left behind. His smile faded at the thought of it. It was something like a curse, the way the guilt followed him wherever he went, the way he was drawn and repulsed by this place and what came with it. He was sure that it was worse here and that it was worse in Vienna, in Paris, in Rome. He could do nothing to escape it, except to hold on to these rare, wonderful moments that took his breath away.
So he patted the hand that rested in the crook of his arm and tried to keep smiling.
"Oh," said Baroness Nathan, "I do like it here, Leopold. It's so lovely and peaceful."
He turned to her, forcing a smile even as he shuddered at the sound of his first name. He wasn't sure why he'd told her to use it, but then, he wasn't sure about anything he did these days. It was simply what was done, part of what was expected of a retired naval captain as young and single as he was, and he told himself that if he tried hard enough, he might like it. It was harder than commanding a ship, but it was certainly easier than taking care of seven children on his own.
"How can you leave home as often as you do?" she asked.
He tried to make his response a kind one, because the baroness deserved nothing less. "Oh," he said, "by pretending to be madly active, I suppose. Activity suggests a life filled with purpose."
The baroness raised her eyebrow at him, a playful smile on her lips. "Could you be running away from responsibilities?"
She meant it as a joke, but it hit him hard, because his mother had left him with more than a piece of property, and all of Salzburg knew it. But Baroness Audrey Nathan of Vienna had never met his mother, and therefore could not conceive of the weight of the legacy she left behind.
"Mhmm," he admitted quickly, turning away so she would not see the truth of it. "Or perhaps just . . . searching for a reason to stay."
He knew she would follow after him, and he didn't have to look at her to see the lightness in her smile. He wouldn't taint it with the hurt bubbling in his heart. He let himself feel it for one, private moment before burying it deep.
"Oh, I hope that's why you've been coming to Vienna so often," the baroness said, coming up beside him with her hands clasped behind her back. When he looked over at her, he saw the pink tinge in her cheeks and told himself she must be right. After all, she was lovely, witty, graceful, and charming. She matched him in station, in wealth, in tragedy. It was true that he had come seeking after her, though there was a part of him that wondered if it was the tragedy he was searching for. He needed to know how she bore it so well.
He was better for knowing her, he could admit that at least, and maybe she could make this place better, too.
So he let her take his hand as they strolled through his extensive grounds, attempting at playful responses and feeling grateful when she pretended they were. They approached the house just as she was recounting a tale from one of her glittering parties, and he couldn't imagine how someone so poised and refined could ever end up with a wretch like him.
"But take all that away," she said, "the parties, the friends—all of it—and you have, just, wealthy, unattached, little me." She stopped, taking in the landscape around her and ending at his eyes. "Searching, just like you."
Her gaze was so intense, so inquisitive, that he found himself laughing through his nerves or because of them. He let her hand fall from his and kept walking up to the patio. This time, he wasn't sure if she was smiling or not, and he didn't want to know.
He was relieved to find Phil poring over a newspaper, a forgotten strudel and tea sitting on the table beside him.
"Still reading, Phil?" he teased, feeling more comfortable already. "You must be cross if you're still reading."
Phil looked up from his paper with a placid, knowing smile. "You remember that all-boy rocket design team I've been trying for months to steal from Anne Weaver?"
Fitz didn't remember, but luckily, the baroness seemed to. She flew to Phil's side, putting a hand on his arm.
"What happened, darling?"
Phil covered her hand with his. "Yesterday, Jasper Sitwell stole them first. If I want a team for the festival, I'll have to start all over."
The baroness was kind enough to ask him questions, but Fitz found his mind wandering to the mountains on the horizon and the lake in the foreground. She had said that it was peaceful here, and she was right, but he was suddenly aware that it was far too peaceful to feel like home.
"I wonder where the children are?" he asked, only realizing he'd said it aloud when he caught the attention of Phil and the baroness.
"Obviously," she said, "they heard I was in town and went into hiding."
He furrowed his brow, looking about the grounds in search of them. "I was hoping they'd be here to welcome you."
