Cursing under his breath, his eyes moved to the name at the bottom right-hand corner. Which imbecile had put their name to this set of plans?

Petty Officer Robert Smith.

A name he hadn't seen before. Hardly surprising, though. Every other set of plans seemed to have been drawn by the latest recruit straight out of school. Before they picked up a pencil, surely the Royal Navy would think to introduce their young draughtsmen to a submarine. But, scanning the proposed improvements with another critical eye, he doubted it. Did they even know how these things worked? Sighing at the set of drawings, it was clear they didn't have a clue. He was obviously expecting too much.

In the beginning, John's pleas hadn't made much sense. He'd thought his father-in-law was simply dreaming up a distraction. It wouldn't have been his first thinly veiled ploy. But, very quickly, he'd grown to realise there was good reason he'd been asked to review the upgrades to the British fleet.

Picking up his fountain pen, he removed the cap and placed it on the end of the barrel. He went to make a note in the margin, but hesitated. Instead, he tapped the cap impatiently on the desk, unintentionally marking time with the clock on the mantel across the room.

God, where to begin?

He might as well start with a blank piece of paper. It would be easier than trying to correct what was laid out in front of him. Replacing the cap, he placed the pen back on the desk, and leaned back. Pressing his back into the leather chair, he closed his eyes, trying to ignore the ache against his temples. He wished it were just the plans making his head hurt. He hated things being unorderly and disorganised, hated loose ends. Especially when he wasn't in control. His thumb and forefinger found the bridge of his nose and pressed against the dull ache that was threatening to spread across his forehead.

Truth was, he'd been struggling to focus for most of the day. Opening his eyes, he glanced back down at the documents on his desk. After ignoring them for the past two days, now that he'd finally unrolled them, he couldn't face looking at them a minute longer. They'd only irritate him. And he couldn't afford for that to happen. Not today.

Rolling up the drawings, he'd look at them after dinner with a fresh set of eyes. Unfortunately, that meant tonight would be a late one. Like an idiot, he'd promised John they'd be back to him by the end of the week. The day after tomorrow. It was entirely his fault. He should have looked at them sooner, should have known how much of his time would be need.

Agitated, he shifted in his chair. John's drawings weren't the only reason for his mood. These past days, he'd been restless, unsettled. More so than usual. Exhausted from trying to control his simmering frustration, he realised it would take very little to push him to boiling point.

Little wonder the children were keeping out of his way. Sometimes, he wondered if they realised everything he did, he was doing for them. Hopefully, one day, they'd understand. Pushing thoughts of the children to the back of his mind, he ran a hand through his hair, pushing his fringe off his forehead.

Sighing, he hated being made to wait, especially when it seemed so pointless. But, as much as he hated not having control of the situation, he had to admit, part of him was relieved the decision had been taken out of his hands. Still, he needed an answer. How much time did Elsa need? How in God's name was a man supposed to plan anything? Especially when it involved something like this, something this important.

Reaching down, his fingers found the ornate handle of the desk's top drawer. Pausing for a moment, his fingers tightened around the handle. What in God's name was he doing? He knew better than anyone, no good came from dwelling on the past. Cursing under his breath, his hand let go, as if burned by the brass handle. Get yourself together, man! Taking a deep breath, his hands clasped the arms of the chair.

Frustrated, he pushed his chair back from the desk and stood up. Striding over to the window, he glared out at the perfect summer's day. But he didn't see any of it. Oblivious to the sunshine, the lush leaves on the ancient oaks moving gently in breeze, he squared his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back. Even the graceful movement of a pair of swans on the lake seemed to escape his attention. Instead, he wondered what was taking her so long.

If he were waiting for word about some frivolous tea party or an evening at the damn theatre, he wouldn't care less. But surely, she understood he was taking a big step. He expected her to realise that, hoped she'd be a little more decisive. Hethought that's what she wanted. He huffed to himself under his breath. Little wonder they didn't send women off to war. The boats would never leave the blasted port. He never understood them. Probably never would. Even after all these years, they were an utter mystery, a complete riddle. Well, perhaps not all of them…

Before it could take hold, he quickly pushed that thought aside. He couldn't dwell on what might have been. Should have been. He needed to move on. He'd give Elsa until tomorrow morning. In the meantime, he glanced over his shoulder at his desk for a fleeting moment, the drawings might be a welcome distraction. Hopefully, by then, Elsa may have made up her mind. But what if she hadn't?

He was an impatient man, hated being made to wait for other people to dance around until they landed on a decision. How long had it been now? Too long. Truth was, he never expected to be waiting for her answer. And yet, in a strange way, a delay of a few days may be a blessing.

