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Es geht kein Weg zurück.
There is no way back.
Weißt du noch, wie's war?
Do you remember the time?
Kinderzeit - wunderbar:
Childhood – wonderful
Die Welt ist bunt und schön.
The world is bright and beautiful.
Bis du irgendwann begreifst,
Until you finally realize,
Dass nicht jeder Abschied heißt,
That not every ‘good-bye’
Es gibt auch ein Wiedersehen.
Comes with a ‘we will meet again’.
Immer vorwärts. Schritt um Schritt.
Moving onwards. Step by Step.
Es geht kein Weg zurück.
There is no way back.
Was jetzt ist, wird nie mehr ungeschehen.
What happens now will never be undone.
Die Zeit läuft uns davon.
Time is running out.
Was getan ist, ist getan.
What’s done is done.
Und was jetzt ist, wird nie mehr so geschehen.
What happens now will never be like this again.
Ein Wort zuviel im Zorn gesagt,
One angry word too many,
Einen Schritt zu weit nach vorn gewagt:
One Step taken ahead too boldly:
Schon ist es vorbei.
And it’s over.
Was auch immer jetzt getan,
Whatever be done,
Was ich gesagt hab, ist gesagt.
What I said, I said.
Und was wie ewig schien, ist schon Vergangenheit.
And what seemed forever is already of the past.
Immer vorwärts. Schritt um Schritt.
[...]
Ach, und könnte ich doch
Oh, but if I could
Nur ein einziges Mal
Just one single time
Die Uhren rückwärts drehen.
Turn back the clock
Denn wie viel von dem,
So many things
Was ich heute weiß,
I know today
Hätte ich lieber nie gesehen.
I never wanted to see.
Dein Leben dreht sich nur im Kreis.
Your life goes on in circles.
So voll von weggeworfener Zeit.
So full of throwaway time.
Deine Träume schiebst du endlos vor dir her.
Pushing off dreams endlessly
Du willst noch leben, irgendwann.
You still yearn to live, someday.
Doch wenn nicht heute, wann denn dann?
But if not today, when?
Denn irgendwann ist auch ein Traum zu lange her.
Someday, the dream has grown too old.
Immer vorwärts. Schritt um Schritt.
[...]
Ach, und könnte ich doch
[...]
Kein Zurück by Wolfsheim

Immer vorwärts, Schritt um Schritt, es führt kein Weg zurück, und was wie ewig schien ist schon Vergangenheit...
Moving onwards, step by step, there is no way back, and what seemed like forever is already of the past.

"Ja! Ja!" Sibylla von Zelewski blinked tears from her eyes, caused by the sharp wind rushing at her as she spurred mighty Diamant into a hunting gallop, her legs clenching around the twin pommels of her sidesaddle, leaning forward close to the horse's neck. Her brothers were hot on her heels on Apollo and Abelone, but she was faster. Hooves thundered and dirt flew high as the three horses sped along the racing stretch covered with soft turf.
A thrill rushed through her throbbing veins at seeing a hurdle ahead. The Lady slowed down her mount and prepared for liftoff as the tree-trunk drew nearer, lying across the path at right angles. She saw Diamant’s ears perk up and swivel forward, then felt the insanely strong muscles of the horses haunches contract as the stallion propelled his body steeply upwards, elegantly tucking his forelegs under.
As always, Sibylla’s heart skipped a beat as the weightless sensation of flying rushed through her in the silent moment after the hoofbeat had ceased, leaving her skin tingling.
She threw back her weight as the horse descended on the other side of the hurdle, balancing as the forehooves extended and impacted.
"Horrido!", she could not help crying out loud as the stallion went into the next stride of the gallop, flattening his ears to his angular head as he picked up the pace again all on his own. The mane of the horse whipped against her chest, and she chuckled at the sensation. Soon, they would reach the mouth of the alley leading to the wide lawn with the family estate sitting regally in its center.

