Chapter 5: The Girls

One week later

Georg was rarely in here, hemmed in between the walls of books and music and records, all as the stench of memories wafted here and there in the grey cloud surrounding him. A thin layer of dust coated the shelves, except where the children crept in during one of the the many days he disappeared into Salzburg, suddenly leaving the library less of a forbidden place. Probably all of them who don't need minding, he reminded himself, squinting as a fresh wave of smoke clung to his eyes and refusing to disappear even as he blinked once, twice, three times.

Liesl and Louisa had likely pilfered one or more of their mother's novels, now tucked as far away from his books as possible; Kurt, something on rocks or the forests; Friedrich, a book on the war; and Brigitta...He drew another deep gulp of the cigarette between his fingers, the third since he had eaten his dinner followed by a short glass of brandy. Something far too complicated, he thought, another release of smoke escaping his nostrils, swirling up through the gathering haze, fading into nothingness.

"Not too much longer," Georg said quietly as he turned around, a scuff from his shoe smeared into the delicate swirls and sharp angles of the carpet beneath, wandering toward the far wall which held back the winter winds that gleefully battered Salzburg as the winter days turned over one by one. The Ottoman Empire, Persia, he couldn't remember, only that it belonged to a happier time long gone. He reached for one of the photographs on the side table crushed against the wall, centered between the windows that looked out to the west and the setting sun that had often blinded them when they sat side by side as the darkest of nights approached. Even the first few evenings when her coughs had begun.

It was one of the final happy moments frozen in the past beneath that glass. Nothing yet gone wrong, neither of them watching and waiting, finally knowing it was no longer years together, but not even months: just weeks, and then days until the earth swallowed her whole. Forever out of his reach no matter how far he stretched his arm and hand, almost dust and ash slipping between his fingers.

The dust here amidst the photographs in their mahogany frames was undisturbed, unlike the bookshelves; just as with the ballroom, the maids avoided his library and let memories swell behind locked doors. Perhaps it was why he didn't snap at the children during their tense farewell this evening. Farewell, and here, not there...Georg had wrapped his arms around their shoulders one at a time, all of his muscles tensing as he already heard a few sniffles—muffled coughs—tears bitten back. Marta had clung to him harder than ever, her arms around his knee and face pressed into his trouser leg before he ran his hand over her hair, dark not just like his, but hers. And then, Brigitta whispering against his chest, that same dark hair haunting him, "How long will you be gone this time, Father?"

They asked him every time he said goodbye, but this evening, he was already gone, drifting to the next day and something new. Away from here. If it hadn't been for the need to plan for the upcoming year, Georg would have lingered for two, perhaps three days, disappearing as soon as he could. It was time to discuss any maintenance needs with the household manager—both of them knowing the worn man was only a few months from bidding the villa farewell after almost a decade of looking after its needs; to nod at the gardener's plans for the fields beyond the lake; to listen to the groundskeeper propose the possibility of leaving some of the forest at the edge of the property uncleared for the year to allow the soil time to rest and the saplings time to sprout before they were felled for firewood. All without hearing one word any man said, he was already so desperate to be gone.

Georg grunted against the sear in back of his throat, a rough grey plume rising into his face. The untainted film of dust was broken, now, smeared across the cuff of his suit coat, a fresh cloud of smoke wafting from his mouth as he peered at his wife, so faded and faint in the black and white. Just..two years ago, was it, his hands had rested on either of her shoulders, eyes already drifting down to her, the top of her head just reaching his waist. He could never resist running his gaze over her from the moment he first saw her, she was so beautiful and almost delicate. Fragile. So much smaller than me, he thought, you always were, even right before you thought you couldn't go on with each of the children. But at least there was always something to you, not...He couldn't, not anymore as he took another deep breath and flooded his mouth with the burn from his cigarette. Not quite yet.

Chained—imprisoned years ago, Agathe sat in the midst of their cluster of children, Brigitta and Kurt's little arms tangled around her ankles as they squirmed and giggled on the floor, the older children standing on either side of him, and finally Marta in her lap, safe in her arms. Well—healthy—at peace. No Gretl, though soon after sitting for the photographer, the nausea had begun to torment her again, a miserable gift from their youngest child. Thankfully, she had been spared the endless vomiting she endured with Marta, especially with so little time left, all the pain of an unexpected loss...No.

For perhaps the first time in months, Georg couldn't quite look away, swallowed up by her gaze just as he had been the first time he saw her across a crowded ballroom, her arm tucked into some man's elbow—an uncle, a cousin, he didn't remember—the relation tasked with keeping her safe from a man like him. Not that it did much good. I pulled you away from him in a matter of hours. And you adored it, didn't you? Even in that first dance her guardian for the evening had allowed them, she hadn't resisted how close he held her—almost flush against him, her breasts heaving against his chest as her breathing grew faster—a small smile breaking across her face even as they both heard the murmurs wafting through the crowd. "Isn't that a little much? They've only just met!" "She's so young for a man who served in the navy! A captain!" "Aren't they lovely together?"

And if I'd managed to have you to myself for a minute, would you have resisted anything?