He sighed, still staring through the pane of glass and seeing nothing of the world outside. Perhaps that's what troubled him the most. He'd deliberately taken out of his hands. She would have the final say. The decision would be hers. He shuffled his guilty feet.

God, he was such a coward!

After all this time, what was he hoping for? He wasn't even sure. Part of him hoped she'd turn down his offer. It would mean a dignified end to the charade. An escape from a world he'd always despised. He wondered why he found it so hard to turn his back on the meaningless, pointless life he'd come to know these past two years. Perhaps he should, regardless of Elsa. Sadly, he knew the answer to that question. As meaningless as his life was, it was more meaningful than life before Elsa, more meaningful than life after, well, after…

Quickly passing over the words that struggled to come, he cleared his throat.

If Elsa agreed to his proposal, and he was certain she would, then he'd have no option. He'd be forced to move on.

Move on…?

That would mean letting her go. It would only be fair to Elsa. But could he? Could he really let go?

Taking a deep, calming breath, he closed his eyes. Like so many times before, he let himself drift back to wide blue eyes staring at him, blinking against the bright light. If he were patient, she'd lift a hand, sweep back her fringe as it ruffled gently on the breeze. He wanted to touch her hair. He'd always wanted to touch her hair. His hands, no longer clasped behind him, were moving against his legs, his fingers burning to feel her. But his feet didn't move. Scared that any sudden movement might break the spell, they were anchored to the floor.

He held his breath, watching her hand move up to brush her hair away, then stop to shield her eyes against the sun. A smile tugged at her lips. He swallowed hard against the tightening in his throat. If he waited, she'd reward him with a laugh. When it came, he strained his ears, certain he could hear the musical sound of her laughter. The sound that always stopped him in his tracks, always turned his head. Before he could stop himself, he asked himself the same old question. Had he made her laugh? Dismissing the question, he decided she was probably laughing at him. She was always doing that.

His chest felt tight. He wanted to reach out, wanted to feel her soft skin. His fingers were balled into fists against his legs. He'd never forget what it was like to hold her, to feel her move in his arms, to surround himself in her scent. He needed her. Ached to have her here with him now. She'd know how to take him away from this. She always did, always knew exactly what to do.

If she were here now, he wondered what she'd be doing. But he already knew the answer. Like a sixth sense, he'd always known where to find her. Like so many beautiful summer days before, she'd be outside, on the lawn playing with the children. He'd probably be there with them, impossibly drawn to her. Or else, he'd be watching her from his study, through this window. How many times had he done that? How many afternoons had drifted by while he followed her, lost in her every move? Of course, she always sensed when his eye was on her. How often had she turned and caught him? Too many times to count. And every time, it was always the same. Her look would suck the air from his lungs.

With his eyes still closed, he tried to hold onto her, not yet ready to let her slip away. Could he ever? The more he tried, the more impossible it seemed. Sighing, he opened his eyes, blinking hard, but not just because of the bright afternoon sun.

He could still feel her in his arms. Like it was yesterday. God, he missed her.

He took a deep breath. Why did he feel like he was suffocating? He pulled at the knot in his tie. Still feeling constricted, he fumbled with the top button of his shirt. It was ridiculous. He had to move on, had to let her go.

But could he just let her go? If only it were that easy. Turning away from the window, he walked back to his desk. Dropping into the chair, his eyes fell on the decanter of cognac sitting on the side table. For a fleeting moment, he toyed with the thought. God knows, he needed something. His eyes moved across the room to the mantel clock sitting on the ledge above the fireplace. Just after three. It was far too early in the day to start drinking. Especially today. He had important things to take care of, and his head was muddled enough as it was, and now he was wallowing in melancholy.

His fingers drummed the desk, keeping time with the movement of the clock.

Giving in, he reached down, and jerked open the top drawer of the desk. He narrowed his eyes as they fell on the letter from Nonnberg Abbey. Who'd have imagined? His relationship with God or the Church had never been straightforward. It had been a desperate request, a Hail Mary of sorts. Still, he'd never expected the Reverend Mother to take it seriously. But thankfully, for the sake of the children, she had.

Picking up the envelope, he turned it over in his hand, wondering what might have been is she'd turned down his request.

Opening the flap of the envelope, he went to take out the Reverend Mother's note. But, before he could stop them, his traitorous eyes moved back to the open drawer. He hesitated. He shouldn't. He should leave well enough alone. God, it had been three days. Not that he'd been counting.

