As Liesel closed the study door behind her, Captain von Trapp remained still, listening to the soft retreat of her footsteps down the hall. He held his rigid posture for a moment longer before exhaling quietly, a small sigh escaping before he could stop it.
He turned toward the window, staring out at the familiar landscape of their estate. The lake gleamed under the morning light, the same as it always had. The same as it had in her time.
His hand drifted to the edge of his desk, fingers brushing against a small silver-framed photograph. Emily's gentle eyes gazed back at him, frozen in time, her smile carrying warmth he had not felt in years.
"Emily," he murmured, barely above a whisper. "What would you have me do?"
He closed his eyes for a moment, pressing his fingers to his temple. Liesel—so eager for freedom, so desperate for something beyond the rigid walls of duty and discipline. He recognized the restlessness in her. It was something he had tried to push aside within himself for years.
"She's getting older," he admitted quietly. "I see it in the way she looks past me… the way she wants something more."
He shook his head. "But she's still a child. Our child."
The words hung in the air. For a moment, he almost imagined Emily's response—gentle laughter, a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Let her find her own way, Georg. She has your heart, but she needs to learn how to use it.
His jaw tightened. He wished she were here to guide him, to tell him how to be both a father and the strict protector he felt he needed to be.
But all he had was silence. And duty.
Straightening, he squared his shoulders once more and turned away from the window. There was no room for softness. Not now.
Liesel would lead the hike. She would learn responsibility.
And he would continue as he always had.
The morning sun cast golden light over the property as Liesel led her siblings toward the lake. The water shimmered in the distance, calm and undisturbed, while the mountains stood tall and quiet beyond it.
She walked ahead, her posture straight, but inside, she was restless. Every step felt like a missed opportunity, every turn of the path taking her further away from what she really wanted.
"Do we have to do the full hike?" Louisa groaned.
"Yes," Liesel replied automatically.
Kurt sighed dramatically. "I don't see why we have to do this every single day."
"It's discipline," Brigitta said with a smirk. "Father's favorite thing."
Liesel barely listened to them, her eyes flickering toward the tree line, toward the path that led toward town. Toward Rolfe. Was he out delivering telegrams today? Would he be waiting at the usual place?
She shook the thought away. It didn't matter now.
She was stuck here. Leading. Setting an example. Being responsible.
Just as she always had. As they trudged along the familiar path, Liesel felt the weight of responsibility pressing against her shoulders. She had always been the dependable one, the eldest, the one expected to lead with grace and obedience. But today, it felt suffocating.
Her siblings' chatter faded into the background as she glanced toward the distant hills, where the town lay just beyond reach. If only she could slip away, just for a moment. If only she could see him.
Rolfe's voice echoed in her mind—light, teasing, full of promises she barely dared to believe. He made her feel seen, like she was more than just a governess-in-training for her younger siblings. With him, she wasn't just Captain von Trapp's daughter—she was Liesel, herself.
But she knew her father. He wasn't blind to her restlessness, and his orders had been clear.
"You're the eldest, Liesel," he had said. "They look to you. You must be the example."
She had nodded, just as she always did. She had swallowed her frustration, just as she always had.
Now, as she led her siblings along the lake's edge, she felt it bubbling beneath the surface. A quiet yearning, a need for something beyond these well-trodden trails and endless rules.
She stole another glance toward the distant path.
Would he be there? Would he be thinking of her too?
"Liesel?"
She blinked, snapped back to the present. Brigitta was watching her closely, her clever eyes narrowing.
"You're acting strange," Brigitta said.
Liesel forced a smile. "I'm fine."
But as the wind rustled through the trees, carrying with it the distant sounds of the town, she wasn't sure if that was true.
As Liesel walked along the lake, leading her siblings dutifully, a distant memory surfaced—one from long ago, when her world had been simpler when her mother's laughter still filled the house, and when Rolfe had first entered her life.
She had been eleven, standing in the grand ballroom of their home, its chandeliers casting golden light over the swirling gowns and polished shoes. It had been one of her parents' elegant gatherings, a night of music and dancing. The younger children had been off playing, their laughter echoing through the halls, while she had been trying—failing—to waltz with her father.
"Darling, not like this," he had chuckled as she stepped—rather forcefully—onto his foot. She had gasped, mortified, but he had only laughed harder, steadying her with a reassuring hand. "You'll get the hang of it. Just listen to the music."