Everything that had drawn him to her was still there in that grey and dusty photograph, just with ten years of life and love added to everything that made her beautiful. It was all real again, the black and white giving way to memory and light. Dark hair knotted around the back of her head, shot with the very first grey locks, and shining bright brown eyes just atop the first lines at the corners of her mouth. And then, the children, a smile on nearly every face—Marta at least was peering at the camera rather than crying, almost as though she was confused as to why her mother and father, Friedrich and Liesl stood so still and silent, just staring ahead whilst Kurt and Brigitta threatened to clamor about on the wooden paneling across the floor. He hated looking at it, his hand shaking and almost ready to drop it. It's too much, love. It's too soon.

"You'll have to stay here with your children," Georg continued, the warmth of the cigarette tickling his fingers. Only a minute or so before he needed to stab it out in the ashtray ahead of another. Each time the smoke seared his lungs, it burnt out the ache deeper in his chest. "But don't worry, she's nothing like you. Nothing like you."

He hadn't meant to wander into the dining room when he did, this evening, the children still at the table, only the clinks of knives and forks against porcelain shattering the silence. No chatter about the day, running about the grounds in the latest flurries of snow drifting from the cloudy sky; not even the older children grumbling about their coursework for school that Frau Schmidt had forced them to sit down and attend to. Just silence—almost suffocating—until one of the girls glanced up, nearly shouting his name as she launched herself from her seat, almost knocking him from his feet. Then it was the endless scraping of chair legs against the polished tile floor and "Father!" transforming into a chorus that might have risen up from a choir.

It was Franz looking after the children's dinner tonight—with his own taken long after the children were banished to their rooms, Marta and Gretl to the nursery, Georg never really knew who sat with them during the evening meal. But in only a moment after he stepped through the door, the butler had pushed his own chair from the table—plate and cutlery in hand—as though the man expected everything to be different simply because he had forgotten the time. "I'll let Cook know that you're having dinner with the children this evening."

It was too late to disappear, too late vanish back into his study and turn the lock against the world and children he couldn't stand to see. And so, as the children seated themselves again, the murmurs running between the five eldest, Georg took the chair he had for so many years, Agathe just to his right where Friedrich now sat. Marta's manners were as unruly as he remembered; she had only joined the rest of the family for dinner a few weeks before...No, he couldn't even think it. Gretl still took all of her meals with Frau Bauer, happily sparing the table the unpredictable screeches of a toddler who didn't always get her way. Agathe had always soothed the youngest—

No. Not now. Not while I'm about to escape you again, at least for a little while.

By the time the familiar plate of the meat, noodles, and greens was laid before him, half the glass of wine Franz had poured him had already vanished, tasting exactly the same as each mouthful of his dinner: nothing. At least a glass or two would soften the questions when he pushed the children aside in a few minutes. The older children raised a few questions as they continued to eat their dinner, but he only paid attention to the food on his plate; with the third or fourth left unanswered, their curious voices faded away.

It was then that he allowed each of the children to linger in his arms longer than usual after their plates were cleared and the chocolate cake was devoured, already anticipating the following day. Wondering what to expect from that defiant mouth, the pale skin, the fair hair falling over her shoulder, the tiny waist...Nothing like you, he'd thought, barely hearing his daughters' little pleas against him. To stay at least another day? He wasn't sure, just feeling the numbness building in his arms—in his hands around them, nearly a fire beneath his skin burning the feeling of them away.

He had shoved them aside a few seconds later, the endless farewell overwhelming as ever. Frau Schmidt swept them up as she usually did on evenings like this, reminding them dinner was over—to be grateful for their favorite dessert, served as it often was on Saturday—and that it was their bedtime. And with the din of more than half a dozen pairs of feet scurrying up the stairs to the small cluster of rooms the children shared, he forced himself into the library and the past, somehow desperate to see what everything tomorrow was not—

The cigarette finally burned down to his fingertips, and Georg hissed for a second against the pain. "Christ!" He shoved the burning tip into the ashtray on the side table, crushing the fading embers before he turned back around to that picture. They hadn't taken a similar picture with Gretl in Agathe's lap, waiting eagerly for her to grow into her face and hair—only for there to be no time. "It won't be the same, love, I promise." He pushed his palms into his face, his fingers rubbing his eyes. None of it's the same. I just need you to distract me, Maria. Just for a while.

She really was so curious, Georg thought, pulling his hands from his face and taking a deep breath. (Was something rustling in the front hall?) So small and almost gangly, but so indignant when he treated her as she deserved. What did he—a baron, a decorated naval hero—owe such a young girl? (Yes, there was something.) Nothing at all. She was so thin, it truly looked as though the wind might snap her in half if it gusted down a narrow street in just the right way...but then that defiant mouth that refused to let him walk away, almost like she had transformed herself into his master.

Georg settled the picture back onto the wood before he turned and reached into his pocket for another cigarette and the lighter nestled beside it. He turned the scratchy wheel over once, then another time until it sparked, bright orange flames lighting the very tip of it, another drag of smoke flooding him. That's all it is, love, a distraction. I need to forget you for a while.