Gone... all gone... brothers.... horses.... house.... even the name. But the memories… oh, the memories…


Weißt Du noch, wie’s war?
Do you remember the time…?

Slowly lift left foot, extend leg, test the ground before setting it down again, redistribute weight, slowly, smoothly, no abrupt movements. Flow.

It was damnably hard not to hold one's breath but breathe easily, naturally, sneaking up on the unsuspecting victim in the murky twilight. A bit to the side, she caught a glimpse of jet-black hair from the corner of her eyes and knew that Johann was by her side, silent as a ghost, and there was no need seeing his face to know that he had that look again, that predatory glint in his dark eyes. And she knew her friend also had that knife with the long, serrated blade, sliver-thin and deadly, and only a careless move from her, a tiny noise would suffice to warn his prey and save a life.

But she did not give that warning, instead crept on, and it was then she knew that she would do anything for this man... that and more, anything he wanted.

So there they were, in the woods, only the two of them in this glorious hot summer, horses tethered on a clearing half a league away, nobody knew where to look for them, nobody knew even that they were together. And what did they do? Sneak up on a roebuck through a thorn-thicket. Childish… so childish…

The buck was so close know, unsuspecting, chewing the cud, huge, leaf-like ears flicking once in a while to keep the swarm of pesky blood-sucking midgets at bay. His elegant hand reached out –God, how could anybody move like that?- and flicked a metallic green fly from the sorrel croup of the buck, then disappeared again into the underbrush. Her turn.

Her fingers had barely reached the coarse hair on the tip of the wiggling tail, when a jolt went through the animal's body, and gone it was, almost faster than the eye could blink. Johann was up, laughing like a madman under the flurry of wings and angry twitter of birds startled by the sudden ruckus, deftly picking the thorns and fir needles out of his clothes.

"Ich dachte schon, Du...", she flustered, eyeing the knife that was still in its sheath at his slender hip with knitted brows while –finally!- swatting at the insects that had tormented her to the blood when they had crept on their bellies.
"Nah, war nur Spaß.", he replied genially, winking at her. "Wirklich, gut, Billa, Du hast echt das Zeug dazu!"
"Welches Zeug wozu?", she demanded to know as he gave her his trademark 'I-know-something-that-you-don't-know'- look again. "Zur Indianerin!", he squealed, and then he was away, howling like an apache on the warpath, bushes swaying wildly in his wake. Johann.

((“Ich dachte schon, Du...” – „And I thought you...“
“Nah, war nur Spaß.” – „Nah, just fooling around.“
“Wirklich, gut, Billa, Du hast echt das Zeug dazu!“ – „Really, Billa, you have what it takes!“
„Welches Zeug wozu?“ – „What takes what?”
“Zur Indianerin!” – “To be an Indian!”))


Kinderzeit, wunderbar...
Childhood, wonderful…

Whap! – "Au!" Another blow of the Paukschläger, the blunt training rapier with the large basket, had found its mark, and she was none too happy about it.
"Du konzentrierst Dich nicht, Billa!", came the voice of Johann combined with a reproachful look from behind the panes of his weird fencing goggles.
"Und wenn uns jemand sieht?" Sibylla made a sweep with her own weapon, encompassing the fencing tranche, the tables littered with empty beer-steins, the whole of the club-room normally used by the Corpsstudenten to get those fashionable cuts on their faces. Discovered, they'd never live down the scandal... the two of them, alone, she in men's fencing attire.
"Nun, ich habe mir die Freiheit erlaubt, alle Türen zu verriegeln.", came the answer, followed by another vicious slash at her thigh. Johann.

((“Du konzentrierst Dich nicht!” – „You’re not concentrating!“
“Und wenn uns jemand sieht?” – „And if somebody sees us?“
“Nun, ich habe [...].“ – „Well, I took the liberty to bar all the doors.”
Contemporary student's fencing attire here.))


Die Welt ist bunt, und schön.
The world is bright and beautiful.