He couldn't resist the temptation. Slowly placing the Reverend Mother's letter on his desk, his hand reached into the drawer. His fingers found the second envelope. God, he shouldn't. He slowly lifted it out of the drawer, onto the desk in front of him. Staring at his name on the face of the envelope, he ran his thumb tenderly across the familiar, flourished copperplate. He smiled. A sad, wistful smile. Like a panacea, how many times had he taken it out of the drawer? How many times had he held it? How many times had he opened it? He'd lost count. But the envelope's dog-eared corners gave some kind of a hint.

He closed his eyes for a moment and turned the envelope over. He'd done this so many times, he could do it in his sleep. God knows, he probably had. He shouldn't be dwelling on her. He should leave her in the past, where she belonged. But he couldn't. Could he ever?

Opening his eyes, his thumb flicked open the envelope. The familiar wave hit him. A mix of excitement, sadness, trepidation tinged with a longing that he doubted would ever leave him. Holding his breath, he reached into envelope, his finger and thumb pulling out the contents.

He placed them carefully, lovingly, on the desk. He tried to ignore the sting behind his eyes. She wouldn't want to see him like this. Gently picking up the first of the photographs, he forced a smile. She was surrounded by the children. He'd taken it himself, with the box camera Liesl's grandparents had given her for Christmas. He remembered the day so clearly. Everyone was smiling. Of course, they were. They always were when she was there. It was a perfect summer day. A summer of endless, perfect days. Why did they have to end?

Feeling a little braver, he gently put the photograph down on his desk to the side. His eyes lingered a little longer, knowing what was to come. Slowly, he turned back to the rest of the envelope's contents. He picked up the folded paper. The note she'd left behind for him. He didn't open it. There was no point. He could recite it word for word, had committed it to memory when he'd found it. Her words seared forever in his mind.

Placing the note on the desk, on top of the photograph, he stopped, not wanting to let go. If he closed his eyes, he could hear her saying every word of her note. Delivered in her sweet, beautiful voice, they could easily be mistaken for a lullaby, if only they weren't so hard to hear, each one of them as difficult and brutal as the ones before it. How he hated those words.

Picking up her note again, he placed it carefully in the inside pocket of his jacket, close to his heart, where she would always be. God, he wished he could let her go.

Taking a deep breath, he picked up the next photograph and turned it over. She was smiling at him, as beautiful and gorgeous as ever. His chest felt tight, his throat felt like it was closing over. Why had she left him? Why did she leave the children? They loved her so much. Couldn't she see how lost they all were without her?

He leaned back in his chair. Closing his eyes, imagining her here with him. Perched on the edge of the desk. Telling him something about the children. Something he wasn't listening to. How could he concentrate? From the moment she'd walk into his study, she'd have him mesmerised, utterly enthralled. All he wanted was her...

I've been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they're real
I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures are
All I can feel

His eyes shot open at a sharp knock at the door. Quickly, he gathered up the envelope and its contents and hurriedly stashed them in the drawer. "Yes?" He called out as he pushed the drawer shut.

Even before the door opened, he knew from the familiar knock who was there.

"What is it, Franz?"

"Sir..." the butler cleared his throat as he stepped into the study. "It's the, er… the governess, Sir."

The governess?

He pulled himself up before the frown had a chance to crease his forehead. She was here?

"Thank you, Franz." Trying to gather himself together, he tightened the knot in his tie, watching the butler turn on his heel and leave the room as silently as he arrived. The man even had a way of closing the door behind him without making a sound.

Oh, God, he wasn't ready for her…

The idea for this story has been bubbling away for some time, and finally I've been able to sit down and make a start.

The story's title "A Black Swan" is taken from the Black Swan Theory. The theory goes that there are events, moments, happenings that take place, turning all conventional wisdom on its head. At the time, nothing makes sense, and it seems there's no explanation. But with the benefit of hindsight, the moment or event on which everything turned becomes obvious. I've often thought it's a wonderful way to explain Georg and Maria falling in love.

The theory followed centuries of belief that only the long-revered white swan existed. Of course, this assumption was debunked when European explorers ventured to our corner of the world and found flocks of black swans on every river and body of water.

The inspiration for this story is The Cure's "Pictures Of You", a beautiful, haunting song about clinging to fading memories from "Disintegration", their classic 1989 album. The Cure toured last year to mark the thirtieth anniversary of the album's release - seriously, I have no idea where those decades have gone. It seems like yesterday. But having said that, 2019 feels like a decade ago…

Sorry, I'll stop my ramblings…

It goes without saying, I don't own TSOM – just back having a lend.

"Immerse your soul in love"