More patters of feet in the foyer—no shoes, likely socks in the lingering chill of Austria's often brutal winter—trying to be cautious, but unpracticed, drawing his eyes to the door still cracked open to rest of the villa. Little giggles, a few whispers he didn't quite understand, until..."I told you, he's never in there!"

Why are you here? Georg wondered as his head fall back, eyes closed against the plaster molding in the ceiling, lovely and beautiful as it swirled from one end of the library to the other. God, it's too much. I can't have you near me here. ("Maybe he needs another book, too.") You can't be here—

"You have to love them for me as well, now."

"Go away!" Georg shouted before another quick draw on his latest cigarette. "You're not meant to be here!" It was another scurry of footsteps, no longer even trying to be quiet, just running from the anger roiling in his chest and the rage in his voice, thundering up the staircase. I know it's only you, girls, but...I can't have you here, not right now.

Pushing his back into the wall—just where that table ended, jacket crushed against dusty and velvety wallpaper—Georg let his face fall back into one hand for a second, something in his stomach tightening until he took another deep gulp, another—another—another until the cigarette between his fingers was half vanquished. I'm sorry. But I can't look at you, now, let alone hear you. And that's all I see and hear. It was only one more—then another gulp of smoke, probably, before he crushed the cigarette to death. At least if he wound his way to his empty bed now, tomorrow was waiting for him he knew as he turned back to that picture. Tomorrow and Maria...Her silly questions, her excitement over the world she had never seen, and her lovely eyes.

"Nothing like you," he murmured as he turned back to that photograph, just pressing a finger to his wife's face. He remembered it all: the warmth of her against him like when cupped her face with his palm as he kissed her or tucked her into his arms, not knowing which of them were greedier. Please, Maria. Frau Schmidt can't find a governess quick enough after this many months. Distract me, even if it's only for an afternoon, until I can escape to Vienna. I hardly know you, but...Can you do that much for me?

Was she angry with him? Disappearing to Salzburg more days than not, holding the children at arm's length whenever he could, still somehow wondering what lay behind those bright blue eyes that haunted him...He couldn't tell, not now. Just one more day, couldn't it have been just one more day? And another after that? And one after that? And all the life we wanted together? None of this would matter, if just that. And I couldn't even touch you one last time, you wouldn't let me—

Georg slammed the photograph into the table, the glass shattering into a spray of tiny slivers, spread across the polished wood to every corner. Even into the ashtray still filled with smoldering embers, the freshest from the cigarette he had just thrown there to die with its ancestors. "God!" One of the shards was already buried in his palm as he pulled it back, a few drops of blood dripping across his hand as he turned it over. Smeared down his fingers, even beneath his wedding band, the glass deep enough to burn, not just sting.

He twisted the ring off, tossing it on the back of the broken frame...to her. You have to stay here, you have to let me be distracted. Please.

Thirty minutes earlier

Beside Louisa's bed—the table piled with sketchbooks and pencils—a little clock ticked the seconds away beneath the grainy lamplight, silver and black, the key on it twisted fresh every morning after its thundering frightened her awake. That first morning she needed to wake early enough to dress and eat and clamor through the door to school...she hated it. She had struggled to quiet it, not twisting the key back until Liesl had groaned across the room and shouted a few words she knew their parents would have seen her confined to the house if they heard come from her mouth. Nothing like how Mother would tell her to be calm and quiet when she grew frantic as school approached, but why should Liesl be like Mother?

"Keep yourself on time," her mother had whispered to her, Louisa tucked into her lap against her swollen belly, Marta's tiny hands and legs rapping on her back. Her mother always wore billowing dresses she could never imagine wearing on herself even then, tight arms buried beneath poofy sleeves engulfing her as she unwrapped the round clock with its hammer and bells on her sixth birthday, thin notepads, crayons, and a few simpler dresses following. "You'll have school in a few months, and you'll have to go with Liesl and Friedrich. They won't always wait for you." A quick kiss against her neck was the last thing Louisa remembered of that afternoon. That, and her older siblings teasing her about how she was still too young to do much more than join them at the dinner table, Kurt and Brigitta chasing one another about until their father pulled them back to the center of the library that afternoon as they forgot to offer her birthday wishes. But maybe it was all she wanted to remember, now. It was all so much easier.

A fresh winter wind was already moaning outside, tearing at the thick walls of the villa, just how she had scratched her fingers at the stone wall just at the other side of the lake last summer, thinking she heard something...something behind the rock, half wondering if it was a dwarf or a gnome, one of the fairy tale creatures the Brothers Grimm wrote of dwelling in the stone wall and scratching to be free. At least the wind probably didn't have to explain bloody fingernails to her mother, she thought, another page in her book crinkling as she turned it.

She hadn't read it before, even though Brigitta had already devoured every book beneath the Christmas tree. Aunt Hede and Uncle Max had been there, Uncle Max with more hugs than their aunt after...Louisa took another breath as she tugged everything closer and tighter. Her nightgown, the sheet, the quilt her mother had knitted for her as she lay in the crib beside her parents' bed as her mother waited for her to shriek for no reason, or simply to moan with hunger. The needles and pale pink wool must have made the same sound as when she tugged at her mother's skirt even as Marta could hardly have been in her crib, begging to be held before Father dragged her into his arms. Each of them had one of those little blankets—or at least she supposed, Liesl didn't talk about things like that any more—pink for them, blue for the boys. Or almost everyone.

