A/N: Since it has been a while, just a reminder that Frau Wimmer is the first governess Georg hired.

Chapter 19: Outside Of Salzburg

Saturday evening, Aigen

Ida Wimmer's shoulders rolled forward, the white door of her small bedroom falling closed behind her as she slumped back against the lightly stained wood. When she rose that morning, the dawn had flickered through the pale white curtains hung at each window, but now it was just the darkness. At least here with none of the von Trapp children to see her, she could relax for a moment. It had hardly been more than a week since she arrived, almost shivering in the enormous foyer between her two large bags as she waited, trying not look at the beams, the perfectly whitewashed walls, the gold running beneath the tiles where they peeked from beneath the carpet.

There was always a wait in a new household, no matter how large or small. A wait to meet her employer, usually a mother and father too busy with society or a business to mind their children every moment they weren't in school. Once, it had simply been a wealthy man with a ward left on his doorstep: too young and alone to be turned away, but too familiar and dragging too many wretched memories with her to be looked at for long. And then, the wait to meet the children.

The children, she thought, one of hands already at the back of her head searching for the first of the pins holding the greying hair away from her face. They were a little loud when they were home midday, but at least they're finally in bed for the evening. She tugged another from lower in her bun, a chunk of wavy hair falling over her shoulder and a shake of her head loosening the pins still firmly woven in place. She ran her hand through the locks, though she let them stay where they landed, slipping her old shawl from her shoulders instead.

Her shoes were loud, almost harsh on the polished wooden floorboards. If her bedroom door and wardrobe had probably seen a layer of dust washed away those last few days before her arrival—almost a patina of oil rubbed into the wood—the floor had certainly just been swept clean. Taking a seat right beside the head of her bed, the pale green bedspread already showing a few wrinkles since the last time it had been laundered, Frau Wimmer pulled her left foot up onto her knee and dark blue dress. The black boot was a little scuffed at the toe after so many years chasing after children of all ages, and the dyed cotton laces were showing white where they rubbed against the eyelets. She dropped the pins beside the lamp on the table to the side, constructed from the same old, dreary white wood and gold painted molding as the one in the corner by the door and her wardrobe. I suppose Frau Schmidt was right that there has never been a governess in this house. The tips of her fingers seizing the frayed ends of the laces, she pulled apart the knot that sat halfway up her calf.

Nothing in the house quite made sense, Frau Wimmer told herself that again as she pulled her foot in its stocking from behind her boot's leather tongue. A force of habit, she turned it upside down in a quick search for pebbles and little leaves. At least tonight, they were empty; she and the children had spent the day inside apart from a brief walk around the lake behind the villa, beyond the terrace and down the grand stone steps. She did the same with her other shoe, though this one gave up a few blades of brown grass. From the quiet when she expected laughter, order and lines in moments when another family's children would be in a little huddle: whispering, giggling, almost plotting a trick on one of them who wasn't quite paying attention. "It really isn't right, this," she whispered, not quite certain whom she was afraid might hear. Though she would tuck them down at the bottom of the cupboard just across from her bed when she finally hung up her dress and folded her shawl ahead of the next cool evening, she dropped them to the wooden boards beneath her feet. "Not at all, and I don't—"

Just outside her window, one of the night birds let out a hoot—then a shriek, almost a screech that slithered through the crack between the frame and the sill. But a quick glance confirmed the latch was firmly in place, just the top of the ivy climbing the trellis and the rising moon and stars to be seen through the bubbled glass. Everything outside that window is what's right about this home. Nothing inside, at least from what I can see.

O O O

As Captain von Trapp had said before disappearing into his study once more, the housekeeper was soon descending the stairs as she had before though there were no children with endless pounding footsteps. The older woman had one hand on the banister, the other smoothing a few wrinkles from her black apron before tucking a few grey hairs back behind her ears. If she had been closer, Frau Wimmer was certain she would have heard her sigh, though as she finally reached the proper entryway between the two curving flights of stairs, she did gulp down a yawn. "You must forgive me, Frau Wimmer," the housekeeper murmured as she extended a wrinkled hand. "Brigitta and Louisa were more difficult to settle than usual."

"Oh, it was nothing," she said with a shake of her head as she took the woman's hand. She would need to address the knot of hair at the back of her head before dinner with the children and the Captain, Frau Wimmer decided, it had loosened during the slightly bumpy bus ride from Salzburg. "And please, do call me Ida."

Frau Schmidt shook her head as well, quickly tugging her hand back. "I'm afraid the Captain doesn't want it that way."

"No?"

"Anymore, I think he believes he's on his ship again. He only addresses Franz by his given name because he's known him for so long—since the war." Really, it was so much more than that: Franz had been assigned his orderly on that first submarine and had followed the Captain to every post since, even happily retiring to the family home when the navy finally melted away into the sea.

Frau Wimmer nodded a little, wishing she had the shawl she had tucked into one of her bags. But she could throw it over her shoulders as soon as she was alone in whatever room had been prepared for her. "Has he been like this for long?"

"Not that…" The housekeeper stopped, both of her hands suddenly caught in her dark apron. "I'm sure he must have mentioned her to you, at least briefly."

She had caught every word Captain von Trapp had thrown at her in his study, but the thundering of five children's feet on a staircase—to say nothing of a sudden list of names and ages as they stood in a haphazard line that their father clearly disliked. "Her?"

A nod from Frau Schmidt as she turned slightly, perhaps trying to find the small bags she had brought with her. There wasn't too much she needed, much of it was still with her mother or long ago given to her sons. "His late wife, the Baroness von Trapp."

"A little, I suppose, that she died last autumn, I think that's all."

Another nod, though now the older woman had a hand pressed to her back. "You'll find he's rarely here, these days, and when he is, he spends much of his time in his study, at least when the children are at home."

She shivered; somehow, it seemed so wrong, even though Frau Schmidt's letter offering the governess position had clearly stated she would be minding five children mostly on her own. "But how can he?" She had supposed it was simply a man with no time to spend with his children when Salzburg society called him away—though she had thought his wife might be with him, there had been no mention of her death in Frau Schmidt's scribbled words.

"I'm sorry?"