The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he felt. After all, they should be well into their morning drills by now. How could they have fallen so far off schedule? He wandered over to the side of the patio and was surprised to find, not the orphans his mother had taken in, but the telegram boy. He watched as the boy threw a pebble at one of the windows—Daisy's window to be precise—and found that his heart lit aflame.
"What are you doing there?"
The boy stopped immediately and looked up at him in terrified shock. "Captain von Fitz! I was just looking for—" The boy looked around him, as if rescue would come from one of the trees.
"I-I didn't see!" The boy was stammering now, wringing his hands and practically shaking. "I mean, I didn't know you were—Heil Hitler!"
The boy brought his arm up in the salute that Fitz had only seen a few times and far too often. The fire in his heart became a molten steel, but his face showed no sign of it.
"Who are you," he demanded.
"Grant Ward," answered the boy, seemingly more confident once he'd shouted the name of a monster. "I have a telegram for Herr Coulson."
"I'm Herr Coulson," said Phil, coming over to stand beside Fitz. Fitz wished he meant it as a show of solidarity, but knew it was too much to hope for.
"Yes, sir," said Grant. He rummaged about in his bag for the telegram, then offered it to Phil. Fitz took it from him instead, then passed it to Phil himself.
"Alright," said Fitz, feeling his anger start to boil over, "you've delivered your telegram. Now get out."
Grant scowled at him for a moment before turning to retrieve his bicycle and flee. Fitz watched him go, finding no relief in the boy's absence.
"Oh, Leopold," cooed the baroness, "he's just a boy."
Fitz tightened his jaw. "Yes, and I'm just an Austrian."
He turned to find Phil's placid smile once again, and Fitz had to hold back the urge to scream. Phil was his friend, yes, and his countryman, technically. But Fitz knew that neither Phil nor the baroness could possibly understand how dangerously wrong this young man was, and how that one salute was only a token of a great evil that threatened to devour them all. He looked to Phil, then to the baroness, and somehow he could smell the stench of blood mingled with gunpowder, and felt just as alone as the moment he'd stood on the bow of a ship and realized he was the only officer left standing. It was possible that, once again, he'd have to fight this war on his own.
"You're far away," the baroness whispered, "where are you?"
He put both hands on the stone railing of the patio, stone carved and laid by the free men of Austria, and tried not to shudder at the thought of what could happen to them.
"In a world that's disappearing, I'm afraid."
He felt her hand on his shoulder. "Is there any way I could bring you back into the world I'm in?"
He was sure her words were kindly meant, but he barely heard them, as his attention was drawn to an ungodly chattering that was coming from the direction of the lake. Upon further inspection, he could see a boat hidden by the trees that was carrying the missing orphans, with none other than Fräulein Simmons leading the way.
"Now children," the fräulein called over the din, "once again!"
She was largely obscured by the leaves and branches, but to Fitz, it looked like she was directing a choir, and the children stopped their giggling to chant after her. "Pressure is transmitted undiminished in an enclosed static fluid!"
"Yes," the fräulein exclaimed, "very good! Now, once you truly grasp the principles of buoyancy, you can . . ." The boat came clearly into view, and the children exploded into excitement at the sight of him. And it must be him, because there was a chorus of his name as if sung by seven small voices, and Fräulein Jemma turned towards his direction and clasped her hands together in apparent surprise.
"Is it him? Is he back?" The children were standing and waving at him, and she jumped up to stand with them. "Oh! Oh captain, you're home! Oh, ah!"
She screamed as the boat capsized, throwing all eight of them into the lake. Fitz flew down the patio stairs to help them, but stopped when their laughter continued uninterrupted. He had to stop his hands from flying to his hair as he imagined all seven children drowning.
"Come out of that water at once," he barked.
The children obeyed, but with a giddiness that surprised him. Barbara carried little Robin in her arms, and Lance splashed at Donald as the two boys made their way into shore. Fräulein Jemma attempted to salvage the boat, and when she turned back to face Fitz, her mouth fell open.
"Oh," she exclaimed, waist-deep in lake water, "you must be Baroness Nathan!" Fitz glared at her informality, but when he turned to the baroness, he found that she was stifling a smile of her own.