No one had ever said why, but there was no pink quilt for Gretl's little bed. Maybe they think she's too young? But I always remember mine, and surely Mother had enough time. Maybe someday, they'll tell Liesl why and she'll tell us. Louisa rolled over in her bed, away from the window and the howling wind. Another page turned in her book, another little taste of the story open for her to devour. A king buried beneath a curse, a girl to break the curse not knowing that she would...Wouldn't it be lovely if everything turned out— It doesn't matter, not if Father won't ever be at home.

She didn't understand, she really didn't, any of it! Why he was home for one day—maybe two—at a time before disappearing to...well, neither Frau Schmidt or Franz ever said where. Why he locked himself away in his study with his desk and typewriter, the little echoes of the keys the only thing that escaped from beneath the door. Why the only time she ever saw him was when he was wandering outside or tracking a fresh path of snow back in as the cigarette smoke clung to his coat...just before the door slammed closed again and the lock snapped back into place, cutting them all off and away. He was there, she and the rest of them were here, all because...

She tried not to think about her, at least not yet. (Was it brighter, now?) I know I wasn't ever like her, but I wish she was still here. At least then Father would be here with her and us. Or at least that Father would be—

"Louisa?"

She shook beneath her quilt, she had been so drawn into her book and then her thoughts, she hadn't heard anyone coming closer or really noticed the overhead light come to life. But peering up, it was the same as most evenings, now, the lined face and grey curls staring down at her: coat buttoned up to her throat and starched collar peaking over the hem, black apron tied around her waist. "Frau Schmidt?"

"Your book, please."

Louisa folded the covers over her hand, pulling back and almost tucking it into her side. "It's hardly past nine—and Liesl and Brigitta are still reading—"

"You're the closest to the door, dear, I'll take theirs next." The housekeeper's wrinkled hand was already outstretched, waiting as she did most evenings. Biting down on her scowl, Louisa pulled her hand away and let the pages fall closed, suddenly realizing she hadn't glanced at what page number was printed in the top corner as she offered it up. "Thank you. He doesn't want you awake this late—"

"There's no school tomorrow—"

"Even if it is a Saturday evening."

"Is he still here?"

Frau Schmidt nodded, those grey curls hardly moving beneath what must be starch of their own. "Yes. You know he's going away—"

"When?"

The housekeeper tucked the worn book against her waist beneath her hands for a moment before placing it on the table by Louisa's bed. "Early, like he always does. He said goodbye to you tonight."

"Or for how long?"

"Louisa, you know I can never tell you that. He comes and goes as he pleases."

She sat up in bed, almost ready to stretch her hand out for her book. It was such a lovely story, always wondering what lay beneath. "So he wouldn't know if we were up too late."

The elderly woman shook her head, sliding the book onto the bottom shelf of Louisa's bedside table before pulling the chain on the lamp just next to her. "That isn't the point."

She let out a sigh, falling back into her bed. "I suppose."

"Try to go to sleep soon? And don't pick up your book again, you'll only hurt your eyes if you try to read in the dark."

As she had said she would, Frau Schmidt went to Liesl's bed—then Brigitta's—wrestling books of varying age and wear from their hands, always with quiet protests she didn't quite understand. Brigitta saying the mystery was too much—Liesl saying she couldn't wait until tomorrow to learn who the person behind the mask was—but both met with the same reply: "Your father doesn't want you awake so long, girls. You know that."

All books found their ways onto bedside tables, tempting but needing to wait until the next evening. Father will be gone, Louisa thought as she tugged all her sheets and layers closer, maybe Frau Schmidt won't worry quite so much if he isn't here. She hated the thought as she buried herself deeper in the blankets against the cold. I just wish we could have Father back again. I know it can't be like it was before, but it's so awful right now.

It was hard to even see Frau Schmidt in the door to their shared bedroom, she was half blinded by the harsh light overhead spilling in from the hallway. Just that she was peering around, at each of them. "You know he's instructed me to find a governess for you. Do tell me you won't be as much of a trial for her as you've been for me, sometimes, these past months." The housekeeper let out a gentle sigh before all the light vanished, the darkness almost shining as it overwhelmed Louisa's eyes. "And try not to talk too much before you go to sleep. It will just make you unhappy in the morning." Louisa groaned as she rolled onto her side, away from the door and harsh light from the hallway. "Good night, girls."

"Good night, Frau Schmidt."

The door snapped shut as she turned away, on the world outside—the world that had been—their mother—him.

Father used to be so much fun, Louisa thought as she turned away from the door, brushing a handful of hair from her face—her nose, really—and drew everything even tighter around her against the cold. Now he just ruins everything. We can't even enjoy books or drawing without him being upset. It's like he won't let us be happy, either.