Frau Wimmer shrugged, something in her back suddenly aching—probably the hard seat on the bus, plus its bouncing along the dusty road. This is a new place for me, she thought as she craned her neck up toward the beams crossing the top of the great hall, the gold inlaid in the intricate twists below the banisters guarding the gallery walkway.I've mostly been in cities or at least small towns rather than out in what might as well be the countryside."If it's only been a few months, they must want to be closer to him than ever."

"You're quite right, but...The Captain doesn't see it that way." Crouching down, Frau Schmidt took the handles of one of the worn bags, Frau Wimmer nearly stumbling forward to snatch the handles of the other.

"I can take both of them—"

"It's nothing. But we'll be going this way."

Her second bag clutched in her right hand, Frau Wimmer increased her pace; the housekeeper moved faster than her lined face would let on. But...she was being led up to the left wing of the house, up the flight of stairs opposite to the one her charges had run down and then scrambled up as though the devil himself was on their heels. But how will I know...The toe of one shoe caught on the lip of a step, though she righted herself before losing her balance. "Frau Schmidt?" she called. How is it so quiet in here? With so many children, even with a military man at the head of the household, how aren't they louder when they're off in their own rooms?

The housekeeper paused, though she barely turned back. "Yes?"

"Shouldn't I be over with the children? I've always been just down the hall from the children I'm looking after."

As she twisted back around, Frau Wimmer almost missed the shake of Frau Schmidt's head. "All the staff are housed on this side of the villa."

"But if one of the children need something through the—"

"There are certain practices in this household, Frau Wimmer." The housekeeper wasn't even waiting for an answer, just starting her slow ascent of the staircase once more. "You will have to understand that if you want to remain a part of it. No one is entirely pleased at the moment—the Captain most of all."

There couldn't be much more to say, Frau Wimmer decided, her eyes darting this way and that as the staircase gave way to ...well, she couldn't decide if it was a hallway or landing, She could still peer down into the large foyer with its gleaming immaculate tile—safe behind that railing with its intricate balusters, the spotless white tables and chairs tiny and almost invisible against the pale floor, only the gold and occasional copper to separate them from the floor that almost looked plain alongside. One or two smaller corridors left the larger one as she still just followed the housekeeper, her battered shoes somehow out of place on the creamy carpet beneath their soles. With the wages Frau Schmidt had laid out in her letter offering the governess post, she had assumed the von Trapp household neither struggled with nor worried over money. But to bother with such a fine, almost plush carpet in the staffs quarters, there was certainly more than enough money for every nicety in life.

"I apologize," Frau Wimmer murmured, her gaze landing across the house. It really was a grand gallery wrapped around the upper edge of the foyer; it was difficult to be certain, just seeing the similar hallway of the family's wing across the way, but nothing looked to be different. "Just...wherever I've been employed to look after a home's children, I've always been next to them, or at least in the same hall."

"This way, we're almost there," Frau Schmidt said as she moved the worn carpetbag to her other hand, turning down one of the corridors that jutted off the main gallery. Here, the generous runners of pale carpeting gave way to lightly scratched floorboards: not shiny with polish, but occasionally with a mop swiped across it one time too many. There weren't many doors waiting to be opened; hopefully, the maids weren't in the other rooms she supposed were behind the other doors. But somehow, she wouldn't be all that surprised if she stepped through one of those doors and found it led to nowhere. A different world, perhaps, or it somehow dropped her right onto the earth thawing outside the villa's walls. It wouldn't surprise her either—

"This house wasn't built for that, and we certainly never expected it," the housekeeper was saying, and Frau Wimmer almost jumped, one hand scrabbling at the wall, the wood there worn like the boards under her shoes. "I don't know if he mentioned it to you, but there's never been a need for a governess before. But here"—Frau Schmidt settled the bag she was carrying to the floor in front of one of the doors, reaching for the doorknob and thrusting it open, then taking up the bag again with a quick draw of breath—"this will be your room."

The walls—the door off to the side—the wardrobe, both the flat door and its molding—even the sill beneath the window—they must have been white once long ago. But now as Frau Wimmer's eyes raked across the little room from one corner to the other, they all bore the small patches of dust of a room never quite used, even a few smudges that had been hastily wiped away. It won't be the first time I've had to look to my own accommodations, she thought as she followed Frau Schmidt, taking a few steps along the wall that ran beside the hallway. A damp cloth should be enough whenever I have time, and I'm sure I'll have it. Even with seven children. The tables nestled into the corners and beside the bed surprised her. The lines and carvings and even the little brass knobs were all the same; if they had been different, even with the dust half-melted into the white paint, she might have thought they were simply tucked into a long unused room. But it wasn't the worst room she had been given—

"You'll be the first governess we've ever had," Frau Schmidt went on, something thudding as well. Frau Wimmer half started, her own bag slipping from her hands. "But forgive me, I think I startled you." The housekeeper wiped a hand across her face. "It has been a chore for me, looking after them and the household."

"But how can there have never been a governess or even just a nanny with so many children?" She didn't quite remember the other woman's name, the nurse who looked after the youngest girls—even their names were escaping her, both the children's and the woman who must be close to her age.

"No." Frau Schmidt wiped her hand on her apron again. "The Captain and his late wife insisted on looking after them all themselves, apart from a nurse to look after the younger children once...I can't remember who was the first to have Frau Bauer mind them. Brigitta or Kurt, I believe."

"That sounds quite a lot to manage. After all, the Captain and Baroness must have had many engagements around the city."

Frau Schmidt shook her head, now smoothing away the fresh wrinkles in her apron. "Not so many as you might think. They always preferred their own company, and the children's."

At least that explains why there are seven children, Frau Wimmer thought,if you're too busy seeing to each other rather than what the local community would expect. But at least that's different to what I've seen before."At least that sounds like a welcome change. I've spent enough time in homes where husbands never even looked at their wives."

"It was never like that here. If anything, the Captain always needed to know where she was."

"I'm sure."

"Every time she was expecting a baby, but most especially when, and how she was feeling…"

"What is it?"

"I—I really shouldn't talk out of turn, that's all. The maids gossip enough, you'll hear it all from them."