From across the room, her mother, Emily, had been watching from a plush chair, one hand resting gently on the swell of her belly—Marta, though not yet born, had been with them that night too. Emily's laughter had been light, full of warmth.
"You're doing beautifully, sweetheart," her mother had called, her voice teasing.
That was when he had appeared—a boy not much older than she was, his blond hair neatly combed, his posture straight as he clutched at his nerves. Twelve-year-old Rolfe had cleared his throat, standing as tall as he could manage before her father.
"Captain von Trapp, sir," he had begun, voice wobbling just slightly. "May I have the honor of a dance with Liesel?"
Georg had stilled, his easy smile fading as his brows lifted in something between amusement and suspicion. He had sized the boy up, and though Liesel had been young, she had known that look well—her father had been a young boy once too.
Emily, of course, had seen right through him. She had sighed in that knowing way of hers, shooting her husband a soft, disapproving look. "Georg, he's just a boy. Surely there's no harm in it."
Georg had hummed, clearly unconvinced. "Oh, very well," he had said at last, eyeing Rolfe sternly. "But I'm going to keep an eye on him all the same."
Rolfe had exhaled, relief flickering across his face as he turned to Liesel and extended a slightly shaky hand. "May I?"
She had swallowed, unsure if she was more nervous about dancing or the way her father was watching them like a hawk. But she had taken his hand all the same, letting him lead her onto the floor.
Their first waltz had been… disastrous.
They had stumbled through the steps, stepping on each other's feet, moving too fast, then too slow, then tripping altogether. But in their young minds, they had been graceful. Elegant.
Her younger siblings, watching from the sidelines, had tried and failed to suppress their laughter, and even her father had struggled to hide a smirk.
Emily, ever gentle, had clapped her hands in encouragement. "Wonderful, you two! Keep going!"
Liesel had met Rolfe's eyes, cheeks flushed, but he had grinned at her, a lopsided, boyish smile.
"We'll get better," he had promised.
Now, walking along the lake with her siblings, she felt the ghost of that smile, of that warmth, lingering in her heart. How young they had been. How simple everything had seemed then.
But things weren't simple anymore.
Liesel walked with her siblings, the afternoon sun casting golden light over the rolling hills and mountains that stood as eternal sentinels of their home. She held her head high, determined to put on a brave face—not for herself, but for her brothers and sisters. If she faltered, who would they have? She had to be strong, for them.
Still, her thoughts drifted, lingering on a certain blue-eyed boy. Perhaps she would see Rolfe tonight when he came to deliver another telegram. The very idea made her heart flutter. She was sure—so sure—that this was true love. Hadn't her mother read her those fairy tales? The ones where love came suddenly and certainly, where a single dance could bind two hearts forever? That was what she and Rolfe had, wasn't it?
She imagined him as a prince, standing tall in a gleaming uniform, sweeping her into his arms and twirling her across the floor, just like Cinderella at the ball. Or maybe like Snow White, awakening to true love's kiss—minus the poison apple, of course. Love could break any curse, that was what the stories said. And if he would only kiss her—just once—then all these feelings would make sense, and she wouldn't have to wonder if this aching in her chest was love or something else.
But happily ever afters—did they even exist? She wanted to believe in them, she needed to believe in them, but after everything that had happened… after losing her mother… could such a thing be possible?
Her thoughts were interrupted by Friedrich's groaning from the back of the group.
"Can we stop? It feels like we've been walking for hours," he moaned.
Liesel rolled her eyes, masking her emotions with a brisk tone. "Can't stop now, it's only been ten minutes, Friedrich."
"My feet say otherwise," he complained dramatically.
"Don't be such a sourpuss," she chided. "A good walk in this mountain air will do us all some good. Now keep up the pace."
Marta whined, "My feet hurt too."
"Don't worry, Marta. Once you walk some more, you'll get a second wind," Liesel said in her brightest voice, though her heart still felt heavy.
Louisa, always quick to stir mischief, spoke up. "Liesel, what are we going to do about this new governess?"
The question was a welcome distraction. Liesel grinned mischievously. "Oh, we'll think of something. Maybe a jar of spiders under her pillow. Or perhaps we can glue her shoes to the floor."
Kurt cackled. "Or a rat in her bed! That would be funny."
"Indeed, Kurt." Liesel giggled, and for a moment—just a moment—the sadness lifted. Planning the governess's doom had always been the best way to bond with her siblings, and right now, she needed that. She needed to feel something other than the crushing weight pressing on her chest.