It was just the thin line of light beneath the door invading the shadows and breaking through the shadows. It would disappear soon enough, just like him. But something had been different today, Louisa thought as she turned onto her back, wishing again that she could reach for her book or sketchpad, at least something to lure her to sleep. All week, really, their father had been changed, somehow. He hadn't been as closed, so locked away. Well, if he spends his entire life in his study, what do a few moments matter? she reminded herself, counting each short second until Frau Schmidt might be down the corridor, maybe down the stairs or heading to wherever she spent her nights.

A count to sixty, then another round to allow for the housekeeper's worn and aged frame before she hissed, "Liesl? Liesl!"

Far across the room, closer to the windows hidden beneath heavy drapes, there was the creaking of the mattress and rustling of sheets; Brigitta had always had the bed between them since their mother decided she was too old to sleep in the nursery. When everything was better, they had sometimes played a game that tormented their younger sister, tossing crumpled notes to one another over her bed, occasionally landing a nonsense one near enough to her that she could catch it. Only to find a silly face drawn on the paper and the pair of them giggling as she complained. Or nothing at all. But it had been months since any of them had been happy enough for anything quite so silly. "Liesl!"

Her older sister sighed, sheets scratching again one another again. "Can't it wait?"

"No!"

"What's so important?"

There had been no footsteps in the hallway since Frau Schmidt walked away, though the light still peaked beneath the door. No one will know, she thought as she pulled the chain on her bedside lamp, wincing at the sudden wave of light. "He was different, today."

Another light flared to life, but Liesl's face still fuzzy from so far away. She was already rubbing at her eyes, nightgown bunched up around her legs. Aren't you curious about anything? Louisa wondered. "Was he?"

"Didn't you think so?"

"We hardly saw him for a few minutes, just like always. Even if he was there for dinner."

Louisa shook her head as she threw her quilt aside. "But he didn't—"

"You're imagining things."

"But he didn't push us away as fast as he usually does."

Liesl turned over in her bed, a hand tucked beneath her pillow as she gazed across the room. She was already asleep, Louisa assumed, her eyes hardly open and her hair already thrown across her pillow. "So it was a second longer? Does that—"

Between them, another creaking mattress broke through their conversation, Brigitta half grey in the dim starlight blocked by the curtains as she sat up between them, hiding her mouth behind her hand as she yawned, bathed in the faint light from other side. "What are you talking about?" she asked, squinting and curling herself into her pillows while she folded all her blankets around her legs, suddenly sitting upright. "Tell me—"

Liesl shook her head. "Not now—"

"But doesn't that mean something?"

"I don't...Oh, come on, Louisa." She waved her hand, calling her across the room.

"What?"

"Over here, if you want to talk! And you, too, Brigitta!"

The younger girls scrambled across the room in a flurry of nightgowns and hurried footsteps, almost leaping onto Liesl's bed. She had pulled all her quilts back, and now tucked them around their legs, almost nestling them in. It was hardly the first time they had found themselves like this, tucked into Liesl's bed and pressed together as they tried to sleep as the winter cold grew harsher. Frau Schmidt always tutted if she looked in on them when they were buried together—Louisa had seen her shake her head three or four times as she stood in the door—though she never ordered them back to their own beds. At least once, she thought she heard the housekeeper mutter something about "motherless children".

Liesl sat up, pulling Brigitta between the two of them before she drew all the blankets back toward her pillows. She wrapped an arm around the youngest sister in her bed, a hand twisted around the long dark braid that trailed over her shoulder. "I know it's hard," she said softly, "it's just us all together, now."

"Can't it change?" Louisa asked as she burrowed deeper into the layers of Liesl's bed, almost pulling herself away from her sisters to tug that old pink quilt around her chest. It was too much, sometimes, even if this was the only place where anything felt the same. "Someday?"

"Wouldn't it have done so by now?"

Brigitta glanced up, one hand now balled into a fist, tucked under her chin. Over the last months, she had learned not to question Liesl whenever her thoughts turned to their father, whenever memories of him or their mother rose during their whispered conversations under the cover of night. And perhaps it was best to listen to her, she had known both of them so much longer. Can't I still want him back, Liesl? "But maybe—"

"It's not—"

Louisa slapped her across the shoulder, though it was lighter than Brigitta sometimes did to Kurt when he annoyed her a little too much. "But it is different!" she hissed, leaning in and drawing her knees up to her chest, almost digging her knees into Brigitta's chest. "Friedrich said the study door wasn't locked—"

Liesl's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Not even closed! Not all the way!"

Liesl let Brigitta's braid go, waving her hand through the dim light. "I can't believe it after so long."

"He saw the light through the crack in the door, and he could smell Father smoking."

"When?"

"Thursday."

Thursday? Brigitta thought, trying to remember...Yes, it was the next day. "And he was with us for the end of breakfast Friday, before we left for school," she whispered, leaning in closer to her sisters on either side. "For a few minutes, even if still wouldn't let us say anything."

Louisa nodded. Even if he had just been there with his coffee while they devoured their ham, cold boiled eggs, and soft rolls with apricot jam...he was there. For once, at least, he hadn't been shut in his study, away from them all. Like we were real again. "And dinner tonight—"

"He didn't say anything the whole time, not really."

"But doesn't it mean something?"

Liesl shrugged, pulling her own part of the sheets closer, muffling a quiet cough behind one of her hands. "Maybe, if he hadn't been so eager to get away this evening."