This could not be tolerated.
The molten steel turned solid in his belly as he watched the children stumble through the gate and onto the paved walkway.
"Oh, I'm soaked to the skin," exclaimed Barbara, and it was then that Fitz realized that they were not in their uniforms, as he had ordered them to be, but in some other matching garb so unexpected that he couldn't think of a word for it. His hand reached for the whistle on instinct, and he poured his displeasure into two shrill notes which seemed to bring the children to their senses.
"Straight line," he commanded, and the children did as he said, though Daisy slipped on the walkway, and Lance almost fell over in his attempt at the correct posture. Fitz inspected his children from smallest to oldest, grabbing a bandana from Barbara's hair as he went. And yes, all of the governesses he'd hired over the past year had failed him in one way or another, but none had ever managed to disrespect and embarrass him as much as the woman who stood at the end of the line, so soaked that her dress clung to every curve, watching to see what he would do next. He made a point of ignoring her and went instead to stand by their honored guest.
"This," he said, still holding the sopping bandana, "is Baroness Nathan." He threw a smile her way, bowing his head in an almost desperate gesture of civility. "And these are my mother's children."
The baroness nodded at them gracefully. "How do you do?"
"Alright," he said, even more ashamed at the contrast between her grace and their chaos, "go inside. Dry off. Clean up. Change your clothes. Report back here. Immediately!"
The last word had turned into a yell, and it sent the children scampering off, this time without laughter. Behind him he sensed the fräulein moving to follow them.
"Fräulein, you will stay here, please."
She stilled immediately at his words, and the baroness fidgeted beside him before walking away with the excuse that she needed to see what Phil was up to. Once it was just the two of them, the fräulein turned to face him. He put the whistle back in his pocket.
"Now, fräulein," he said as the pieces started to come together in his mind. He now knew why the urchins they'd passed on the road that morning seemed so achingly familiar. "I want a truthful answer from you."
"Yes, captain?"
He took a few steps toward her and saw her straighten before him. "Is it possible—or could I have just imagined it—have my mother's children, by any chance, been climbing trees today?"
The fräulein lit up with an infuriating smile. "Yes, captain. That was a lesson on the principles of gravity."
"I see." He held up the still-dripping bandana. "And where, may I ask did they get these . . ."
"Play clothes," the fräulein supplied.
"Oh, is that what you call them?"
He intended to intimidate her, but she appeared unmoved. "I made them from the drapes that used to hang in my bedroom."
"You . . . what?"
"They still had plenty of wear left," she continued, "the children have been everywhere in them."
Fitz had to take a breath to keep himself from shouting, and instead, the bandana almost fell from his fingers as his free hand flew to his forehead. "Are you . . . are you telling me that my mother's children have been roaming about Salzburg in nothing but some old drapes!" He threw the bandana to the ground, now standing just a foot or two away from her, and she didn't seem to care.
"Mhmm, and having a marvelous time. How else was I supposed to teach them?"
"They have uniforms!"
"More like straight jackets, if you'll forgive me—"
"I will not forgive you!"
"I don't know how you expect me to mold the minds of these children if they're too busy worrying about spoiling their precious clothes!"
"I haven't heard them complain."
"They wouldn't dare! They love you too much! They fear you too much. They wouldn't—"
"They don't love me at all! They loved her . They were raised by her . I'm just the man they heard stories about, and now I'm expected to—"
"You're the only family they have!"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Well, you've got to hear it from someone; you're never home long enough to—"
"I told you, I don't want to hear any more about—"
"I know you don't, but you've got to!"
Fitz felt the words fall right out of his mouth. Nobody had ever dared to speak to him that way since—since before he—
"Now, take Daisy," Fräulein Jemma continued, despite his protests, "she's not a child anymore. One of these days, you're going to wake up and find she's transformed into something else entirely! You won't even know her! And Donnie, he's a boy, but he wants to grow up to be an engineer, just like you used to be, and he has no one to show him how!"
"Don't you dare tell me about Donald!"
"Callie could tell you about him, if you'd let her get close to you. She notices everything."
"Fräulein!"