Reaching down, Frau Wimmer wrapped a hand around the handles of her bag—lifting it and dropping it onto her bed gently. She heard the clanking within, certainly her Bible and the pictures she prized even above that book; she would have to find a place she could stand to keep them. "I learned a long time ago to never trust anything those young girls have to say, they've all heard it from someone who heard it from someone else." She opened the zipper, pushed aside the scarf she knitted years ago as one of her charges couldn't sleep for days and nights on end, a fever tormenting her. She still didn't like how far she had needed to stay from the little girl as she coughed, one of the few households where the poorly buried animosity between husband and wife had only allowed for one child. She always tucked her most precious memories beneath it, somehow...it just felt right. That girl had always just wanted someone to sit with her and read books—she was hardly old enough to have said farewell to her own nurse—quiet and just eager to listen. Just like my own sons, she had always thought—

"Perhaps, but they all saw it more than heard it. But I do need to look in on the kitchen, to see that everything is on schedule for dinner. The Captain prefers the house to be on a schedule."

Lifting the scarf from her bag—mainly bright red and cream, she hadn't bothered with green—Frau Wimmer twisted it into a little bundle between her hands. "I think I would know he was a military man even if you didn't call him that. My husband was a soldier before we met."

"Quite." Frau Schmidt took another moment, peering this way and that, almost as though she was giving the neglected room a final look. The final cobwebs in the far corners that the maids must have tried to bat away or wipe down, the little wrinkles in the bedspread and the curtains. It's nothing I haven't seen before, Frau Wimmer thought, the scarf finally dropping onto her bed. It will only be until the next round of laundering that things won't quite be right."The Captain is giving you the remainder of the afternoon to settle into your room. But It won't be that long until the bell for dinner rings, a couple of hours—"

"And I'm sure the Captain will want everyone on time," she interrupted, the first of those little pictures finally emerging from her bag as well.

"Yes." Frau Schmidt nodded. "As I already told you, he isn't at home very often these days. I don't even know when he'll go just now."

Her old books were coming next, the corners all crushed from the many moves between positions, but always piled in alphabetical order. The ancient novels—the Germans, some things translated from the English she had struggled with years ago but never quite learned—the books of maps her husband had loved, a few even about the music she had struggled with as a child. She would find a shelf to set them on after dinner this evening, when the children were finally in bed. For now, she simply piled them on her bed, the first handful of dresses appearing in her bag. "Where does he go, if he isn't here with the children?"

Frau Schmidt shook her head. "He never really talks about it. Somewhere in Salzburg—occasionally, Franz needs to send him a telegram—but we don't know…" She sighed, a handful of her apron suddenly in her hand, wiping at a little corner of the wall. "You'll have to forgive me, I think I've already said more than enough."

It was a compass she found next, some remnant of her husband's life long before they were married. "There wasn't all that much in the letter you sent after I responded to the advertisement."

"I wasn't quite sure what—" The housekeeper stopped, the same pause Frau Wimmer knew from the years of looking after children ignored by their parents as they each turned to their own lovers. Not quite ready to admit what went on behind the closed doors, but not ready to deny it, either.I know it isn't the same, but it sounds like he treats the quiet almost the same as someone else."You'll learn as time goes on. All I mean—I need you to understand, really…" Another pause followed by a deep draw of breath she heard across the room, even over the rustle of the little map her husband Jan had drawn her in the first months of their courtship, marking where his battalion had been as they marched in drill, wondering when the Germans would strike again. "The Captain will be joining you and the children—the older children—for dinner this evening. He rarely does when he is at home. Most evenings, Franz sits at the head of the table."

Her knitting needles and a pile of wool followed from her bag, dropped gently onto her new bed. It was a fresh row of purl stitches still clung to one of the wooden sticks, a thick chunk of half of the sweater she was knitting for her youngest son hanging and wrinkled from the journey. I hope her letters was right, that I'll have the time to myself to finish it before his next birthday."But it's so wrong," she went on, gently settling it onto the quilt. She frowned; a few of last had jostled since she packed them, far looser than they needed to be. They would have to be pulled off the tapered end, the knots unraveled and stitched again. At least I was able to get the wool in the color he—

"Perhaps."

She had almost forgotten Frau Schmidt. "Just that?" What was it at the bottom? A packet of old letters bundled with twine right next to her newest diary. The others were at the bottom of her other satchel, though she had learned to be more frugal with her words as the years had gone on. The households were always the same, maybe just the children's unhappiness slightly unique.

Frau Schmidt was almost at the door, she could hardly wait for it to shut behind her—leave her a moment to herself. She always needed it, the first few days in a new household, not even quite certain of where the corridors led or the doors opened. Even when she was told the time any children under her watch were to rise or go to bed, it never seemed to be the same as she was first told. "They remind him of her, far too much now," the housekeeper continued, one hand now toying with the bottom button on her coat.

"But without him, how will—"

"Please, Frau Wimmer." The housekeeper's hand was on the door's handle, ready to slam it shut as she vanished to mind whatever elegant dinner awaited the house. "You're just here to look after the children, not their father." The older woman's face dropped, her chin almost down against her neck. "He's not used to that, not even from his late wife. He won't want that from anyone else."

"But—"

"Neither I nor Franz can manage it now. You won't have much luck yourself." The door scraped against the tile, finally scratching against the carpet outside. "Do enjoy what is left of your afternoon, one of the maids will be around to see if you need anything in an hour. And…" Frau Wimmer heard another sigh, and wasn't sure she was right as she struggled with the rest. "I hope you won't struggle with them too much."

O O O

"I don't think I've ever met a man who didn't want to be around his children quite so much." The last few pins buried in her coarse hair at last surrendered to her fingers, the rest of her hair falling just over her shoulders. They joined the others on the little side table at her bedside, next to the darkened brass base of the stout lamp and the short polished clock, one or two had begun to bend with the pressure of forcing them into her hair. She would have to purchase a new package on her next free afternoon when she took the bus into Salzburg to run her own errands.

The picture frames were just peeking from behind that lamp. She hadn't meant to hide them there, but they had just slipped around the square base as the evenings and nights wore on. Reaching for the smallest of the three, she let herself smile. There was nothing special, just a little silver frame with a few green patches of tarnish blooming on the little engravings along the top. But she couldn't resist clasping it between her hands, thumbs running along the very bottom.