"What do you mean?" Louisa asked, tugging the same sheets back over her—and back again when her sister pulled on them again.

Another stronger tug, bringing sheets and quilt alike over to Liesl and Brigitta, and leaving Louisa to yank her nightgown down to her ankles. Even with the bitter chill broken, Salzburg was still so cold this winter. "Father isn't changing," Liesl muttered, an arm around Brigitta to draw her closer. "He's just distracted."

"Maybe that will be good for him."

"But distracted by what?"

"Isn't anything good?"

Brigitta glanced up, trying to hide a yawn even as it broke from her mouth. "Anything?"

Louisa nodded. "Maybe he won't think about Mother all the time."

"You want that?"

"Just so that he has time for us, too."

"Maybe." Liesl threw all the layers back t cover Louisa as well, the three of them suddenly crushed together in her small bed, blankets and sheets finally spread across them all again. "But what could it be?"

"Maybe he's going sailing again!" Brigitta said quickly, trying to sit up before Liesl's arm held her down.

"There's no more navy."

"It doesn't have to be the navy! Maybe he's...going fishing, somewhere off Italy. He loves Italy—"

Liesl sighed as she shook her head. "Our father doesn't fish. Or at least since Grandfather would take him out, if Aunt Hede is right."

"Or captaining a steamship across the Atlantic!"

"Why would he do that?"

Louisa held a grumble back in her throat as she kicked her nightdress down around her legs and curled herself into Brigitta. "He always talked about how he missed the ocean after he came home to stay, that's what Mother said."

Liesl rolled onto her stomach, hair and face smashed into her half of the pillow she shared with Brigitta, hardly visible over their little sister's nose and chin. "That's silly and you know it. And you know he wouldn't care about what he told Mother anymore."

"Yes, he would! Why else would he be so upset—"

"Brigitta!"

Louisa shivered, pushing herself even closer to her sisters. At least there was still some warmth left in the house. "But I can't stop—hoping."

"I know. Maybe one day. But he's still the same person he was right after Mother—"

"Don't say it." Louisa always tensed when their talks turned to this; no matter where it had happened—who she was with—she had been the one who brought the fever home. At least that was what the doctor said, even when it ran from one of them to another until Mother and Father had nearly sent their little sisters to their grandparents for a time.

"No," their mother had insisted, even when their father almost demanded it, a rare argument rising up from the library, "we'll keep them apart as best we can, once they're well. I won't let the part without saying goodbye, if it comes to that!"

"It's true."

Louisa shook her head, or more crushed her cheek against the sheets. I can't believe it. "It isn't, and I know you don't think that."

Liesl sighed another time, now rolling onto her back, arms shoved beneath her neck as she stared into the darkness at the ceiling. "Fine, I won't say it. But it doesn't change anything."

"But—"

Liesl tapped her shoulder, pushing Louisa onto her back beneath the quilts and blankets, a chunk of hair suddenly caught in her mouth. "We should go to sleep, you know that. Frau Schmidt will come and look in on us eventually, you know that."

Louisa buried herself even deeper into her sister's bed, one hand knotted in the quilt knitted so many years ago by their mother, a shiver rising up her spine as she curled herself into her little sister, now on her side, knees pulled up to her chest. Everything used to be so nice and happy, until Mother was so unhappy after Gretl was born. I still don't understand why. Brigitta shook beside her, the little sobs she always struggled to hold in as night and dreams rose over the horizon, dragging a heavier darkness along with them. She glanced up, just catching Liesl's bright blue eyes over Brigitta's dark hair. She surely heard it, too. "I miss her, Liesl," she whispered.

"I know."

"I miss them both."

"But what are we going to do about it?" Liesl asked, running her fingers through the loose end of Brigitta's braid, already mussed in the struggle to fall asleep. "Father would rather be anywhere else than home. He won't even look at us. We can't change that."

"But someday—"

A harsh rapping came from the door, the knock that came most every night, at least at the weekend. "I can see your lights, girls," Frau Schmidt said as she opened the door a foot or so, just enough for her to take a step into their dusky bedroom. "Go to sleep, even if you refuse to stay in your own beds."

As the door closed—thrusting them into a harsher darkness—Liesl reached for her own bedside lamp, a pull of the chain leaving only Louisa's lit. "Can't you see to that?" her older sister asked as she moved closer to Brigitta.

"In a minute."

"Well, do it, or we'll never fall asleep."

"Fine."

Louisa tossed the quilt away, tucking it around Brigitta's shoulder as they both shivered in the chilly night air. Even with her own bed only a few paces away, she ran to it as though she had been caught in a sudden thunderstorm, drenched beneath an avalanche of pouring rain. Fairly jumping into it, she dragged her own quilt and sheets up to her chin, just leaving her arm free to turn the knob on her lamp and finally plunge the room into total darkness, hiding her sisters in the night. Not even the moon or the stars broke through it, well, not really; none of the trees or shrubs that surrounded the house and marked the edge of the grounds wore any leaves, but the branches and twigs still blocked any light the clouds allowed to shine through.