"Ich muß wahnsinnig sein. Verrückt. Geistig umnachtet. Total plemplem. Oder zumindest einer von uns beiden ist es!", Sibylla whispered angrily at her companion, who was strolling through the office, his curious gaze wandering over furniture, paintings, books and papers as she shifted around uncomfortably, trying not to leave tell-tale footprints in the incredibly thick persian rug she was standing on.

But Johann was as cool as a freshly peeled cucumber, just as he had been when he had decided it would be nice to visit the Bodemuseum with her. At night. Uninvited. While they had that new exposition of the largest amount of rare antique coins to ever be on display to date. Just to take a look whitout all those pesky people getting in the way.
Spitting dirty water after that dive through the icy-cold river Spree to get off the museum-island, she had wanted to give him an earful about that brilliant plan of his, but he had simply pulled her under the next weeping willow and sealed her mouth with a kiss, brushing her face with his soggy moustache. As his hand was cupping the back of her head and his other snuck around her waist, pulling her close so that she could feel his heart beating strong and fast in his chest, she even forgot to punch him for setting off the alarm on purpose.

And now they were once again back in Berlin. In the Reichskanzlei. To be precise, in the office of the Chancellor of the German Empire himself. At night. Uninvited. There she was, sweating, watching him as he bent admiringly over the godawful pendulum-clock held by the dainty hands of a naked bronze maiden trampling some huge snake underfoot. An allegory of sorts, but her brain was too abuzz with exitement and suspense to provide the necessary information on antique symbolism.
They had almost made it, tiptoeing down the huge staircase when the sound of studded heels striking the marble floor beyond had sounded, and she found herself crouched behind a thick plush curtain, trying to calm her breath as she had learnt, when she realized that Johann was missing.

Was zum...? Sound of heels clicking forcefully together, and then it was his voice, ringing loud and clear in a smart salute: "Guten Abend, Herr Reichskanzler!"
"Ah, Guten Abend Johann... so spät noch bei der Arbeit?", came the reply by a genial basso voice.
"Auf dem Heimweg, Herr Reichskanzler!", still spoken smartly but with that undertone she knew so well... Herr Johann von Bödefeld was enjoying himself immensely.
"Gut, gut, weitermachen." Sound of a pair of feet going up –sound of a pair of feet going down.

And after the stately man with the bristling gray hair and hedgehog-like beard –indeed, a glimpse around the curtain revealed him to be none other than Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg himself- had passed her, while she was creeping over the roof of one of the innumerable annexes to the huge classicistic building, she asked herself why she had never wondered what Johann was doing all the time he was away from Bohemia at the capital.
This time, when they met up again after her skive-off, she remembered to punch him.

((“Ich muß wahnsinnig sein. Verrückt. Geistig umnachtet. Total plemplem. Oder zumindest einer von uns beiden ist es!” – „I must be crazy. Mad. Mentally insane. Completely off the rocker. Or at least one of us is.”
Was zum...? – What the...?
“Guten Abend, Herr Reichskanzler!” – „Good evening, Lord Chacellor.“
“Ah, Guten Abend Johann... so spät noch bei der Arbeit?“ – „Ah, good evening Johann, so late at work?“
„Auf dem Heimweg, Herr Reichskanzler!“ – „On my way home, Lord Chancellor!“
“Gut, gut, weitermachen.” – „Good, good, continue.“))


…bunt und schön…

Someone had to notice... impossible that it could be so easy. Nervously, her gaze behind the blue tinted glasses scanned the other patrons, all those black smokings and monocles and waxed moustaches, sitting next to her at the tables lining the walls, mingling with the dancers on the floor or standing in front of the stage, watching the gaudy spectacle there. Every second, she expected someone to grab her, rip off the fake moustache and wig, exposing her for what she was: a woman in men's clothing.