"And Lance pretends he's tough, not to show how hurt he is when you brush him aside—"
"That will do!"
"—the way you do all of them! Bobbi, I don't know about yet, but someone has to find out and—"
"I said that will do!"
"—and Kara and Robin just want to be loved! Oh, please love them, captain; love all of them! Your mother, bless her heart, took them in and told them all about her great son the hero, and they want you to be their hero, can't you see that? They want you , more than anything!"
He'd been throwing barbs at her as his only means of defending himself, defending his family against this almost-nun and her wild fantasies about who he was supposed to be, but this last jab of hers was a blow to the heart.
"I'm not a hero!"
He didn't realize he'd yelled it until the words rang against that same Austrian stone, and he knew it was true. After all, what kind of hero ran away from children orphaned twice? He turned to walked away from her.
"I don't care to hear any more of this—"
"I am not finished yet, captain!"
How could she dare to raise her voice to him? He turned to her with a volume to match. "Oh, yes you are, captain! Err, fräulein ."
He silently cursed himself for his mistake when he saw her smug smile. He had asked Mother May for a postulate with the expectation that she would obey his rules. In fact, he had specifically requested a postulate who loved rules, but instead he got a woman who had been trouble from the moment she'd stepped foot on the estate. He now understood why they'd been so willing to let him take her off of their hands, but he would get the last laugh when he sent her back to them.
"Now," he said, "you will pack your things this minute and return to the abbey."
Her face fell instantly, and he was going to walk away and leave her there to soak in the sting of being sacked like she soaked in half the lake, but he was stopped by a sound he hadn't heard in a lifetime.
"What's that?"
Fräulein Jemma looked up at him, defiant tears in her eyes. "It's music."
"Yes, I realize it's music, but where is it coming from?"
He watched her take a breath in and out. "The children."
"The children?"
He turned towards the house as he started to recognize the tune. The lyrics came floating out of the window and wrapped him up in a feeling that he'd never thought he'd feel again. But it wasn't the children singing.
"It's Snow White and the Seven Dwarves," he whispered. Or the music from it, at least.
"I taught them something to perform for the baroness. A puppet show. They wanted to show her something they love."
He ran his fingers through his hair, because he knew, he knew they must have told her that it wasn't the children's movie, it was his mother's; it was her story and her music and he had buried that movie with her just as surely as he had closed the lab she left behind. And yet, the thought of the children reenacting the story his mother loved so much—well, how could he stop them? Wasn't she their mother, too? He was too young to be their father, too old to be their brother, and ultimately too inept to do anything but stare at this unbelievable woman who must know something of what she was doing to him.
He blinked, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands before he turned to follow the music, wandering into his house and through the halls like some blind beggar until he found them in the drawing room. He stood in the doorway until he felt the presence of the fräulein next to him.
"They made the puppets, you know. It was supposed to be an introduction to robotics."
He turned to her, gaping. "They made them?"
"Yes," she said, punctuating her answer with nod. "Each of the children made a dwarf. I made Snow White to demonstrate. Now, I know what you said, but I think they're waiting for me."
She brushed past him towards the little stage, and maybe he hadn't been at the house as often as he should have, but he did think that it must have been Callie who'd painted that border of edelweiss. His mother had loved those, too, as they were a symbol of her homeland and his. As he looked about the room, he found a bouquet of them in a vase near a picture of her. This performance, he understood, wasn't just a way of welcoming the baroness. No, it was more than that. It was a monument to the one they loved best, and in turn, a monument to the values she'd taught each of them. In the end, it was a symbol of everything he had fought for and was still fighting for, lovingly etched into every detail.
He found himself sitting between Phil and the baroness as the record turned and the music swelled, throwing him into a world of memory. He'd taken her to see it the very first time, finding it a struggle to wheel her through the theater, but not minding it all when he got to sit beside her. The children had been there too, with Daisy holding little Robin as if she was afraid her new sister would break.
What Fräulein Jemma didn't know was that this wasn't just a memory; it was a memory of a time when they truly were a family. If only he could dive into that moment and stay there forever.