She closed her eyes, turning onto her side, away from Liesl and Brigitta, toward the door. You're wrong, she thought, burying her face in her own pillow, now, there's something different. But what is it? She had turn over again, on her back, the possibilities they had just whispered about dancing through her head. All of Brigitta's ideas were silly—what else did you expect from your seven year-old little sister who had read too many silly books?—but there was something. Louisa twisted around again, back to speckled sky barely peeking around the curtains. He's always hiding in his study when we're home from school, but he has to leave it sometimes. Even if it's just after he's sent us to bed. Maybe…

Now back to her other side, peering at her sisters. As her eyes picked up on the faint shapes with the light from beneath the door, they were still huddled together in Liesl's bed, as she often was alongside them. No whispers, no rustling, no creaking of the mattress as one or the other of them tried to find a more comfortable way to fall asleep…

If I wait a few more minutes, she thought, her heart beating a little quicker, they'll both be fast asleep. And...I can go see.

It was strange, really, worrying about walking around the house she had lived in since she was a little girl. Wondering how carefully she would need to walk, how her footsteps would echo down the corridor—would they make their way into the hall and the study where their father now seemed to live the little part of his life he was willing to endure here? It's not right, Louisa told herself as she twisted her fingers into her sheets. We didn't do anything wrong.

It must have been at least a few minutes, ticking away into the night while her stomach tightened, almost as though she was afraid of what she might find. But…Sometime. She tossed her sheets and quilt aside onto her bed, sitting up slowly, pushing herself up with one arm as she twisted around. Her feet landed on the carpet with a shiver, only the gentlest squeaky complaint coming from her mattress. Louisa winced; Liesl wouldn't be troubled—she was the heaviest sleeper of the three of them in this room—but Brigitta woke at the faintest sound, sometimes even when the wind howled too loudly ahead of a summer storm.

Louisa took large, gentle footsteps, nearly wincing after each as she glanced back at her sisters curled up together in Liesl's bed. The farther she was from she passed them, the easier she breathed. If she just opened the door the slightest, she might just make it into the hallway without either of them waking. She pulled the door inward, so little room between the worn edge and the frame, she could hardly slide through. But less light would help; sometimes, Brigitta even woke when either she or Liesl turned on their lamp when Frau Schmidt had come and gone with her instructions to go to sleep, desperate for the next part of the story.

The latch clicked back in place, plunging the room back into darkness even as Louisa clenched her eyes against the lights that still blazed in the hallway. A few months ago—maybe even before everything changed—she had heard the maids muttering about how silly it was, the lights always blazing and in life, even through the night. But for now, she just rubbed a tightened fist against one eye.

Her footsteps were less cautious, now, less worried as she hurried down the carpet lining the corridor's wooden paneling; her brothers had slept through so many storms that had frightened the three of them awake. And if either Gretl or Marta woke, Frau Bauer would only think colic or bad dreams. And her hearing was bad enough; she only woke to their complaints because her bed was right between theirs. At least its her bed, Louisa thought, the floor squeaking beneath her. I wouldn't want to be in there with them!

It was only a few more steps to the end of the hallway—down the slow curve of the stairs to the central hall along the front façade of—

"Louisa?"

She spun around, her braid smacking her shoulder as she glanced back down the hall. Brigitta—hair mussed all around her shoulders and nightgown wrinkled around her knees—stood just outside their shared bedroom, yawning with a hand pressed to one of her eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"Where are you going?" her little sister threw back, still squinting in the lamplight.

"Go back to bed!"

Brigitta took a few shaky steps toward her, one of her feet almost catching on the hem of her nightgown, opening her mouth once—shutting it—then finally whispering, "You're going to look in on Father, aren't you?"

"What if I am? I told you and Liesl that something's different."

Brigitta took a few steps down the corridor, now almost stumbling over a bump in the rug that ran over the hard wood. "It's not like before—"

"But it's not the last few months!"

She shook her head. "I don't believe you."

Louisa let out a harsh sigh as she turned away, almost coughing, back to the winding staircase at the end of the hall. "Then go back to Liesl. You're hardly awake."

"I don't want to!"

She waved her younger sister forward, impatient and anxious. "Then be quiet and come on!"

It was so strange, creeping down the stairs toward the empty hall, nightgowns swishing around their legs. They were always in their uniforms before leaving their rooms for the breakfast table, Frau Schmidt or Franz always taking their father's place. Even down here, the lights burned through the night, though dimmer than the upper halls. After all, no one was meant to be here after dinner, not anymore. Even a year ago, the hour or so after dinner was passed in the salon or library with their mother and father, Father strumming the guitar that no longer stood in the corner—Louisa only knew one morning toward the end of November, it was suddenly gone—or Mother singing along to one of any number of records playing on the gramophone.

The first creaks happened at the end of the corridor, and she winced as one squeaked beneath her foot. Anymore, he noticed everything, even the little noises in the night. Isn't there anything else to do but shout at us to be quiet, Father? And now Brigitta was rushing past her, nearly catching her foot again and tumbling head over heels—

"Don't!" Louisa hissed as she grabbed at Brigitta's shoulder, pulling her to the carpet with a dull thud, both of their bums crashing to the last steps before the landing that led into the hall. "He'll hear us."

