September 23th, 1944, Vértes Mountain, Kingdom of Hungary
Her eyes drop close within a minute after she downs the rest of the glass, slumping back on the sofa where she settled with a novel after dinner. Otto picks up the book from her loose grip before it closes and puts in the bookmark before setting it aside. His fingers ghost over her wrist, counting her heart rate with his thumb. He stops when it drops below 80. She is in deep sleep.
He picks up and carries her to the bedroom, her body limp like a ragdoll's. He swallows the guilt aching at the back of his throat, carefully setting her down on the bed, arranging her body of what he thinks is comfortable, head supported by the lush pillows.
He digs into her purse first; the same colour in fine leather like the wine they drank : banknotes, heavy coins and a bunch of used up tram tickets; she has a car at her disposal, why would she use public transport if not to lurk in places she shouldn't be? He has her followed since they met; how did she managed to deceive his men he trained to follow?
The red notebook she alway had in her office comes second; it's an engagement book. Otto hastily backtracks to August when he arrived in the capital; the dinner hosted by the Madame Regent is listed. He finds meetings with him and with Eichmann, more than he expected. Maybe he should visit his comrade once they're back in Budapest. On every second Wednesday there is a word - KÚT - written in the afternoons, and nothing else. Is it an anagram? If so, what does it stand for? He scrolls to September; there are no entries of their meetings since the Opera Night; Sophia did not documented any of it.
To protect him or to protect herself?
He closes the book with disdain; what was he hoping to find? A detailed list of conspirators? Otto already knew their names, knew when and where they met. Sophia wasn't among them. He made sure he alienated her from the traitors she called family.
He looks at the pale face shielded by blonde tresses on the pillows and he recalls it resting against his shoulder as soft hands tirelessly stroked him through his panic. The voice inside him drips the poison of delinquency in his mind and Otto wants to shake her awake and beg for forgiveness. He tucks her in and leaves the room.
Sophia stirs only late afternoon, when the sun is about to duck under the horizont, casting the last rays of light on the quiet cottage. Wobbling on her feet like a newborn fawn when she tries to stand up from the duvets, Otto is by her side in a second, steadying her.
'Are you alright, Schatzie?'
'I-i don't know.' She sits back on the edge of the bed, cradling her head. 'I feel a bit funny. Maybe it's the mushrooms. My Opa would be so disappointed with me...'
'I ate the same and I am fine, Sophie.' He takes her wrist to check her pulse once again. Too slow. Verdammt, the effect should have been worn off by now.
'How did I fell asleep? I never nap in the afternoons. I always feel bad after it.' Her voice is unsure, waiting for him to fill out the blank canvas in her memory.
'You were reading, then you nodded off. I carried you to bed.' Chest heaving, eyes unfocused, she is raking her brain for any other logical explanation, but comes up with nothing; she just fell asleep, that is all, isn't it?
'Maybe a bath could help?' Otto offers and she nods her agreement; with one movement, he sweeps her into his arms, hers snake around his neck almost instinctively, as he carries her to the bathroom, setting her down on the tabouret. Otto opens the silver taps, and rushing water fills the porcelain tub quickly, blowing hot mist into the air.
'I want a bubble bath. Add bubbles.' Grabbing onto his pants, she rubs her face to the side of his waist. She is high as a kite, bless her soul.
'Alright.' He takes a look at the bottles and jars on the vanity tray, most of them in French labels - Chanel, Lancome and Yves Rocher... speaking fluent French did not helped Otto at all. He hadn't the slightest clue of which one of these could produce the wanted bubbles.
'Lavender ones.' Her voice chirps from around his midriff, hot breath tickling the sensitive skin of his abdomen. 'I want lavender bubbles.'
Eh? Which one is lavender? Sure, Otto knows what the flower smells like, but he has no idea how lavender bubble bath looks like and which bottle is hiding it inside them.
'The purple one, Otto.'
As you wish. He picks up the pale lilac bottle and pours a generous amount into the steaming water, causing it to turn milky white. Where the hell are those bloody bubbles? He looks back at the shelf with indignation, spotting another purple bottle; he adds from that as well. Ja, meinetwegen.
Sophia greets the well anticipated bubbles with a squeak, dipping her hands into the forming mousse, ready to splash into the water.
'Ah-ah, let's get you out of that dress first.' She diligently sits back, holding up her hands full of foam for him to slip the dress off her body, dropping it on the floor.