Most evenings, particularly in the deepest nights of winter and the weeks at either end of the season when the darkness lingered a little too long, Frau Wimmer's eyes lingered longer than usual on her small collection of photographs. Not even a collection, really, just three she always tucked into the softest of her shawls and stockings whenever life tore her from one post and sent her seeking another. Stark, sharp corners of old steel, nicked over the years. Here and there, the glass encasing the black and white photographs bore the evidence of the years of jostling, feathered cracks spread from top to bottom. One of them, she could scarcely see the faces...but she hardly needed to look at them any longer.

It was a distant memory, now, her two elder sons in short pants, then her youngest still in the dress of a toddler. Even in the faded black and white, their dark hair was clear, pale skin almost shocking beneath those locks that had swiftly gone from reddish in their first weeks to the darkest brown she had ever seen, nearly black. Even if the photograph had captured her middle son's faint spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks, the fissures in the glass hid them well.

It's been so long since you were young like—Kurt, Frau Wimmer thought, needing a moment to find the youngest boy's name. One finger hooked around the temple of her spectacles where it was tucked around her ear, she peeled them from her face. At least twenty years. A handful of her dark skirt in her fist, she gently scrubbed at the glass in one of the round frames. This pair had been with her for nearly a year, though she found herself squinting at some of the von Trapp children's papers when she sat with them in the evenings after school let out. (With the Captain gone almost as soon as she had met him, Frau Wimmer had allowed the five in her care a free weekend.)

Frau Wimmer returned the old photograph to the table—leaving it in her sight—now reaching for the smallest of the three, the oldest and most faded. It seemed he had never been that young, her late husband's beard full and dark rather than grey and sparse as it had been in his last years, no lines beneath his dark brown eyes as there had been in those last months. She couldn't quite remember when it had been taken, only that it was some time ahead of their marriage. "Maybe that was the final one you took before then," she whispered, the frame caught between her palms as her hands settled in her lap.

It was a different lifetime, it felt, those happy years in their own little house just outside of Innsbruck, one quiet year to themselves before their sons began arriving, one every other year, the eldest always eager to follow his father into town to tend his shop. Leaving that picture in her left hand, Frau Wimmer reached for the last, a little wider, the wooden frame cracked at the very bottom. It was the very last she had of him—all of them. She still remembered the day: a warm morning in May, the younger two boys squirming and ready to chase each other through the little copse just beside their garden, Jan's coughing finally calmer even as his consumption worsened. Even when she had persuaded them into the wooden chairs she and her eldest had taken from around their small kitchen table, they were both itching to be up and about, running through the trees. It was only Jan's deeper voice that her persuaded them to sit still for the few minutes the photographer needed to take the picture.

"You were gone too soon," Frau Wimmer murmured, settling both frames on the table once more, this time well in her sight. Sometimes, the night stretched out a little too long—a little too dark and deep—and she found herself turning and twisting in her bed, whether she was between posts and finally enjoying a few weeks at her mother's house with her sons or wrapped in her blankets in the far corner of a new household. (Even a telegram to let them know to come wasn't enough these days.) Right between sleep and waking, she thought she felt him beside her, though if she counted the years, she had now been a widow longer than she had been a wife. "But I know you didn't quite expect it to progress as it did."

She placed her spectacles beside those photographs and the clock, right where she would reach for them the next morning when the dawn crept through the dark curtains at her windows. She wouldn't have to rise quite so early as she did on a weekday, Sunday mornings being one of the times she was allowed to herself apart from the evenings when the children were finally in bed. It wasn't too far to the local parish church, really only a fifteen minute walk if she hurried herself at all, and mass wouldn't begin until well past ten. "I wish you could be there with me," she whispered, eyes back on her husband's face. Whenever she caught his gaze peering at her from beneath the fractured glass, his somber expression was gone, the little smile he had always had for her peeking between his mustache and beard. But I know you can't. The past has to stay where it is, I know that.

A hand through her hair found a tangle where the pins had bitten at a chunk or two. There was still some time for her to shower before the evening turned too chilly, and probably for the best. Even without having to worry over Marta and Gretl—somehow, she still confused the boys' names but remembered the littlest girls'—she still had to have herself up and ready early to rouse the five others. Liesl helped with the other girls, but she was loath to ask the eldest for too much help. "I know it's not her responsibility," she said to herself as she stood with a swish of her skirt, "even if she does offer."

Her shower was short, just long enough for warm water to flood the pipes and fill her small washroom with a cloud of steam. She didn't bother to scrub her hair; it was no longer as oily as it had been in her young years, and just the heat would be enough to soften it for her to brush it out. After pulling her white cotton nightgown over her shoulders and round hips—buttons fastened up to the collar against the cold air—she ran her stiff bristled brush through her hair before brushing her teeth, a few clumps of the powder falling from the glass pot into the ceramic basin. Squinting down into the jar, she could see the little bump at the very bottom. I'll have to buy more on my next free weekday when I can walk to the local shop.

Sitting on her bedspread again, Frau Wimmer quickly crossed herself, a few whispered prayers rising to the ceiling, hopefully up to God. Blessings for the coming day, for the rest of the staff she was coming to know day by day, the children in her care, even the Captain—wherever in Salzburg he was. But with her final amen whispered and another mark of the cross on her forehead and chest, she scowled. "I don't understand how you can just walk away from them like that." Jan's family might have shaken their heads when she left their sons with her mother when she fell into her first governess position with a wealthy family in the center of Innsbruck, but...It's not the same, she thought, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"They're all so different," she said as she stood and peeled back her pale bedspread and lightly wrinkled white sheet to reveal the equally mussed fitted sheet and pillows, one of them propped against the white metal bars of the bed frame. "If I didn't know better—or hadn't been told better, maybe that's right—I wouldn't even think some of them were related." She dropped down again with a creak of the mattress as her backside found one of the handful of tiny lumps, her left hip suddenly aching as it often did in the winter or whenever the warmer months turned rainy. "At least they use up most of their energy every time they walk to or from school during the week."

