Author's Notes

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In which there may be actual plot on the horizon and no one knows what Gilbert is up to, least of all me, and also in which I feel sorry for Ludwig being so disenfranchised with everything. And also in which I am regretting my pretentious naming method as always.

(~)

The Fall of Adam:

S(a)nctuary

(~)

It was not until church the following Sunday that Ludwig saw him again.

The thick stone walls ensured the inside air was always chilled and damp, even when every able body in the town was standing shoulder to shoulder in the aisles. In winter you could see your breath, and in summer one half expected tiny rainclouds to be lingering up among the rafters. The simple stone statutes of Mary and Jesus (relics from when the Church had answered more to Italy than to the whims of any hereditary-crazed king) had moss growing in their ears. Ludwig found their green deafness ironic in a jaded sort of way. The vicar was a nearsighted man, and while he lovingly tended the statues' feet and ankles with disconcerting devotion, perhaps he thought the green glow was one of divinity rather than the efforts of lichen colonies and never fetched a stepladder to finish the job.

That day the sky was black as pitch patch-worked by zealous lightning bolts. His fellow farm hands stood quietly in the back of the building, mimicking the actions of their betters in the pews, but every so often a rogue eye would flit to the side to stare at the torrents of rain bejeweling the stained glass. Sunday was their day of reprieve. To have it usurped by a freak thunderstorm was too much for some, and they cursed under their breath before casting a fearful glance at mossy statues. As though any thing, divinity or otherwise, could hear around that mass of greenery.

Ludwig kept his hands folded, murmuring along with the rest of the congregation when prompted. Every so often he would lift his head to study the seated congregation before looking away again. His fellow workers considered him a devout man. They were under the impression that taciturn solemnity was equivalent to piety, and that when he lifted his head it was to receive divine inspiration from the cross affixed to the far wall beyond the tabernacle.

Ludwig simply didn't bother to correct them.

The church was neatly divided into ranks, mirroring the manor house and township surrounding it. The farm hands stood in the back and were made to feel gracious for the pittance allotted to them. In the pews farthest from the tabernacle sat the house staff and gardeners and groundskeepers. Next the middling classes, the doctors and scholars who despite their schooling were kept at a distance from the Lord by virtue of birthright. In the cushioned pew closest to the vicar sat the earl and his brood. It was them that Ludwig fixated on every time he raised his head, for they were a more immediate presence than the supposed omnipresent god and at the moment a far more pressing concern than purported hellfire.

At the beginning of one of the vicar's homilies, Ludwig took advantage of the shrew voice drowning out any sound of movement and lifted his head once more to study the shock of white hair in the farthest pew. The earl's family was always the picture of dignity. The lords and ladies sat perfectly straight in their ironed dark clothes, hands folded in their laps, and looks of rapture on all their faces. All save the earl's son, whose expression was more one of resignation and boredom. Every so often his mother would rest her hand atop his, and the earl's son would straighten his back and the irritation would flee from his features for a few shrill vicar outbursts until the reedy voice assaulted the air with a particularly strident volume and the sour look would return.

Ludwig found the pattern amusing, but that was not why he was staring.

It had been a week since the unwelcome encounter in the orchard. The apple lay on the windowsill of his home, growing smaller and smaller by the day but somehow magically retaining its shape and avoiding rot. It was an apple from Carroll's wonderland, and he had been too apprehensive to take a bite. Ludwig preferred that point of origin to the book the vicar was clutching against his thin chest. To be from Eden would be a joke. There were no red-eyed devils beyond the flaming sword, of that he was sure. Plenty in a twisted, opium-soaked chessboard.

Ludwig's conscious gave the smallest of twinges every time he chanced to look at it. It was the guillotine poised over his neck and the earl's gentle hand ready to rest upon his shoulder, and he was not sure which would fall.

At first he had been grateful that the young lord had apparently kept his word. Mutually assured destruction was a grisly thing, and Ludwig was surprised someone as sheltered as the lord had been able to register the benefits of silence over being a complete and utter prat.

But as the days wore on he felt the noose around his neck slowly tighten and he came to the unpleasant realization that no spoiled son could be so munificent. The apple was power, and the lord held all of it in his palm. He had seen through Ludwig's bluff and was most likely watching him toil from the windows of the manor, rubbing his skeletal hands together and waiting for just the right moment to let slip the little secret.

It wasn't pleasant to have your fate resting in the hands of a deviant and spoiled youth.

Ludwig fixed his eyes on the floor again as the vicar called the final Amen, and the farm hands and the rest of the men regulated to the standing room in the back quickly hurried through the exit while the rest of the congregation began the last hymn. They left before the lords and ladies had to look at them, ensuring the privileged could keep the thoughts of the more saintly and biblical poor fresh in their minds and not be distracted by the grime and stench of reality.

Ludwig leaned against the back wall as his fellow workers swarmed around him, listening to the rain strangle the hymn notes struggling for flight. There was a blade over his throat already, and in that unremarkable moment he realized the complete freedom it allowed him. With one transgression threatening to end his livelihood what power could another hold.

