He waits until Luke's breaths even out in his sleep; only then he dares to tiptoe quietly down the stairs, gently shutting the door to the vestry behind himself.
His brother, a parson. And very nearly an artist, if only fate hadn't arranged otherwise.
Between the two of them, Luke had always been the smarter twin. Somehow, Mark had vaguely imagined he would talk his way out of their father's wish; but then again Luke lacked the mule-like stubbornness that had been Mark's dominant trait ever since their youth.
And now they've been reunited after all these years, Mark can't help but secretly rejoice at the notion that he'd accidentally broken his blasted oath.
He opens a cabinet at random, rummages through the drawers. He's not quite sure what he's looking for, not until he discovers a worn-out folder with crayon stains on it.
The drawings are indeed first-rate, but that's not what captivates his attention. He is in fact the subject of most of the sketches, either as a little boy or a dashing young sailor – and he finds his sight is blurring for some reason.
Dust got in his eyes, that must be it. He's definitely not crying.