If Liesl was sometimes willing to help her persuade Louisa and Brigitta to ready themselves for the day, the two younger girls hardly spoke to her, Louisa in particular nearly sullen whenever she asked how her lessons had been that day. Brigitta was little different, though rather than finding her sketching nonsense on the edges of her papers, it was usually a strange book that had to be pried from her hands with a gentle admonishment to concentrate on her assignments. At least Liesl is content to work on what she needs to, even if she doesn't always care for mathematics. The boys, well...they were rather different from one another: Friedrich quieter, usually lost in some memory, Kurt often forgetting himself when his excitement over some rock he had uncovered on the path to or from the local school.

They must have been happier once, she thought as she swung her left foot up into the bed, wincing as her hip burned. Her right foot followed and as she settled her back against those metal bars and she reached down for that drab yellowish quilt and wrinkled sheet. And I suppose—all things considered—I should make allowances, at least for a time. Her neck ached as one of the brass knobs behind her dug at the lowest bone, and she reached one hand around to rub away the sudden pain. I'm sure Mother didn't have the easiest time with the boys when they were first in her house. She moved her hand to her shoulder, one of the bars now just as irritating. But at least they always had letters from me, no matter where I was.

"I suppose I'll just have to try again tomorrow afternoon," she continued, a quick look at the clock reminding her it might be a little too early to drift to sleep. There were always the handful of books she had tucked into her bags; whenever she purchased a new one, she always left one of its well-worn predecessors with her youngest son still at her mother's house in Innsbruck the next weekend she time to make the trip from wherever in Austria a position had sent her. Or the journal that had already found its home in her bedside table's drawer beneath the lamp, clock, and her small collection of memories. But there didn't seem to be all that much to scribble on the creamy white pages, her last entry only needing a few lines. Somehow, it all seems like the days here run together, like every one is the same as the one before. There's certainly not much happiness, not even amongst the children. I've never known any to be so quiet in such a state.

Liesl was tossing and turning again. It was so strange, trying to sleep on her side with just the moon and stars through the windows and drapes for company, but on her back, the lights shining across the bedroom she shared with Louisa and Brigitta burned too brightly. Frau Wimmer always saw that they were changed into their nightclothes and in their beds before she retired herself—or at least, Liesl assumed their new governess had nothing much to do once the five of them were supposed to be sleeping. But each night was the same: just a few minutes after the door closed behind the older woman, the lamps beside both of her younger sisters' beds ignited anew with the rustle of sheets and a scrambling for books or journals or sketchbooks.

Lucky them, she thought as she pulled her quilt and sheet higher, almost over her head to block the blaring light. It was too bright even when she closed her eyes, and after the day, she was too tired to open the book next to her bed. (The afternoon of weekend lessons and hour spent walking about outside had been too tiring—boring, really.) She had read it before—several times since last autumn, when...She shook her head, suddenly chewing on a mouthful of hair as it clung to her pillow and she crushed her cheek to the worn covering. I don't want to think about it right now, she continued to herself, finally on her back again as the numbness blossomed at the top of her arm.

Brigitta was still a lump beneath all the layers still lingering from the winter with her book balanced on the edge of her pillow, but Louisa was sitting up—back against her bed frame—her knees drawn up and her favorite sketchpad balanced atop. "Louisa!" she hissed.

Her hair knotted in a short braid whipped about her shoulders as she snapped her face to Liesl's voice. The plait was nothing quite like their younger sister's had been since she first insisted she couldn't stand to have her hair cut, hardly even trimmed despite the frayed ends past the end of the band or ribbon she had chosen for the day. "What?"

Liesl shoved her elbow into her bed and pushed herself up onto her elbows, almost trying to stare across their room despite the harshness of the lamps in the darkness. "You're keeping me awake!"

She heard Louisa shuffling despite the distance. "That's not my problem—"

"You're the one with a light—"

"Brigitta does, too!"

"Yours is brighter!" Liesl hissed.

"It's farther away from you."

"Why does that matter?"

In between her sisters

beds, Brigitta dragged her quilt even tighter up, nearly shoving the now rough hems under her chin. The ancient pink blanket her mother had knitted before she could even remember was between it and her sheet, at least for the next weeks. Sometimes, it was already something she wanted to toss aside, sweat blossoming when she didn't expect—

"Why does that matter?" Liesl went on, another squeak from her bed coming.

Even with them just tugged closer, Brigitta threw every blanket aside, one arm and then another shoved into the sheet beneath her to push herself up and against the bed frame behind her. More than ever over the last week, they could hardly stop bickering whether their lights were blaring just after dinner or extinguished for the night, though they often returned to life the moment Frau Wimmer shut their door. They had learned quite quickly that their new governess didn't know to walk back past all of their doors when she was retiring to her own bedroom for the night, tarrying for a few minutes to see if they forgot about her and snapped their lamplights on again, ready to return to their books. Instead, she simply walked along the upstairs gallery that looked down over the foyer. Brigitta huffed as she dragged her legs up to her chest, goose pimples running along her knees without her pile of blankets as a cocoon. "Well, I wouldn't be able to sleep, either—"

"You're not even trying, you never do."

Liesl sighed as she collapsed back onto her bed, the sheets and quilt already pulled up to her chin. "You're both keeping me awake—"

"She's sending us to bed too early!" Brigitta snapped, both legs now folded in front of her, elbows digging into her thighs as she propped her chin in her palms.

Liesl pulled the blanket even higher, nearly to the top of her forehead. "And Frau Schmidt didn't?"

Another mattress squeaked, and Liesl yanked her blankets down again, a long thread trailing across her cheek and leaving a little itch behind. "But she came for our books, too—"

"Then don't tell her that—"

"Oh, just be quiet, at least for a few minutes!" she finally shouted, all her blankets at last thrown down to her waist, both hands knotted into her bottom sheet as she sat up again. Liesl dragged one of her feet up from beneath those blankets, something else itching at one of her knees. Her lip caught between her teeth, she scowled across the bedroom. It was all the little shadows that troubled her despite the years sharing a room with her her younger sisters; by the time Brigitta had been old enough to leave the nursery where Marta and Gretl spent most of their time, she had already been used to hearing Louisa crying for their mother for years. I don't remember when Mother and Father hired Frau Bauer, but I don't think you spent time with her.