But it did not happen, not one gave her even a single queer look. Her gaze strayed to Johann, lounging on his chair next to her, flirting with that tawdrily dressed gal by his side who was all orange feathers and blue lashes, her face painted bone-white with one big red circle on each cheek. As if sensing her questioning gaze, his face turned back to her, and he gave her a wink and wiggled his eyebrows, and she knew that she was doing well with her role, just as he had predicted. Finally, Sibylla allowed herself to relax... and wasn't it all terribly new, and thrilling, and adventurous? Yes... and people-watching was fun, too. It was really happening... she was there. In the Moulin Rouge, in disguise.

Father would have an apoplex if he ever found out about the real nature of her educational journey to France. For a second, the image of his austere face under a black top-hat flashed before her eyes, his body turned sideways, bringing his pistol to the present in the early morning light, dueling to the death against the seducer of his daughter. But how would he know if no-one would tell him? So many things Johann had taught her, and the gravest of all was probably how to weigh a secret against another... in her case, it was her sneaking away from the small, stuffy pension almost every night against Auntie Käthe’s little habit of having that thimbleful of brandy in the evening... or two... or more.

Still, no disguise was perfect, as Sibylla found out quite jarringly when that harlot attached herself to her lapels, cooing, and then suddenly let go and ran away, jangling in high-pitched french. But Johann had only laughed as they walked down Boulevard de Clichy together, arm in arm like a pair of tiddly gents, and then translated the string of alley-cat slang the woman had issued, grinning broadly before his face contorted into a faithful reproduction of Sibylla's utterly appalled look at that moment. He also provided a definition of the word "sodomite", with which the young noble appeared to be unfamiliar.

She blushed beet red up to the roots of her hair at that, and had it been possible, she'd have died on the spot from sheer mortification, leaving an empty shell to walk the world in her place. But it had not happened. Instead, she found herself pulled into the darkness of the nearest house-entrance, felt cool hands cupping her burning cheeks, and once more, his lips on her mouth. She even forgot to wonder where her fake moustache had gone to, but that was part of the magic of his kiss: making her forget everything around her. Johann.


Bis Du irgenwann begreifst,
Until you finally realize...

The rangy, long-fingered hand was as white as the envelope in its feeble grip, and Sibylla watched with silent trepidation as it slowly, laboriously crossed the gap between his bed and her chair. She reached out, and as soon as her fingers touched it, he let go, just as though the paper could conduct his sickness to her.

"Falls Dir die Zeit lang wird.", he said simply in the wasted murmur that was all he had left. ...ohne mich, was what he didn't say, but it hung heavily between them, in the well-aired, very white, very bright room. Once again, it was summer, glorious hot summer, and the shaft of light falling through the large window was telling tales of white dresses and frilly parasols and fields of red poppies, but the world was upside down; somewhere, far away, it had begun raining lead and the clouds were made of carbide smoke, and the birds, the flowers and the rainbows did not mean anything.
She averted her gaze as his chest spasmed in another attempt to hold back the hacking cough, and the wish to gather him in her arms was growing so strong that she could feel it pulsing under her breastbone like a second heart. But his body had become poisonous, and he would not allow it. Johann. Leaving Johann.

((“Falls Dir die Zeit lang wird.” – “In case you get bored.“
... ohne mich – without me. ))



Dass nicht jeder Abschied heißt, es gibt auch ein Wiedersehen.
That not every ‘good-bye’ comes with a ‘we will meet again’.

They should be getting the hay off the meadows and into the storage, and soon. Heavy black stormclouds were rolling in and the air was dense and oppressing. But instead of hurrying to the fields, they all were standing there at the sidelines, huddled together, menials and maidservants, their plain faces drawn and strangely empty. And she, she was standing in the center of the storm: epaulettes, black laces, plumes and waxed mustaches, the whole pomp and circumstances with smells, bells and costumes parading on the occasion of a noble -and triple, even!- funeral.

And then it was over, and they were descending into the family burial place, her eyes were fixed on her mothers frail shoulders, the black of the veil against her gray hair, walking tall, down, down... And then she found herself hovering by the three latest caskets, plain, no flowers, just the broken insignia, the seal, the coat of arms and the helmet plate, cloven in twain, torn banner hanging limply.