Then, her gaze drifted toward the mountains rising in the distance, their peaks brushing against the sky. Her mother had once called them the brides of the sky and the clouds little sheep. When the wind whistled through the valleys, it was as if the mountains themselves were calling to her, urging her to climb higher, to reach the sun and stars.
She imagined a story—her story.
The girl who plucked the moon from the sky just so she could give it to her love.
But love wasn't like a fairy tale. Not really. Because if it was, wouldn't her mother still be here?
She was so lost in thought that she almost didn't hear the tiny voice at her side.
"Liesel?"
She looked down to see Gretel, tugging at her skirt, her little face downcast.
"What's the matter, Gretel?"
"I'm too tired. Can you carry me?"
Liesel sighed, softening. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I can't do that. But tell you what, how about I hold your hand instead?"
"But you said that was unladylike," Gretel frowned, confused.
Liesel smiled. "Only when Father is around. We're far away now, so I'll hold your hand as long as you want me to."
She took Gretel's small hand in hers, feeling a pang in her heart. Her sister was so young—so much younger than Liesel had been when their mother died. How much did she even remember?
"Gretel… what do you remember about Mama?"
Gretel furrowed her brow in thought. "I remember her big, soft hands holding me. And her perfume. She smelled wonderful."
"Nothing else?" Liesel pressed, desperate for more.
Gretel hesitated. "I remember when she went up to heaven. And I know she's looking down on us."
Liesel's throat tightened. She wanted to believe that, but it only made the ache worse.
She forced a smile. "Did I ever tell you about the time Mama and I pranked Father?"
Gretel's eyes widened. "No! What happened?"
Liesel chuckled. "We were feeling very mischievous, so we replaced all his suits with lederhosen. And you know how much he hates wearing those. He had to wear them to dinner, to town—everywhere—for a whole week! He was furious, but Mama and I laughed and laughed."
Gretel giggled, but then her expression grew serious. "You miss her, don't you?"
"I do," Liesel admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "She was brave. She was kind. She was beautiful. She was the best mother anyone could ask for. And her voice… it was like a bell ringing on a heavenly breeze."
"Liesel… will you sing for us?"
Liesel froze. She hardly ever sang anymore. It hurt too much. But when she saw the hope in Gretel's eyes, she couldn't say no.
"All right," she whispered. "But only one song."
Her siblings gathered around as she took a deep breath and began.
"Edelweiss, edelweiss
Every morning you greet me
Small and white
Clean and bright
You look happy to meet me…"
The melody was soft, fragile, trembling with emotion. Her voice quivered, but she finished the song.
Her siblings cheered, but Liesel could barely hear them. The moment the last note faded, something inside her broke.
She shot to her feet, blinking back tears, then turned and ran.
She ran from the song. From the pain. From the memory of her mother singing that very lullaby to her as she drifted to sleep.
She collapsed onto the grass, sobbing, her whole body shaking with grief.
It wasn't fair.
Why had God been so cruel?
Why had He taken her mother from her?
She was alone. So utterly alone.
Then—
"Liesel?"
A voice.
"Go away," she choked out.
"Please, let me help you."
She clenched her fists. "GO AWAY!"
She heard footsteps retreating. Then a quiet sniffle.
Gretel.
Liesel's stomach twisted with guilt.
"Oh no… Gretel, wait!"
She scrambled up and ran after her little sister, catching her just as she was wiping away tears.
"I just wanted to know you were all right," Gretel sniffled.
Liesel's heart shattered. She knelt down, pulling Gretel into a fierce hug. "I'm so sorry. I would never want to hurt you. I love you too much."
"Then why are you so sad?"
Liesel hesitated. "The song… it reminded me of Mama."
"I shouldn't have asked you to sing," Gretel whispered, looking guilty.
"No, no, it's not your fault," Liesel reassured her.
Gretel thought for a moment. "When I feel sad, I think of things I like. What do you like?"
Liesel smiled through her tears. "Fairy tales. Princes and princesses. True love's kiss."
Gretel beamed. "See? That helped, didn't it?"
Liesel laughed softly. "Yes, it did. Thank you, Gretel."
She took her sister's hand, and together, they walked back to their waiting family.
That day at the lake had once been one of the happiest memories of Liesel's childhood—until it became the one that haunted her most. She had been only thirteen, still caught between childhood and the uncertain road to becoming a young woman, and yet, on that day, she had felt like the happiest little girl in the world.