'Good girl.' He reaches behind her back to unhook the clasps of the pink satin bralette, then the matching fine material of the panties hugging her curves. Inhaling her scent, he fights the urge to bury his head between her thighs - kissing it until she pants, twirling his tongue on that sweet nub hidden by the petals of her folds, tasting her, pleasing her...
No, it would be so wrong. Otto knew men since he was a teen in the nightlife of Vienna, who made girls drink too much until they couldn't even form a coherent sentence, then forced themselves on their reluctant bodies; he remembers punching a disgusting face, who's nasty hands twisted into a passed out girl's underwear in a Beerhall. How could you be so loathsome to want to be with someone who does not want to be with you?
Turning away, he sets the delicate lingerie and the discarded dress in the laundry basket. She is not a whore for her clothes to be scattered around.
'You're a cold hearted, clever bastard Otto Skorzeny, do you know that?' Her voice still isn't hers entirely, yet it feels like it's the truth she knows to be real, bringing Otto back from his thoughts.
'I am so sorry I asked you about marriage...'
'You disrespected me. In my own home.' She leans into his face whispering when he kneels down to pull her socks off, green pupils wide with the drug. 'The next time you try to do something like this, I'll bloody your nose.'
Otto believes that she means it as he lowers her into the milky bubbling water. Sophia sinks to the bottom of the tub, muscles relaxing, soothed by the warm water.
It's too late when he realizes he forgot to tie her hair up, the tips already wet from the high foam Snatching the strands up before it soaks entirely, he grabs a brush from the shelf, combing together the tresses in his hand before securing it in a bun on the top of her head.
If we had a daughter, would she have the same gorgeous hair as her mother?
Arent't all daughters are like their mothers? Sophia's voice answers him from behind the wheel of a fast driving car. Flora Sieber had flaxen hair, yet none of her sons inherited it; the Skorzeny seed was too strong in them. Katherine Hartdegen got more lucky with Emil Edelsheim.
'It doesn't matter, you won't remember this at all either way; I needed to know because I wanted to ask you to marry me.' It just slips out of him as he drops the box from his breast pocket on the foam floating in the tub, taking her seat on the tabouret. He is so tired of this game.
She gasps and craddles it in her palm, like a seashell holding a precious pearl, preventing it from submerging.
'Go on, Kätzchen, open it.'
Looking at him wide eyed; she lifts the lid of the box. The ring is a masterpiece; a gold band hugging an emerald, lined with tiny sparkles of diamonds. Half a fortune for him; a plaything for a Princess like her.
'It's the same shade of green like your eyes. Yellow-ish. Like a cat's.' And he pets her head, like one does a cat's.
'Please finish your eggs, Schatzie.'
The omlette Otto made for her lays half eaten on the table, next to a steaming cup of black tea. Sophia sits next to it, in a dressing robe far too large and old fashioned for her - probably her grandmother's, dangling her naked feet off the chair.
I need you to eat, for the drug to leave your system. And drink that bloody tea too, to fix your blood pressure.
'I like my eggs sunny side up.' Regardless, she digs into the plate once again.
'I will keep in mind in the future. But these aren't bad either, no?' She shakes her head no, mouth full of food.
'Gut.'
For a while the only sound is the fork moving on the porcelain plate. His ring, no, her ring is glinting in the candlelight on her slender finger as she brings the mug to her lips.
'I got engaged first when I was fourteen.'
Her voice shakes him up from his thoughts, blue eyes meeting her now focused green ones.
'That's a little bit early to make such a decision. What happened to him?'
'Who said anything happened to him?' He could swear he sees a ghost of a smile on her lips, but it could be just a trick of the candlelights.
'Have I ever met him? In Budapest?'
'I have no idea. Probably. Maybe.' She takes another sip of the tea. 'If you did, you wouldn't look twice his way, he is nobody significant in particular.'
'He was significant enough to be become your fiance once.' A little gem on Horthy's side, beautiful enough to make men to fight for her hand - without even the wits, the connections or the dowry.
'Fourteen year old me was much easier to impress, I guess.' Setting down the fork on the now empty plate, she moves to stand up from the table, but Otto pushes her back down to the seat.
'I finished the eggs!' She objects at once.
'I know, but you are not wearing any slippers. I won't have you walk barefoot on the cold stone.'
She sighs.
'Could you please get me my slippers then?'
'Or we can just do it our usual way.' He sweeps her up in his arms once again. 'Where to, Fraulein?'
'Bed.'
Excellent choice.
Notes
I cheated with brands, most of them wasn't estabilished till 1946 but hey, who cares. Not everyone is a fashion nerd.
Maybe I will translate the german terms later, but it's really not hard.