Her sister shook her head, braid slapping around her face as she squirmed. "But I want to know now!"

Now, they crept along little by little, minding all the squeaks and complaints of the last steps right before the front door For a moment, Louisa looked up, the darkened hall with its blackened chandeliers and ornate banisters right where they had come from shadows in the little light that cut through...everything. I wouldn't even know what it is.

And down the last steps into the hall—the only light trickling from beneath their father's library...so close. Even now, Louisa had to pull her back once or twice, their footsteps surely more noticeable than each afternoon: when the front door opened, then was locked almost the moment they arrived home from school. If you don't want to look at us, then let us outside to play, Louisa thought as she chewed on her lip, pulling Brigitta across the rug laid over the polished wood, almost sliding their bare feet. It's almost like skating like we used to do years ago, she thought, one of her feet slipping. But at least that should keep Father from noticing us.

Just to their right, nestled in the corner, the library: door cracked open, a thin stream of lamplight shining through onto the shined floor panels, the well remembered scent of their father's favorite cigarettes drifting through as well. Louisa pulled Brigitta hard against her. "See!" she whispered into her ear, almost biting a mouthful of hair that had escaped the younger girl's long braid, a few short giggles erupting from her as he pulled her hair away. "I told you, he's never in there!"

She still had to hold Brigitta back, probably to keep her from running to the crack in the door, trying to peer through it without their father noticing. That won't happen! "Brigitta!" she whispered, grabbing at her nightgown as her little sister's bare feet slipped on the polished wood just off the carpet that covered most of the floor. "You can't—"

"Maybe he needs another book, too."

Back into her arms as a few footsteps echoed from the library. "That's not the point—"

"But he might—"

"Go away!" There was no mistaking their father's voice, the anger they remembered in it the last months. A growl. Almost as if he...hated them. "You're not meant to be here!"

"Come on!" Louisa whispered as she turned Brigitta around, pulling her back to the stairs leading to the room they shared with Liesl. They both tripped and caught their feet on the carpet where it was pulled oddly across the steps, Louisa almost losing hold of Brigitta's hand more than once, dragging her back to her feet and almost pulling her along the last of the steps and through the first half of the corridor.

"Why did you think that?" Brigitta asked as the darkened hallways rushed by, ornaments and objects neither of them understood rushing by in the faint light, hung on the wall for as long as they could remember. "He's like he always is, now!"

"It's different, not locking us out, isn't—"

"But he still doesn't want to see us. How is it different?"

"Quiet!" Louisa hissed as she pulled Brigitta to a stop outside their bedroom. The carpet by their door was mussed; she tried to smooth it over with her foot, but someone would know. And soon, it never looked like that through the day. Maybe it's best Father won't be here. At least Frau Schmidt still isn't that upset!

Louisa shoved the door to their room open, not worrying about the boys down the corridor or the little girls and Frau Bauer at the end of the hall. After their father's snaps and shouts, at least it was safe here. And warm against the cold outside. "Come on," she whispered to Brigitta, dragging her into the bedroom they shared with Liesl, nearly tumbling across the threshold.

Then across the room, until she pulled her into Liesl's bed, ignoring the gasp as their older sister woke. "Where have you been?" Liesl asked, all the sheets tangled around her as she bit back a yawn. Louisa didn't know what Brigitta did, but she curled herself up against Liesl, desperate to be warm again, like she had been a few minutes earlier.

"I was wrong," she whispered, her face buried in Liesl's neck. "You're not meant to be here!" She heard it again and again, almost like it was echoing up the hall, or as if she and Brigitta were frozen in the hall trying to peer through the cracked door.

"Wrong?" Liesl asked. She snaked an arm around Brigitta, struggling against the little girl's weight to reach her lamp, the sudden flare of light almost painful.

"It's all still the same."

"You didn't—"

"He's gone tomorrow," Louisa hissed, still shivering against the anger that had chased them all the way into Liesl's bed. "Who will know?"

"He will, someday, and you'll get what's coming to you. If he really wants it to."

Curled into Liesl's other side, Brigitta clenched her eyes, shaking her head against the pillow. "No—"

"But it's—"

"You're going to say different, I know," Liesl said, turning onto her side and pulling Brigitta closer.

"Yes—"

"And maybe now you finally know you're wrong."

A/N: Well, I didn't mean to take this long. I mentioned at the very first posting of this story there could be impediments to updates beyond laziness and general ineptitude. Today marks the end of week four of the chef I work under being gone for recovery from surgery...and it continues. So guess who has been working a whole heck of a lot, in addition to that coinciding with SRW immediately after the restaurant being really busy for a few weeks. Hmm, I wonder who...oh, that's right. Me! A rotating cast of FOH has been very helpful even though it sometimes feels like babysitting toddlers on ice skates; an observation, not a criticism, I'd be in the same position if I was out in the dining room instead of my noisy kitchen cave. This is not their job and hands to do anything are useful right now. And the boys BOH have been threatened within an inch of their lives to (a) show up on time every day and (b) do whatever I tell them to do. They've been good about both. Hopefully the next update will not take 2.5 months.