It had been a rare moment—her mother, tired and weary from long days of illness, had still smiled at her daughter's pleading face. "Oh, very well," Emily had sighed with a gentle laugh, the kind that always warmed Liesel's heart. "But only for a little while."
Liesel had whooped in excitement, dragging her mother by the hand down to the lake. The water was cold at first, but she didn't mind. She swam and twirled, diving beneath the surface, her mother laughing and shaking her head as she waded in after her.
For the first time in what felt like forever, her mother had seemed light, unburdened by exhaustion or the ever-present weight of the household. They splashed and played, floating on their backs, staring up at the sky. "Look," Emily had murmured, pointing at the drifting clouds, "do you see? That one looks just like a great swan."
Liesel had squinted. "It does!"
They had stayed in the lake longer than they should have, only emerging when the sun began to set, their fingers wrinkled, their hair damp and tangled. They dried by the great fireplace, wrapped in warm blankets. Liesel had sneezed once, then twice.
"Oh dear," her mother had said softly, pressing a cool hand to her forehead before kissing it. "That should make it better."
And for a while, it had.
But then, a day later, her mother had begun coughing. And it did not stop.
The days that followed blurred together, shifting from worry to dread. The great house, always so full of music and laughter, became eerily silent, save for the hoarse coughing that echoed through the halls.
Liesel had tried to peek through the crack in the door of her parents' room, her heart thudding in her chest. The doctors were speaking in hushed tones. She caught words she didn't understand—double pneumonia. She saw her father sitting beside the bed, his head in his hands, his body wracked with silent sobs.
Fourteen days. Fourteen agonizing days.
And then, on April 2nd—her birthday—her mother slipped away.
Liesel had woken up expecting someone to say happy birthday. Instead, the entire house was silent. The kind of silence that crushed everything beneath it.
She did not cry at first. She sat, frozen, as the priest spoke over the grave they dug for her mother, next to the other family members buried on the property. "May God receive Emily von Trapp with open hands and everlasting love."
The words meant nothing to Liesel.
Her father was a broken man. Her siblings clung to one another. The world had become a place she no longer recognized. And worst of all—worst of all—she felt as though it was her fault.
She had been the one who asked her mother to swim.
She had been the one who had gotten sick first.
And now—now her mother was gone, and no one could tell her it wasn't because of her.
From that day on, Liesel had forced herself to be the mother her siblings needed, because she was all they had left. There was no room for her own grief. No room for her own sorrow. She had to be strong.
But today, standing in the sunshine, holding Gretel's tiny hand, the pain returned with such force that she couldn't keep it inside.
She lashed out. She didn't mean to.
She was tired. Tired of carrying this weight. Tired of pretending she was fine.
When Gretel asked, so innocently, for her to carry her, something in Liesel snapped.
"I am not your mother, Gretel!" she had shouted, her voice cracking.
Gretel's big blue eyes filled with tears. Liesel realized, too late, what she had done.
"I just wanted to know if you were all right," Gretel whispered, voice trembling before she turned and ran, sobbing.
The instant regret hit Liesel like a stone in her chest.
"Oh no—Gretel, wait!" She ran after her, finally catching her, pulling her into a tight embrace. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."
"I just wanted to help you," Gretel sniffled against her shoulder.
"You do help me," Liesel murmured, brushing a hand through Gretel's hair. "I was just… I was just sad. But I shouldn't have taken it out on you."
Gretel looked up at her. "When I get sad, I think of things I like. Do you want to try?"
Liesel hesitated, but then, smiling faintly, she played along. "Hmmm… telegrams. Candy. Raindrops on roses… and whiskers on kittens."
Gretel giggled. "What else?"
"Fairy tales," Liesel continued, the tightness in her chest loosening. "Stories about gallant knights saving princesses from dragons. Or awakening them with love's first kiss."
And suddenly, like a scene out of a dream, she was thirteen again, sitting in a grand theater, her mother beside her.
The screen had lit up, casting a golden glow over their faces. She had been mesmerized by the sight of Snow White, her lips red as roses, her hair black as night. She had gasped when the huntsman had spared her, when the wicked Queen had transformed, when the dwarfs had mourned over Snow White's still body.
And then—then, the prince had kissed her.
And she had awakened.
Liesel had stared in wonder, clutching her mother's hand.
"Do you think love is really like that?" she had whispered.
Her mother had smiled. "One day, my darling, you'll know for yourself."
Now, years later, she felt it—this trembling, fluttering feeling whenever she thought of Rolf.
He had called her beautiful.