Across the room, almost against the door that led to the corridor, Louisa was scrabbling in her own bed, reaching here and there for her sketchbook—her pencils—the gum to wipe away anything she didn't like. Between them, Brigitta was buried in her blankets again, only the very top of her thin pink blanket peeking from beneath her quilt, her braid tangled around her neck, her face coming up—

"Liesl?" Brigitta whispered.

She scratched at her leg; it was nearly like when the little dog their mother had loved years ago brought fleas into the house. The maids and Frau Schmidt had grumbled for weeks as they battled against the tiny pests, and the dog had been sent outside for its days, only allowed into the kitchen at night and their beds whenever they didn't feel well. "What is it now?"

"Can I stay with you tonight?"

Liesl sighed, already hearing the sheets rustling a few feet away as she shoved herself to the far side of her bed. "As long as you don't kick me the way you did last night."

And there were the footsteps, muffled on the carpet. "I didn't mean to!"

"I know you didn't, but I do have a mark at the top of my leg."

Her mattress groaned as Brigitta's feet and then knees crushed into it, her small hands already caught around her neck, just like when she was only two or three and their mother could no longer pull her up in her arms. "Sorry, Liesl," her little sister murmured into her hair.

Brigitta's breath was hot as it worked its way to her skin, too warm even with the cool night air still drifting just beneath the window pane. "It's fine," she whispered, still squirming away from the smaller hands and arms caught around her. She could still just turn enough to catch sight of Louisa in the glow of her lamp across the room: pad of paper finally on her knee and pencil in her hand. "Come here," she said, almost coughing through her words as she tugged one hand from beneath Brigitta.

"No—"

"Does she have to stay?" Brigitta whispered.

Liesl rolled back, Louisa's lamp vanishing as the stars and moon rose up again through the window. "Hmm?"

She already heard the feet scampering across the rug—her bed complaining yet again as Louisa pushed her way beneath the sheets and quilt. "Her, silly!" Louisa hissed as as she yanked all the layers up over her shoulders, one of her elbows almost digging into Liesl's side

"I know who you meant!" Liesl snapped, almost gasping as she lost her breath. "And don't squirm like that if you're here, I already told Brigitta I don't want more bruises."

I should send them back, I know I should, she thought, even as she tightened her arm around Brigitta's waist. It can't be like this forever. She bit down on her lip. I don't even know what I think it should look like in a few months, not even...She gulped down a fresh breath, her back pushing into Louisa's chest. "You need to go back to bed," she murmured, finally sleep again herself, "you both do—"

"Because she says so?" Louisa said, though her voice was a little quieter, as if the growing night had finally caught up with her.

Brigitta's hands were tighter around her neck, almost a bit of the onions in the soup from dinner still on her breath, despite how noisily she had scrubbed her teeth in their little washroom. "She's never come back around to check on us like Frau Schmidt—"

"I know that!" Liesl snapped again, though she didn't try to push either of her sisters away. "And I've seen your pile of books shrink already since she's been here. I would have thought you'd be happy." Brigitta didn't answer, she only had a little sigh against her throat. "What is it?" she asked, a little softer this time.

Another sigh, almost a shudder and...No, Liesl thought, she's not crying, I can't think either of them are. Not after this long."I told you, I don't like her," Brigitta said after a few seconds of quiet, one of her knees knocking against Liesl's stomach.

"It's only been a few days."

Louisa coughed against her back, almost like she was trying not to laugh. "It's been two weeks!"

"It hasn't been that long—"

"So?" Brigitta asked. This time, there was no mistaking it was a yawn caught at the back of her mouth.

"I'm sure she'll be very nice—"

"Why?" Louisa said, squirming away as Liesl turned to the sound of her voice.

"Once we get to know her, I mean."

"What, do you like her?"

She rolled back the other way, frowning despite the faint light. Brigitta's hair was coming away from her braid, probably to be a pile of little knots in the morning. "Don't do that—"

"You didn't answer."

"Not really."

"I don't want to get to know her," Brigitta said.

"You can't say that—"

"Yes we can!"

Brigitta's fingers were almost digging into the back of her neck, her untrimmed fingernails clawing at her skin. "The way she talks to us, sometimes it sounds like she wants to become Oma."

"And she's always asking about we like—"

"I'd rather be in Vienna with Oma—"

"Well, we're not there!" Liesl finally hissed as she stretched her legs down toward the end of her bed, her feet finally free of her nightgown and her little sisters' wild feet. "How is she supposed to get to know us if she doesn't ask?"

"But why can't we just have Father back instead?" Louisa asked, her voice finally a little softer in the darkness, her hands now another set of fingers knotted into Liesl's nightgown.

"And I still miss Mother," Brigitta said, even quieter now.

Liesl pulled her closer, the little girl's knobbly joints sharp against her arms and chest. "You can miss her all you like, it doesn't meany anything."

"But can't we at least have Father?"

Liesl heard a sudden catch in Louisa's slowing breaths against her back, almost as though any sleep had suddenly fled. "Wouldn't he come back if he saw how much we didn't like her?" The words were still muffled, almost slurred by the night. "Even you don't, no matter what—"

"Louisa!"

"But wouldn't he have to come back?"

"Yes!" Brigitta's hair had somehow caught under Liesl's arm, and a vigorous nod dragged it free. "As long as she's here, Father will never come home!"

"You said that when she first came—"

"And she's right—we didn't even see him the next morning."

"How is that different than since Mother…" Liesl couldn't quite finish what she wanted to say, just chewing on her lip again as the tears burned in her eyes. Whether they knew it or not, over the last months, she had often heard her sisters struggling not to cry themselves as the nights grew longer and the longing for their mother—for their father to simply come home, to emerge from his study or his own corner of the house. I think I hate you sometimes, she thought, cringing as the words rang through her mind. She wanted to pray for forgiveness right then even though no one but God had heard her quick little tantrum. I don't know how to tell them, but why can't you...She shoved her face into her elbow, her nightgown's cotton sleeve catching a couple of those tears before they could roll down her cheek. Why can't you be here? You have to know we need you—

Louisa's efforts were done, she heard the sniffles, the little coughs and swallows. Gently dragging her arm away from Brigitta—she had to peel her hands away from her neck as well—she twisted around, the hem of her nightgown rising up along her calves, almost knotted with her sheets. Louisa's eyes were closed, one hand in a fist and pressed to her mouth, her breaths still harsh. "I'm sorry—" Her own words caught in a quick cough of her own—she almost heard the echoes from Mother and Father's bedroom in those last days. She shook her head, trying to forget the wretched sound. "But don't do that, you'll just make yourself ill."