The play that the children presented was a truncated version of the story, to be sure, but he was enraptured from beginning to end, first in his memories, but then in the workmanship of the puppets. How could seven small children make something so fantastic? How much of it had been their own invention, and how much Fräulein Jemma's direction? It truly was mind-boggling, especially when he tried to determine which puppet had been made by which child. Did Donald make Grumpy, or did Lance? He found that the show flew by before he could puzzle it out. He didn't realize it was over until Phil and the baroness applauded, and then he joined them, as enthusiastic as his two guests combined. The children spilled out of their little stage, each bowing or curtsying, and he realized that this was one of those rare moments of joy, except it had persisted since he first heard the music, and seemed to have the power to last.
"Bravo," said Phil, "bravo! Now, why don't you show me what else you've learned?"
In a flash, Phil was carried out by a storm of children, leaving Fitz, the baroness, and the fräulein behind.
And the fräulein, for her part, was leaning against the frame of the stage for support as she took a moment to catch her breath.
"Well done, fräulein," he heard himself say, and within a moment, the baroness stood beside him giving her own congratulations.
Jemma's eyes didn't leave the floor, though he thought he saw a small quirk of a smile.
"They're your family, captain."
"My dear," said the baroness, "is there anything you can't do?"
It was then that her gaze flicked up at him, and he saw in her eyes something he never could have expected. There was a meaning in them, a confession that he couldn't quite decipher. He wondered, if she'd scolded him not because she found him weak, but because she thought he was strong enough to do better.
But Jemma didn't say those words aloud. She only clasped her hands behind her back and admitted, "Well, I'm not sure I'll make a very good nun."
He laughed at that, and found the baroness laughing with him. The baroness excused herself then, again curious as to what Phil was up to, and Fitz was so caught up in the haze of music and memories that that he wasn't sure why Jemma was rushing up the staircase until he remembered that he'd sacked her.
"Fräulein!"
She froze, turning to him with a face he'd never seen before. The triumph of just a few moments ago had already been drained out of her, and her red-rimmed eyes looked back at him as if to ask him what else he could do to crush her spirits.
"I, I uh . . . behaved badly. I apologize." He ducked his head as the shame washed over him, warm enough to redden his cheeks.
"I'm," she started, "I'm far too outspoken. It's one of my worst faults."
Fitz thought it odd that she would say such a thing when the tears that dripped down her face told another story, a story of a woman who loved these children just as much as he should, just as much as he did, and that she had no means of telling them so.
"You were right," he admitted, smiling at the floor in spite of himself, "I don't know the children."
She tilted her head to the side, studying him. "There's still time, captain. They want so much to be close to you."
There was something about the way the light fell on her as she stood there, and he lost the power to look away.
"You brought . . . creativity back into the house? Curiosity? Invention?" He took in a deep breath. "I'd forgotten. When I lost her, I thought . . ."
She gave him a sad smile, nodding. "I thought something similar when Mother May told me I'd be sent here. I thought there was no way I could do anything but fail, and then I thought about the first law of thermodynamics." She chuckled mirthlessly. "When God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window. Opportunities don't vanish as much as they're . . . displaced sometimes. And now that this door is closed, well, I suppose I'll have to find another path God wants me to go on."
She curtsied then, as a way of excusing herself, but as she continued up the stairs, he found himself calling out her name. She turned to him in surprise.
"Excuse me," he said, "fräulein ." He closed his eyes and swallowed. "I want you to stay."
She stood there, blinking back at him until he rephrased. "I, uh, ask you to stay."
Fitz had never seen misery melt off a person so quickly. It seemed that her entire countenance lit up like a candle, and he was overcome by the beauty of it.
"If I could be of any help," she offered, beaming.
"You have already," he said, and his guilt had faded, so why were his cheeks still warm? "More than you know."
He nodded and left her then, partly because he'd already neglected his guests for far too long, and partly because he had a feeling that his cheeks would only turn a deeper shade of crimson. It must be the heat, he told himself. He wasn't sure when the hallway had gotten so hot.
It certainly wasn't because he wanted her to stay.
But it might have something to do with the fact that, after all this time, he wanted to stay, too.