He had brought her telegrams, like a prince carrying secret messages from the king.
Maybe—maybe if he kissed her, she, too, would awaken from this nightmare. Maybe his love would make everything right again.
Maybe.
But for now, she held Gretel tighter and whispered, "Come, let's go back to the others."
And as they walked, hand in hand, Liesel lifted her chin, blinking away tears.
She would be strong.
She had to be.
Liesel and Gretel walked hand in hand back toward the house, the warmth of the sun casting long golden rays through the trees. The world around them felt so bright, so alive, and yet inside Liesel, the old grief churned like a restless sea.
She had been carrying it for so long—since that day by the lake, since the moment her mother's laughter had faded into silence. And now, with Gretel's small fingers wrapped around hers, she wondered if she had ever really allowed herself to feel it, to truly grieve.
She had spent so many years trying to be strong for her siblings, for her father. But what about herself?
As they neared the villa, the familiar sound of music reached their ears. The younger children were singing again, their voices high and sweet, their laughter echoing through the hills.
Liesel paused for a moment, watching them from a distance. She saw Brigitta and Louisa twirling each other in circles, Marta clapping along, and Kurt attempting to teach Friedrich some ridiculous dance move that only made them both double over in giggles. Even in the absence of their mother, joy had found a way to return to this house.
Liesel wanted to believe that she could feel that same joy again, that her heart wasn't forever lost to sorrow.
And then—her eyes found him.
Rolf.
He stood just beyond the gate, his cap tucked under his arm, his blonde hair catching the afternoon light. His uniform was crisp, the telegram bag slung over his shoulder. He hadn't seen her yet, but Liesel felt her heart quicken anyway.
Gretel nudged her. "You should talk to him."
Liesel swallowed. "I don't know…"
But before she could say anything else, Gretel let go of her hand and ran toward the others, leaving Liesel standing alone.
Rolf glanced up then, and the moment their eyes met, he smiled.
That smile—it sent a flutter through Liesel's chest, something uncertain but thrilling.
With a deep breath, she stepped forward.
"Good afternoon, Fraulein Liesel," Rolf greeted, dipping his head slightly in a way that felt both formal and playful.
"Good afternoon," she replied, her voice softer than she expected.
"I have a telegram for your father," he said, tapping his bag. "But… I was hoping to see you, too."
Liesel blinked. "Me?"
Rolf chuckled. "Yes, you. You haven't been by the village lately."
She hesitated. "Things have been… busy."
His expression softened, as if he understood. "I've missed seeing you," he admitted.
The words sent a rush of warmth through her.
Liesel glanced toward the house, knowing that if she lingered too long, one of her siblings—probably Louisa—would start spying on them from a window.
"Would you like to walk with me for a little while?" Rolf asked, shifting his weight.
Her heart pounded. She knew her father wouldn't approve—especially now, with everything changing around them. But for this moment, just this once, she wanted to be Liesel, not just the eldest daughter, not just the one who had to hold everything together.
She nodded. "I'd like that."
They strolled toward the garden path, the air thick with the scent of summer blossoms.
For a little while, Liesel let herself forget the weight of grief, the past, and the uncertainty of the future.
For now, she just let herself be a girl, walking beside a boy who made her heart feel light.
Just as Liesel took her first step beside Rolf, a firm voice cut through the air like a whip.
"Liesel. Inside. Now."
She froze.
Rolf stiffened beside her, snapping his posture straight, though his eyes darted nervously toward Captain von Trapp.
Georg stood at the top of the villa's steps, his expression unreadable, but the authority in his voice left no room for argument. The sunlight behind him cast a long shadow across the gravel path, and Liesel could feel the weight of his gaze pressing down on her.
Her heart plummeted.
She turned to Rolf, her cheeks burning with embarrassment, but he was already recovering.
Rolf quickly shifted his focus, reaching into his bag and pulling out an envelope. "Telegram for Captain von Trapp, sir," he said, his voice steady and professional.
Georg descended the steps, taking the envelope without looking at the boy. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on Liesel.
"Inside," he repeated, quieter this time, but just as firm.
Liesel clenched her fists. She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him that she was nearly seventeen, that she was old enough to go for a simple walk without being treated like a child.
But she saw the tightness in her father's jaw, the way his fingers curled around the telegram. There was no point in fighting him—not now.
She glanced at Rolf one last time, hoping he understood, then turned on her heel and hurried up the steps, her face burning with frustration.
The door shut behind her, leaving Georg and Rolf outside.