Ludwig stayed through the hymn, not batting an eye when the vicar gave him a cold glare on his way towards the rectory. The rest of the congregation stood en masse the moment the vicar's presence released them from its hold and headed out of the pews, chatting amicably amongst themselves. Ludwig pushed away from the wall and slowly made his way towards the doors, the perfumes and colognes of the middling classes almost overpowering. Several ladies discretely brought their handkerchiefs to their noses as they passed him, and their husbands tightened their hands around their ladies' shoulders, shooting him glares of suspicious. Ludwig ignored them with affected obliviousness.

In the cloister the middling classes fetched umbrellas and scarves before ducking out into the rain, but the earl's family stayed behind, waiting for their coach. Ludwig peered out the door at the torrents of rain before ducking inside and glancing about. He had always rushed through the cloister in his haste to leave and never took note of the small confessionals and chapel off to the side. A good spot to rest under pretenses of piety and wait for the rain to lessen.

Ludwig started to move towards the chapel when a deep voice arrested his steps.

"Excuse me."

Ludwig turned, his eyes widening as he saw the earl smiling at him, his family lined up behind him like goose children.

"My lord?"

The earl inclined his head very slightly, his hat tucked underneath his arm.

"You are one of the field hands, are you not? Working in the western area? I was on inspection the other day and I dare say your figure is memorable enough."

Ludwig nodded in response before clearing his throat and saying a polite, "Yes, my lord."

He caught sight of the earl's son peering around his mother, the young lord's thin lips curled in a smirk. He waved his thin fingers, the knowing look on his face making Ludwig's stomach twist with anger. It was undoubtedly the moment he had been waiting for. In front of god and the vicar, neither known for their silence or kindness towards sinners. And despite (or perhaps because of) his profession the vicar was the worst gossip in the township. News of Ludwig's thievery would be in the London papers by tomorrow and he would be blacklisted from every estate in the empire.

Ludwig let out a slow breath and braced himself. He could return to the reserves, he supposed. To India again. Their food had not agreed with him, nor did the diseases their insects carried but it was a shade better than the gallows or abject poverty. Slightly.

But anger never seized the earl's face. Instead he carried a rather thoughtful expression as he stared at Ludwig until finally he clapped his hands in remembrance.

"You are Ludwig, correct? The only man to ever turn down an invitation to the Christmas party, albeit surprisingly politely for a farm hand." The earl laughed and gave him a pleasant smile. "I did not take you to be such a religious man. Heading to the chapel the moment service is finished." He raised an eyebrow and glanced outside. "Or perhaps seeking a different sort of relief."

Ludwig toyed with the edges of his jacket, unsure how to properly respond. He could still feel the little devil's eyes upon him.

"I am afraid you have found me out, my lord," he said, adopting a weak and contrite smile. "On both accounts."

"Well, it is rare that a field hand can even stand to stay for the whole service. Most of them seem to flee the moment the vicar calls amen," the earl laughed, tilting his head as his wife said quietly, "Wolfgang, the car…"

"A moment, my dear," he said, gracing his wife with a small smile before turning back to Ludwig, who was feeling more and more cornered by the young lord's silence. The rest of the earl's family seemed to be growing restless as well, and his niece and nephews glared at him from around their caretakers.

Suddenly, the earl's son spoke up.

"Papa, isn't the picnic for the groundskeepers and house staff next Saturday?" the young lord said absently, "Since this man has missed the last few Christmas gatherings, probably because of his intensely pious lifestyle, could he come to the picnic instead? It seems wrong to punish a man for respecting the season of his faith."

The earl gave his son a surprised look and then clapped him on the shoulder.

"You are too right, Gilbert," he said, smiling at Ludwig. "The picnic is normally reserved for the house workers and the garden staff – we don't want to bother the field hands during their busiest time – but an exception could surely be made so long as it would not cause feelings of resentment among the others."

Ludwig felt his skin grow cold, for once not due to the clammy air of the church. The young lord was smiling pleasantly at him, but his eyes were glinting with some dark mischief. But the earl's smile was genuine and hopeful, and Ludwig realized too late how expertly he'd been trapped.

He could only nod in agreement and say very softly, "It would be my honor, my lord. Thank you."

"Good man," the earl said, offering his arm to his wife. "We will ensure there is a place for you among the festivities."

With that he headed out to the car, opening the door for his wife before getting inside. His niece and nephews followed, laughing as they dashed through the rain, their good clothes quickly soaking up the mud from the deep welts in the ground the motor carriage wheels had carved.

The earl's son lingered a moment, fixing Ludwig with a knowing grin.

"Good day, Ludwig."

Ludwig met the boy's eyes, his own narrowing slightly. But still he politely inclined his head, hiding his clenched fist behind his back.

"Good day, my lord."

Gilbert smirked and strode out into the rain, ignoring his mother's calls for him to hurry.

Ludwig waited until the sound of the car engine faded away, and then quickly stepped outside, tugging up his collar against the cold and the wet, more glad than ever to leave the church behind so he could curse the rain.