Karl, Wilhelm und Franz.
Heute von Zelewski und nimmermehr.

She turned to leave, but the wroughtiron gate was closed, no matter how hard she rattled it, and the steps of the procession almost trailed away, back up to the light without her and she could not make a sound, and then the massive door of the vault slammed shut and she screamed.

"Wartet doch! Laßt mich raus!"

No answer.

"Aber ich lebe noch!"

And it was just a dream.

((Heute[...]: Today XXX and nevermore; The ceremony called Helmzerbrechen, breaking of the helmet, was performed whenever the last male member of a noble house died and the name was lost.
Wartet[...]: Wait! Let me out!
Aber[...]: But I'm still alive! ))


Es gibt auch ein Wiedersehen...

"Mama, was machst Du denn? Du wirst ganz nass, komm' ins Haus, bitte!"
"Aber der Franz und der Willi, wo bleiben die denn, die haben sich bestimmt verlaufen."
"Ach Mama, Du kennst die zwei doch, der Franz ist bei sei'm Liebchen. Und der Willi zecht im Ratshauskeller mit seinen Kameraden. Komm, gib' mir die Laterne. Komm ins Haus."

Every evening, she would go out to find her mother waiting at the gate, lantern in hand, peering into the night for a sign of her sons who never would come back. Every evening, she would lead her back into the house, making up stories of Franz and Willi gallivanting with the ladies or cajoling with their comrades. Of course, they had done that back in the days where being a Dragoner meant looking flashy in uniform on a horse and little more. Not charging into machine-gun-fire brandishing a pistol or a sabre.
Strange how Mother not once asked for her husband, Karl, who also never came back... Every evening, the same ritual... until the day she found her lying facedown in the sleet at the gate, lantern still in hand. She must have slipped out again during the night, wearing nothing but her nightgown. Now she would stand there forever in the darkness, watching, waiting....

((Mama[…]: Mother, what are you doing? You’re getting all wet, come back into the house, please! – But Franz and Willi, where are they, they must have gotten lost! – Oh, mother, you know those two, Franz sure is with his sweetheart. And Willi is out drinking with his comrades. Give me the lantern. Come back into the house.))



Die Zeit läuft uns davon.
Time is running out.

Strange how the world had not ended end after he had gone... and why did the sickle not stop reaping, not until it had taken everyone away in that one, long sweep? Lover, father, brothers... mother.

So there she was. She, a single suitcase, what was left of the family fortune in diamonds and pearls conceiled on her body and that envelope of his... within it the address, the sealed letter with “Herr Winkelmann” on it and the tarot-card depicting a woman with a crown of butterflies on her brow, sitting regally on a lion-footed throne, sword in hand.
It was winter, six long months since he'd been gone... two month since everybody else had gone. But they had been waiting for her. Her, the spy and thief she did not know she was. They had been waiting to unlock her, use her, send her away to a distant land. To the enemy’s land.


Es geht kein Weg zurück.
There is no way back.
Leaning casually against one of the props behind the stage, the Blood Countess watched with detached interest as the three acrobats of the opening dumb act capered and rollicked about, kicking each other in the butt or busting crockery on their respective heads, disappearing and re-appearing through several revolving, trap- and sliding doors to the shrill music from the orchestra pit.

The jam-packed audience at Edward’s hall was in stitches, applauding wildly as the three buffoons finally clambered off-stage and the curtain fell. Sighing, she pushed herself off the fake wall and shook hands and shoulders to relax them.

The corset that forced her body into an unnatural hour-glass-shape groaned as she dipped forewards, touching the toe-caps of her tigh-high boots with her fingertips.
Standing nearly six feet tall, she was a formidable sight already, but those boots added another three inches to that. She checked her outfit one last time, then rolled up her long bullwhip.