Liesel didn't dare look out the window, but she imagined the way her father's gaze would bore into Rolf, the way he would assess him as though seeing not a boy, but a threat.
She pressed her forehead against the cool wooden door, exhaling sharply.
Would her father ever see what she saw in Rolf? Would he ever trust her to make her own choices?
And deep down, a smaller, quieter thought crept in—
Was her father right to be wary? Liesel stood stiffly in her father's office, arms crossed, trying to ignore the way her heart pounded in frustration. The door shut with a heavy finality behind her, sealing her inside with Captain von Trapp's unwavering presence. He placed the unopened telegram on his desk and turned to her, his face unreadable.
He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.
"Liesel, what were you thinking?"
She clenched her jaw. She would not look away, not this time. "I was only taking a walk, Father."
Georg's gaze was sharp. "You were not leading your siblings. You were looking for that telegram boy."
Heat crept up her neck. She felt caught, exposed. "I—I don't see what harm there is in talking to him."
Georg exhaled through his nose, his face betraying none of the emotions swirling beneath. "You are not a child anymore."
Liesel's chest tightened. This was it—this was her chance to finally say it out loud. "Then stop treating me like one!" she burst out, hands clenched at her sides.
For a moment, silence filled the space between them. Then, in a rare moment of clarity, her father nodded.
"Yes," he said, his voice quieter, but no less firm. "And that is exactly why you must set an example for the rest of the children."
Liesel blinked, taken aback. She had expected resistance, dismissal—but not this.
"You are the eldest, Liesel. They look to you." His voice held none of its usual strictness, only certainty. "You have responsibilities, whether you like it or not."
She swallowed, guilt prickling at her frustration. She knew he was right. She had left her siblings behind today, lost in thoughts of fairy tales and princes, but they were not the ones who could afford to dream.
Her father sighed and straightened his shoulders. The softness was gone, replaced once again by the firm command of a naval officer.
"If you have time to sneak away, then you have time to be useful. You will assist Frau Schmidt with the laundry this afternoon."
Liesel's mouth fell open. "Laundry duty?"
"Yes," Georg said simply. "If you wish to act like a child, you will be given responsibilities like one."
Liesel opened her mouth to protest, but the look in her father's eyes stopped her. He was not angry. He was not cruel. He was simply… resolute.
Her shoulders sagged. "Yes, Father."
"Good. You are dismissed."
Liesel turned stiffly on her heel and left the office, shutting the door behind her with more force than necessary.
Laundry duty. With Frau Schmidt, no less.
The kindly old head maid was fair, but she would not go easy on her.
This was humiliating.
And worst of all?
She could still hear Rolf's voice in her head, calling her name, as if he had been the one ripped away instead of her mother. Laundry duty was long and grueling. The sun had begun its slow descent beyond the mountains when Liesel finally arrived at the washroom, where the scent of soap and damp linen filled the air. She had known Frau Schmidt all her life, knew how strict and no-nonsense the woman could be—but there was a warmth to her, too, if one knew where to look.
Frau Schmidt barely spared her a glance as she rolled up her sleeves. "Ah, so the Captain has finally decided you need some real work to do."
Liesel sighed, already feeling the weight of the task ahead. "Apparently, daydreaming is not a productive skill."
The older woman snorted, shaking her head as she guided Liesel to the large, gleaming contraption in the corner of the washroom—an imported electric washing machine from London. The von Trapp household was always ahead of the times when it came to certain conveniences, but the machine, with all its buttons and levers, still seemed like something out of a fairy tale to Liesel.
"Well, if you're going to be here, you might as well learn something useful. This," Frau Schmidt patted the machine fondly, "is what makes all of your lovely dresses stay lovely. And today, you are going to help me make sure the whole family has fresh linens by supper."
Liesel groaned. "The whole family? That will take hours!"
Frau Schmidt raised a brow. "Then you had better get started."
Resigning herself to her fate, Liesel grabbed a bundle of bedsheets and stuffed them into the machine. The elderly maid guided her through the steps—adding soap, adjusting the settings, watching as the machine whirred to life. The sound was loud and rhythmic, the drum churning as water sloshed inside.
Despite herself, Liesel found it fascinating. "It's like magic," she mused, watching the suds bubble up.
Frau Schmidt let out a chuckle. "Magic, hm? You should have seen me before we had this. Scrubbing everything by hand, freezing fingers in the winter, sweating in the summer. No, my dear, this is not magic—this is progress."