Liesl felt her younger sister shake her head, another creak rising from the mattress. "No I won't—"

"You don't know—"

"It hasn't hurt either of you! I hear you when I can't sleep—like...now."

The time rolled on for a few minutes; it was just their breathing, the little noises as they twitched against the sheets of Liesl's bed, and the far off creaking of something in the house. If we were young enough to be in the nursery with Marta and Gretl, I think we would hear the ticking of the clock, Liesl thought, her arm under Brigitta half numb.

Beside her, Louisa coughed again, though she tried to swallow it down. Just like you did months ago, Liesl continued on to herself as she tried to swallow down another sniffle herself. But I know you couldn't change—

"I wouldn't want—Frau Wimmer fussing over me anyway," Louisa finally said.

She had been holding a deep breath, it finally rushing from her chest—though so late in the night, she didn't really know if it was her own or if she was feeling her sister relaxing a little against her. She closed her eyes for a second, her chin catching on the top of Brigitta's head. "I told you, she's just trying to get to know us—"

"I don't want her to be—our friend," Brigitta said, her forehead coming up against Liesl's chin.

"Be careful!"

"I didn't mean—"

"She's just a governess, Brigitta, not a friend."

"So?" Louisa whispered against her back. You're quieter, Liesl thought, trying to turn and look over her shoulder—and finding herself unable to move, her little sisters were tucked into her too closely."But sometimes"—Liesl heard a yawn against the back of her neck, a rush of warm breath with it—"I think she thinks she's been here...forever, I suppose. The way Frau Schmidt or Franz have."

She pushed her cheek back into her pillow. "Don't you remember what she told us?"

"Do you actually listen to her?"

"Not since the time she started talking about her children," Brigitta said with a yawn of her own.

"She's done that once."

"But I don't have to listen to it!"

Still against her back, Liesl heard Louisa laugh for a second again. "What?"

"She can't make us, can she?"

"What do you—"

"And Father isn't here to make us mind her, either!" Brigitta said quickly, her arm finally coming away from beneath Liesl's neck to push herself away, almost upright and onto her backside.

She felt Louisa moving against her, too, now pushing herself up as well. "She doesn't even know us."

Liesl just shoved her face back into her pillow for a moment, the hair caught under her face scratching again, this time against her cheek. "You're as bad as each other, sometimes—and the boys!"

Louisa slapped a hand against the sheets. "Kurt's too busy with whatever rock he just found—"

Brigitta was probably nodding, Liesl assumed. "Friedrich would understand!"

They aren't wrong, she thought as she rolled onto her back. She isn't Frau Schmidt or even Franz, what do..."What, do you want to make her leave?" We really don't owe her anything.

"Don't you want her to?"

Louisa was still squirming next to her. "You know we're right, Liesl. Just because she thinks you're better than the rest—"

"I don't want her here anymore than you do!" she snapped, at last sitting up like both of her sisters. We must look a mess, she thought with a quick glance to either side. Both of her little sisters' hair was mussed despite their attempts to keep it controlled through the night, and their nightgowns were almost certainly wrinkled. I know she wouldn't like that, she thought as the blankets finally settled into a little nest around them all, almost little puddles of sheets and the quilt she would have to throw aside in a few weeks or a month. And neither would you, Father. She reached out for Brigitta, an arm around her thin shoulder, almost like she was still the child she was a few months before. I know none of us are, really. A deep breath and Liesl pushed her face into Brigitta's neck, just for a moment before she snapped her face back. "You're already thinking of something, aren't you?"

"Isn't now the best time?" Louisa asked, her head falling down onto the top of her older sister's arm.

Brigitta nodded against her. "Before Father is gone for weeks again?"

Liesl smiled into the grey surrounding them, though she still had to squint against the light burning against either edge of her sight. "You really are as bad as Friedrich and Kurt, both of you."

"But if it will bring Father back?"

Yes, Liesl thought as she dropped her head against the wall and the top of her bed frame. Even if we were so nice to her, she can't stay forever, can she? "Well, even if we needed some time, it would only be a few days, wouldn't it?"

"Yes—"

"And he's been back at least every other week, hasn't he?"

Early Sunday morning, Vienna

Elsa had already peeled away the heavy coat she had thrown over her shoulders as the party was winding down at...Oh, she had lost the name. She always tried to leave once the first third or so of the guests had already said their farewells, sometimes half. There was no use in staying until it was just the host and wife's closest friends remaining, no doubt a clandestine lover of both in the group; she had said farewell to one or two of her own like that in the first years after Hans' death, though her bed was empty now but for...She shook her head, swallowing hard against the new dryness in her mouth.

But at least the champagne had flowed freely, waiters in starched white coats and jackets—hands in perfectly clean gloves—offering tray after tray of bubbling flutes. It was gay enough, to be sure. The small string quintet had worked its way through the standards composed by Strauss and Mozart, though once or twice, she thought she heard something unfamiliar—something new—she hadn't expected. Not that it mattered, it was all in the past as her butler closed the front door of her townhouse behind her, the electric lights of the chandelier overhead bathing her with a harsh glow as it bounced from the delicate molding along the doorframe to the carvings at the windowsill and along the cream colored linen curtains. It would all be there at the next party, she told herself as she climbed the stairs, her fingers with their painted nails clutching at the intricate banister along the wall.