So it was her turn to cater to those spoiled prats sitting on their pompous asses now. How she hated it. She, who once had been a Lady, and now was a showgirl in a Vaudeville.

It did not take much acting to plaster a scornful frown onto her face that had been painted to bring a cruel twist to her small mouth, fake blood forming a dried-up rivulet from the corner of her lips to her chin. Her complexion had always been extremely fair, and her skin never tanned, which had at least spared her the necessity of clogging up her pores with more sticky paint.
On the other side of the stage she could see the other members of her act, the two dread monks in their black cowls as well as the fair maiden and her faithful betrothed getting ready. She gave them the thumbs-up.

"Well well well, Ladies and Gentlemen, what a sprightly beginning of a splendid evening!"
This was the droning baritone of the barker, who had heaved his rotund body onto the stage and strutted about in front of the curtain in his freshly brushed tailcoat, rolling his eyes, an almost impossibly broad smile splitting his blushed lips underneath the bushy waxed mustache. His voice then dropped to what was supposed to be an eerie whispers as he leaned forewards.

"But now, fair ladies and gentle men, prepare your minds and steel your hearts, as we will set out to a journey back into the dark ages...this is an endeavour not suited for the faint of heart, so I warn you, fair ladies, for you will witness the abhorrent deeds of the foulest creature ever known, the beast that bathed in the blood of a hundred virgins and drank the blood of thousands more: Elizabeth Báthory, the Blood Countess!"

As he shouted the last words of his little speech, all lights in the theatre went out and a white fog came rolling in. On cue, the actress secured her waist-long sorrel red braid between her teeth and lunged foreward, holding her breath. The dive-roll brought her to the midlle of the stage in the billowing mist while the curtain rose silently behind her.
Letting go of her braid, she came to her feet and struck her pose, training the fierce gaze of her slanting green eyes on the audience as the lights went on...


Es geht kein Weg zurück.
On the small rickety table in front of the tiny window set into the pitched roof, a coarse gray envelope sat propped against the foot of the kerosene lamp.
Fighting down the urge to rush over and rip it open, the Blood Countess hung up her dripping coat to dry, stripped down to her underwear, then undid her braid to rinse her hair, using the pitcher and basin of the wash stand. Towelling her sodden locks, she glanced at the table again. Yes, the envelope was still there...
After she had changed into the short linen tunic she used as a nightgown, she finally sat down at the table and took a deep breath before lighting the lamp, turning it up until she could read properly in the light of its green-tinted screen. The actress wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell of the impure fuel as she ripped open the envelope.
A cursory glance revealed three ink blots arranged in a lopsided triangle at the bottom left corner of the message written in a loopy kyrillic. She did not bother to read the plain text but instead counted the words as well as the punctuation marks, lining up the first letters in the order the blot indicated: triagonal numbers. She started scribbling on the back of the envelope. 1st, 3rd, 6th, 10th, 15th, 21st, and so on and so forth...
Thus, the message eventually read:

tt.tsl,fink-rundweg.sbwm

This made:





Na endlich, wurde aber auch Zeit!
So she got her wish. Finally something to do, and a killing order to boot. Sibylla grinned. Finch-Flatley, senior officer responsible for procurement in the Royal Navy, as well as an old acquaintance...
Since night fell so early these cold and dreary days and provided that the foul weather persisted, she could carry out that order prior to her next evening performance, if everything went well.
Nodding to herself, she burned the envelope in the ash-tray, then doused the light, watching the flame flicker and go out.

((Na endlich[…]: Finally, and about time!))


Was getan ist, ist getan.
What’s done is done.
"You've been a bad boy, Cecil, very bad indeed...", the Blood Countess purred, lounging in the armchair by the fireside, one foot on the delicate rosewood side table, lightly tapping the cap of her soft moccasin boot with the tip of the riding crop she had filched from the tasteless elephant-foot umbrella-stand in the hallway.
Her other hand was behind her head, salaciously stroking her own hair... ready to throw the small knife hidden in her palm into the throat of the man who had just entered his own study for a smoke and a sherry, as she knew he would do exactly around the same time every single late afternoon.