Liesel smiled at that. "I suppose you're right. Though I imagine you were still faster than me."
"Undoubtedly," Frau Schmidt teased.
The hours passed in a steady rhythm—loading, unloading, hanging fresh sheets to dry. At some point, the air became thick with the scent of lavender and clean cotton, and Liesel, though exhausted, found herself relaxing. There was something almost meditative about the work, about the way her hands moved with purpose.
As they folded the last of the linens, Frau Schmidt wiped her hands on her apron and looked at Liesel with an approving nod. "You may not be a laundress, but you didn't do too poorly, child."
Liesel smiled, rolling her aching shoulders. "High praise coming from you."
The older woman's face softened. "You remind me of your mother, you know."
Liesel blinked. "I do?"
Frau Schmidt nodded. "Emily would come here sometimes, when things were difficult. She said the work helped her think."
Liesel swallowed past the lump in her throat. She had never imagined her mother standing here, hands deep in soap and water, finding comfort in something so simple.
Maybe, just maybe, there was something to that.
Frau Schmidt patted her arm. "Now go on, child. You have siblings waiting on you, and I have supper to attend to."
Liesel gave her a grateful smile before stepping out into the cool evening air, the scent of fresh linens clinging to her clothes. She had started the day feeling punished.
But somehow, she felt a little less lost now.
Dinner was at precisely six o'clock, as it always was—no exceptions, no delays, no excuses. The von Trapp household ran with the precision of a naval vessel, and mealtime was no different. The long dining table was polished to a shine, set with crisp linens and fine silverware, and at the head of it all sat Captain von Trapp, ever the commanding presence even in the warmth of his own home.
As the grandfather clock in the hall chimed the hour, Franz, the butler, and Frau Schmidt, ever efficient, wheeled in the evening meal. The rich aroma of roasted meats, fresh bread, and stewed vegetables filled the dining hall, the blend of Austro-Hungarian delights both hearty and familiar. There was goulash, warm and fragrant with paprika, a platter of schnitzel crisped to golden perfection, a side of buttered dumplings, and a fresh cucumber salad, all arranged with care. The meal was honest, nourishing, the kind that encouraged strong bodies and sound minds—exactly the kind of diet Frau Schmidt so strongly believed in.
"A proper meal for proper children," she always said, encouraging a healthy appetite while keeping a watchful eye to ensure no one overindulged.
Liesel took her place at the table, still slightly sore from her long hours in the washroom but careful not to show it. She straightened her posture, folded her hands in her lap, and listened as her father led grace, his voice steady and firm.
Dinner began in the usual manner—plates passed, polite conversation, the occasional admonishment when someone forgot their manners. Friedrich and Kurt were already engaged in a quiet battle over the last dumpling, while Louisa made faces at her cucumber salad when she thought their father wasn't looking. Little Gretel, who was seated beside Liesel, tapped her arm and whispered, "Did you finish all the laundry?"
Liesel nodded, giving her a small smile. "Yes, with Frau Schmidt's help."
Gretel wrinkled her nose. "She's so strict."
Liesel chuckled softly. "She's not so bad when you get to know her."
Their conversation was interrupted as Franz poured fresh water into their glasses, standing as straight-backed as a soldier. The butler, though never unkind, had the same air of orderliness that their father demanded, and it was clear that he took pride in ensuring the evening meal was conducted with dignity.
Despite the discipline, there was warmth in the household, a quiet familiarity in the way the children interacted, in the way the food reminded them of simpler times before their mother had passed. And though Liesel would never say it aloud, there was something oddly comforting in the structure of it all—the knowledge that no matter how uncertain the rest of the world felt, dinner would always be at six o'clock.
Once dinner had been finished, the routine continued like clockwork. Each child knew their role—no one was excused from their duties. Liesel, with the natural authority of the eldest, took charge, directing her younger siblings as they helped clear the table.
"Louisa, you take the plates. Friedrich, you can gather the silverware. Kurt, make sure nothing is left behind," she instructed, her tone firm but not unkind.
Gretel, eager to be of use, tugged at Liesel's sleeve. "What about me?"
Liesel smiled and handed her a small stack of napkins. "You can help fold these, my little assistant."
Under the watchful eyes of Franz and Frau Schmidt, the children carried out their tasks, bringing dishes to the kitchen where the washing began. The warm scent of dish soap and steam filled the room as Liesel and Louisa scrubbed plates while Kurt and Friedrich dried them. Gretel hummed softly as she neatly folded each napkin, her small hands smoothing out the fabric with great care.