Sitting at the vanity in her dressing room, the large mirror reflecting her face from all directions—front and either side—Elsa hid a yawn behind her hand. After much of the afternoon spent preparing for the night and early morning, she was more than ready to see her gown—tulle and smooth-edged sequins and creamy silk—discarded as well, ready to be laundered and pressed by the only one of her maids she trusted with the task. Whatever the woman did with the silk and lace, the lingering smell of cigars and bubbling wine that had been poured too long ago never clung to the garments for long. Not that I expect I'll be wearing it again, she thought, a shaky hand searching for the pins in the coiffed curls of her platinum hair. At least any time soon, I'll be seeing too many of Herr Aigner's guests the next few weekends.

She would need a cigarette before she finally turned back the bedclothes, the heavier quilts changed out for something lighter as the winter disappeared. The new sheets were still cotton, but so smooth they might have been silk, ready to wick away the heat when it became too much. "Suppose there's not much chance of that right now," she murmured, her right hand filled with those pins. Some were rounded and blunt, hidden beneath the waves that had been brushed and combed and tugged into life when the duller neighborhoods of Vienna were already sitting down to the evening meal and a night in the sitting room with a husband or wife and a gaggle of children. Others were plated with silver and gold—a few of the trinkets her late husband had showered on her when he was at home rather than at his club—ready to shine in the light of a chandelier as yet another waltz began.

"Where is she?" Elsa hissed as she dropped the pins into a jumbled pile on her vanity table, polished ebony with inlaid mother of pearl that swirled here and there around the rounded corners. Her closest maid—a wizened woman she had brought to the house when she and Hans first married—always knew to be ready to help her with the buttons and zippers on her most recent gown whenever the city's parties went this late. And her cigarettes...she couldn't quite recall where the small bag she had held tight for the evening had landed as she stripped off her coat, the bleached white fur at the collar and wrists finally too itchy—

Oh, there it was, tucked into one of the corners of her mirror, just below the bottom hinge. The clasp slipped in her grasp—then again—her fingertips scraping at the shining crystals as she struggled with the gleaming gold snap. At least this time, the sharp edges of the crystals didn't scratch through her skin. A few weeks, her head spinning a little more than usual after the endless sips of champagne, she hadn't been so lucky, one of her long nails catching and tearing on one of the silver threads holding them together. There had been a plaster wrapped around it for a few days until the pain subsided whenever she bumped it against a table or glass, in the rubbish bin just ahead of Georg's last visit.

"Georg," she murmured, her hand finally shoved into the silken interior of that little bag, not bothering to open it enough to see what she touched. It was all simple enough: the silver tube of lipstick she had reapplied once or twice through the evening when she saw it a little faded and lighter on the rim of her glass. The little mirror in its golden compact, only emerging from her clutch when she was in a corner with a close friend or in the large washroom almost certainly opened only for such parties, scented with lavender and...something else she couldn't quite identify as the stuffiness of the alcohol filled her head. And always, always her cigarettes in their own enameled case and their long black holder, the silver plated lighter alongside.

She couldn't remember the last time he had happily stepped into such a crowd, eager to mix and talk with Viennese society. "Only when Agathe was with you, and when it was only our friends from when we were in school together," she whispered as the latch on her packet of cigarettes came open under her trembling fingers, the first one rolling into her palm with just a shake of the case. And it was just as quick to twist it into the open end of the ebony holder, any missed splinters in the wood long ago worn smooth. The orange flame with its bright blue stem came to life just as quickly with turn of her thumb against the ridged wheel on her lighter.

It was a gentle sizzle as the tobacco sparked, freshly alive as she pulled a breath down the slender pipe—and a cloud of grey smoke broke fro her mouth as she reached down her her little purse again, shoving it to the side. She hadn't meant to, but clutch had landed on his last telegram. As the days had bled into a week, Elsa had almost wondered if Georg had forgotten about her, he had been away from Vienna from so long. But even if he seemed happy to stay away for a while longer, just a telegram meant he hadn't quite forgotten her.

She unfolded it again; it might have only arrived some time today—she couldn't quite remember, the champagne had muddled her memory for the moment—but she had already read it at least half a dozen times. Her cigarette holder was already back between her lips as her eyes ran over the short sentences. "I don't know when I'll be in Vienna again STOP There's too much to look after in Salzburg right now STOP"

Another drag of smoke didn't do anything for her head—really, where was her maid? The stays and buttons on her dress would be leaving their marks in her skin, especially the little ribbons around her middle. Her couturier always insisted even though she didn't have the loose skin around her belly that a child—or many!—would leave. "Where is that ashtray?" she murmured with yet another draw—

Just like her clutch, she found it in a moment, tucked into the other corner of her vanity mirror. As she dropped the telegram back where she had found it, she frowned atthe dried grey ashes settled in the white ceramic dish. I'll need to speak to the maid about that, she thought as she tapped the first blackened ash from her cigarette. She settled the burning cigarette against the rim, one arm thrust around her back to loosen the buttons she could reach.

"It would have been so much nicer with you, Georg." The first clasps between the bones surrounding the top of her spine gave way, and a little breath went with it. "They're all quite nice, but I think you're a little better to be around." She found the next round of clasps on her spine, her gown releasing a little more around her breasts—even those damned bands of her couturier. "Even if I don't always understand you."

Farther down her back—her fingers had danced over many of the fine clasps—she found the larger buttons, and a quick twist of her fingers opened those as well. It loosened the pressure on her belly as well, her stomach a little swollen with the sparkling wine and delicate canapes as it usually was after a party. But at least the cook knew to skip her breakfast most weekend mornings, whether it was before or after such a time. Nothing will be different in a day or two, she thought.

The sleeves of her gown were already sliding down her arms, really more wide straps that had settled around her shoulders. In a few months, whatever her couturier imaged and sketched would have even smaller sleeves, the heat of both the summer and a crowded Vienna ballroom too much for anything else. Not even an evening out in the garden or on a terrace would be enough to banish the sweltering air.

"Won't you come back by then, Georg?" she murmured, the bodice of her dress at last falling down to her waist as she reached for her cigarette again. "You miss her, I understand that, I loved her, too. But, really..." Another drag of smoke burned through her chest, right beneath her breastbone where the boning of her brassiere dug into her skin. "A broken heart can't hurt that badly."

A/N: Well, even though the plot should speed up, my updating may slow down. Work has gone complicated-stressful again.