It had been a while since their last meeting, and Sibylla was not entirely sure whether the command she used to have over the thickset, middle-aged man standing in front of her in his velvet robe and smoking cap, was still strong...
but she need not have worried. Instead of crying out in alarm, Cecil Finch-Flatley stood transfixed at the sight of her, nervously licking his lips.
"I... yes... I've been bad.", he managed to croak after a while, small droplets of sweat appearing on his forehead. His face was flushed and his eyes very wide as Beth beckoned him nearer to her... and nearer...

"Oh yes... and I want you to write up what a filthy, despicable little crook you are, right here and now!", she growled, striking the armrest of the chair with the riding crop as she got up.
It was almost ridiculously easy to coax him into this new game, conveniently providing her with a letter from his own hand that could very well be interpreted as a suicide note...
So easy... she almost felt remorse as she drew his army revolver behind his back, hunched over the desk as he was. Only a few heartbeats after the shot had rung out, she was out the window, landing gracefully as a cat in the wet grass, and moments later well on her way through the garden...


Und was jetzt ist, wird nie mehr so geschehen.
What happens now will never be like this again.
This was definitely not one of the doors that letter from back then had opened her, quite the contrary. If she was found here, in that plain, almost spartan office room in what seemed to be just another annex to the exuberant Ministerium für Landwirtschaft und Fischereiwesen, her demise would be as swift as it was inevitable, regardless of those stupendous coups de main she had pulled to prove herself to them. But he had taught her well. Too well, maybe.
And it was time. High time. Outside, hooves thundered past and shots were fired in the distance as the last loyal forces of the Kaiser tried to quench the uprising… the war was lost… long lost. Had it mattered at all what she had done? She had stolen plans… they made new ones. She had ferreted out their secrets… they had secrets to boot. She had killed one fat, balding Admiral. A keen, young man had taken his place. But it did not matter now. She was back where it had begun. And she was back for answers.
Sibylla's keen eyes swiftly scanned the rows and rows of filing cabinets, and after a bit of brain-racking, a cursory peek here and there, she found the file she was looking for under the letter 'R'.
Inside: A short exposée on the project Regina gladii. Progress reports. Unmistakeably written by his hand, starting with the twenty-first of March 1907, her eighteenth birthday, the day they'd first met.
So that's what she had been: Queen of Swords, White Queen sailing over the whole board, tigress jumping through burning hoops. For him. Always for him.
And there was another letter, stuffed inbetween the sheets, labeled 'Nimm mich!'. She took it.

((Ministerium für Landwirtschaft und Fischereiwesen - Ministry for Agriculture and Fishery
„Nimm mich!“ – „Take me!“))


Und was wie ewig schien, ist schon Vergangenheit.
And what seemed forever is already of the past.
Over the course of so many years, the paper had become worn and frayed, and one edge of the envelope was blackened and brittle, as if someone had thrown it into the fire or held it up to a candle-flame and then changed their mind. Sibylla's age-bent fingers ghosted over the folds and the flap, seeking the familiar feeling of its content through the thin material: two embossed cardboard-pieces. Tickets for the Hofburg Theater, Vienna, dated October the thirteenth, 1913.

The cardboard that once had been creamy white may have become yellow, and most of the gilt had long since peeled away, but her memory was still fresh and clear, and as she closed her eyes, it was all there again: the crystal chandeliers, the burgundy velvet curtains, the sparkle of fine jewelry on the swan white necks of ladies dressed in gowns of midnight or peacock blue, deep forest-green and champagne. Once again, she heard the soft murmur, the clinking of glasses and the rustle of brocade and lace from beyond the double doors. Her arm, clad in powdery dove-like grey velvet was linked with his...

It had been one of their last, carefree evenings together... the opening night of Pygmalion.