Once the final dish was put away, Liesel clapped her hands together. "All right, everyone, bedtime."
Predictably, there were groans of protest.
"But Liesel—" Friedrich started.
"No 'buts,'" she cut in, raising an eyebrow. "Father expects everyone to be in bed at a reasonable hour. Besides, tomorrow is another day."
There was a moment of hesitation, but one look at Liesel's expression told them that arguing was futile. Begrudgingly, they all made their way upstairs, feet dragging a little but spirits not entirely dampened.
Liesel followed them up, making sure each sibling got ready properly—teeth brushed, nightclothes on, no lingering nonsense. Marta and Gretel insisted on hearing a story before bed, and though she was exhausted from the day's work, Liesel couldn't bring herself to deny them.
Settling at the foot of their beds, she smoothed back Gretel's hair and began, "Once upon a time, in a kingdom high in the mountains, there lived a young girl who dreamed of plucking the moon from the sky…."
As her soft voice wove the tale, the little ones slowly drifted into slumber, their small hands curled beneath their cheeks. Liesel lingered a moment longer, brushing a stray strand of hair from Gretel's forehead before quietly slipping out of the room, careful not to wake them.
With the house now quiet, she let out a long breath, leaning against the wall outside their rooms. The weight of responsibility pressed heavily upon her shoulders, but she bore it as best she could.
Downstairs, she could hear the faint murmur of Franz and Frau Schmidt finishing their evening routines, the rustle of fabric, the clink of glass as they tidied up the last of the day's remnants. Somewhere beyond the great windows, the mountains stood tall and unchanging, their peaks bathed in moonlight.
Liesel wrapped her arms around herself, looking out toward the starlit sky.
"Goodnight, Mama," she whispered, before finally retreating to her own room. That night, as Liesel drifted into sleep, the weight of the day gave way to something heavier—memory.
In her dream, she was thirteen again, standing in the doorway of her mother's dimly lit bedroom. The air was thick with the scent of chamomile and candle wax, the curtains drawn to block out the cool mountain air. Her mother lay in bed, her once vibrant face pale and drawn, her breathing shallow and labored.
"Come closer, darling," Emily's voice was barely above a whisper, but it was still hers, still warm, still full of love.
Liesel hesitated at first. It hurt to see her like this. It hurt to know that the mother who had once danced with her in the parlor, who had sung her lullabies, who had filled every room with laughter, was now so weak that even lifting her hand seemed to take all the strength she had left.
But she obeyed, stepping forward and kneeling by the bedside, reaching for her mother's hand. It was cold. Too cold.
Emily gave her fingers a small, reassuring squeeze. "My sweet girl… you must promise me something."
Liesel swallowed the lump in her throat. "Anything, Mama."
Her mother smiled—a faint, tired thing, but it was still there. "Be strong, my darling. Even when the world is unkind. Even when everything feels too heavy to bear, you must not give up." She paused, taking a slow, unsteady breath. "And never… never give up on love."
Tears welled in Liesel's eyes. "I won't, Mama, I promise."
Emily's fingers brushed against Liesel's cheek, her touch as gentle as falling snow. "Take care of them, my love. Your brothers, your sisters… even your father. He will need you, even if he does not know how to say it."
Liesel bit her lip, nodding fiercely, even though she felt like a child again—small, helpless, desperate for her mother to stay. "I will, Mama. I promise. Just—just rest, and when you wake up, we'll all be here, and you'll be better."
Emily didn't answer right away. She only smiled, her gaze soft, filled with something deeper than words.
Then the dream shifted, like fog rolling in over the mountains, and suddenly there was only silence.
Liesel awoke with a sharp gasp, her heart pounding, her cheeks damp with tears. The room was dark, save for the moonlight pooling in soft silver patterns across the floor. Her breath came in shaky gasps, the ghost of her mother's voice still lingering in her ears.
She sat up, pressing a hand to her chest, as if she could steady the aching there. She had kept her promise. She had taken care of them all. But was she strong? Was she truly strong?
The silence gave her no answer. Only the steady rise and fall of her own breath, and the faint rustle of the wind against the windows.
Liesel wiped her tears away, though they kept falling, silent and relentless. She curled up beneath her blanket, hugging herself tightly, as if she could hold together the pieces of her heart that still ached for the mother she had lost.
She had been strong for so long. But tonight, just for a little while, she allowed herself to grieve.