>> July 1799. 2 days without Aster, Dover
A violent gesture silenced the man. Johann did not usually do this, but Aster did, and what Aster did was done by them both.
Still. Was it too much to ask for some quiet to focus?
The crystal shimmered at the end of the chain, the pale English light turning it milky as it swayed. Once, twice, and Johann snatched it back up. Hand already flung out, imperious, towards one of the vessels in port.
“Mein Prinz, but we have already secured a…”
He pressed a kiss to the crystal before slipping it back over his head, next to his heart.
>> July 1799. 3 days without Aster, North Sea
Johann felt as if his very soul was leaving him. His body, a mere husk. The ship pitched and he heaved with it.
The crystal stayed cool against his feverish skin, pulsing with Aster’s heartbeat.
>> July 1799. 7 days without Aster, Aalborg
“…They will still be at sea, mein Prinz, and will not be receiving the mail en route…”
Johann ignored the twittering, ripped another piece of paper, scribbling furiously. Ink splattered and dotted the sawdust on the wooden decking. The ship swayed; his pen slashed.
Aster, my home, my heart, this will find you as I will find you
The von Beckers faded away.
He rolled up the strip of paper, tucked it into the bottle, stoppered it. Wavered as he made his way over to the edge. Cocked an arm back, and hurled it into the waves, watching as the gray-green-turquoise capped with white swallowed it whole.
Stomped back to his spot, where he unstoppered another bottle and took a deep drink.
He needed to write another letter.
>> ????. 10 days without Aster, Helsingborg
“– is he – must make port –”
“Nein!” he howled, slamming a hand for emphasis against something. The something gave with a grunt. “We sail until Königsberg!”
“ – burning up – mad – Gott in heaven –”
The von Beckers faded in and out of his vision. Sometimes it was Mother. Sometimes it was Basti. But it always came back to Aster, Aster, Aster.
Aster, who welcomed him when the night finally fell and the voices became silent.
>> ??? 1799. ?? days without Aster, Danzig
Johann sat up, the world as clear and sharp as if etched in glass. Crystal chimed in the light around him. It was day. How many days without Aster?
“Das ist nicht Königsberg.”
This was the original von Becker then, who knew better than to offer unnecessary excuse or explanation.
He flung out a hand. Von Becker put paper in it.
…find you as you will find me. Our feet are on the same earth now, we know this
Crease and crease and crease, with the peculiar tie-off at the end. He pressed a kiss to it. Blessed it with the crystal, now clear and tinged with a pale blue. Pale blue of the Prussian skies, of the skies of his heart, in the eyes of his Aster.
“Gut. We will eat on the way.”
>> July 1799. 17 days without Aster, Königsberg
Johann did not need the crystal to tell him where his heart would have gone. He knew the steps as if he had taken them himself.
Fingers trailed along the line of posts on the side of the dock. Eyes closed. Against his chest, the crystal burned: yes yes yes.
Touched against cool porcelain. Eyes opened, fingers hungrily wiping away the accumulated soot.
Pressed reverent fingers against the heart.
Behind him, the newest von Becker had been about to approach. The veterans barred him from disturbing his moment, but too late. The voice was still high, carrying:
…Elblag is the next carriage change
“Elblag. To horse, jetzt!”
That night, another letter: stall them as hard as you can, I have our cat, we are coming, we are coming
Clickity-clack, clickity-clack. Mother’s fingernails were tapping again.
The carriage had a strange smell in the corners, a sort of swept-away rot that permeated the plush interior. Aster buried her nose in the soft fur of her collar, staring over the fringe out the window.
There were so many trees. All tall, all spindly. More tree than branch, and what leaves they had skittered to the floor in amber needles. Vines and weeds cropped up where the sunlight hit. She saw a brown mouse scurry into the underbrush.
Clickity-clack. Clickity-clack.
There were no words left between them. It tortured Aster, who so liked to perform and charm and delight. The journey derailed her. She longed for sleep, the sort only found in her own bed, where the pillow smelled of lavender and rose, and the fire was always lit, even in the summertime.
A bend in the road. “Stop.”
“Mutter.” Aster revised. “Mein Bein hat einen Krampf.”
Clickity-clack, clickity-clack. The carriage wheels were like Mother’s fingernails, rolling on the road. She walked alongside them as they curved the bend, Mother’s beady eyes never leaving her face. The road was narrow, barely a hand-space of wheel track before the path was given over to grass, again. Aster’s dress caught on a stray branch.
She stopped to fix it, and tore it hard, leaving a wisp of bright chartreuse tacked against tree bark.
“Mutter!” Three steps to catch up to the carriage, another twelve for it to come to a halt. Aster returned.
A room in the tallest house on Herren Strase
Elbing, Prussia
She stopped. Struck it out.
Mutter and I have traveled for many days. Red dirt comes through my boots and changes the color of my feet. They are not pretty any longer, but they will be again. We will be again.
We go to Potsdam, I think. Mutter does not share her plans. Or her bread. She does not like me, my dearest love. Our Mutter does not care for me. She does this for you.
I leave you lavender soap to wash your feet. The red dirt will not come off. Do not worry. We will fix it in Sansoucci.
I must sleep. I cannot sleep. I wish for winter, and the crisp bark in the air. We shall catch snow on our tongues and laugh.
Yours, always, forever --
A
Fingers pushed it into a soft space between the bricks beside the fireplace, the round of lavender soap bound in linen and twine.
Mother woke early. She always did.