"Forgive my gawking, young master Laurinaitis!" Ivan said with a bow. "I...mistook you for someone else."
"Ah. I see." The younger Laurinaitis brother — Matas — let his eyes sweep to the floor. People in Tauragė had often commented how much he resembled his father. And Tauras. It had once been a point of pride when he was younger — only to become a burr as he aged. A reminder of the brother he once had, now lost. Matas thought himself to finally be free of it when they moved to Kaunas. But the thorn was still there, digging in on those nights his father drank too much and could hardly stand to look at him. And now here, in the form of captain Braginski, the last person he knew to have seen Tauras.
Matas lifted his gaze. "It has been a few years since last we saw one another."
"Indeed. You were still a boy, as I recall."
"I am glad you were able to join us this evening, captain, to celebrate my sister's engagement. There aren't many who could make it tonight, I'm afraid."
"A pity for them. I've always held your family in the utmost esteem," Ivan said, putting his hand over his heart. "I do not believe the sins of your brother should be reflected upon you."
Matas gave him a polite smile, though it did not reach his eyes. His father and the captain had kept in correspondence even after Tauras' disappearance — pleas to restore their standing, promises their estate would not be sold off to the very serfs who once worked their land — and all the while Matas knew nothing would come of it. He had sworn to himself, once his sister married an eligible suitor, he would join the imperial army to help elevate their name and status again, perhaps reclaim some faith in the eyes of the tsar. A plan that had come to fruition sooner than expected, as Aurelija was to be married that summer.
Matas slid the parlor door shut. "Mother and father will be down presently. Please, make yourself comfortable while we wait. I can have something to drink brought, if you'd like."
Ivan shook his head. "No, thank you."
Matas took a seat, crossing one ankle over his knee and looking up at the captain expectantly.
Ivan sighed. And sat.
"Speaking of my brother — has there been any word?"
Captain Braginski balanced his cap on his knee, avoiding the young man's gaze. "You know if there had been, I would have informed you. And you know" — his eyes flicked up — "were my men to find him, what would have to happen."
"I understand that, sir. But perhaps...you might consider something. Something I've never told anyone."
Captain Braginski turned, his attention fully on the young man now.
"My brother," Matas began, "has always been different. Even as a boy, I knew our privileged lifestyle was not one he ever coveted. He was at home among the forests and stream more so than he ever was at a dinner party or ball. He and my father never saw eye to eye on anything. And there were other aspects of his life that...were difficult for the family to reconcile."
"Like his revolutionary activities."
Matas shook his head, face becoming somber. "Before that, even. Sir" — his eyes locked onto Ivan's — "I am convinced — I know — Tauras would not have...if it weren't for me, he would not have..."
"What, master Laurinaitis?"
Matas' chin trembled. He swallowed. "I saw something. When I was younger. Something I...did not understand."
"Involving your brother?"
Matas nodded. "I told my father. And he was furious, humiliated. He sent Tauras off to the seminary shortly after, effectively disowning him. If he had not left — if I had not...I know he would have had no part in the rebellion. You know my father, what kind of man he is. He would not tolerate such a thing in his household. His loyalty has always been to Russia."
Captain Braginski straightened his back, folding his hands in his lap as he considered the young man. "But you said yourself, master Laurinaitis, your brother has always been different. You have no way to know for sure how your brother would have acted."
"Captain, I know him. Tauras would never have purposely caused any harm to this family. He was blinded by whatever lies those priests fed him. He loved our family, despite his difficulties with it."
A servant entered then, letting them know dinner was being served. Matas thanked and dismissed her.
Ivan rose, his face momentarily contrite. "Sometimes we must accept that a lost cause is just that."
"Apologies, captain, but I cannot. Surely…my brother has suffered enough for what he's done."
Matas looked up, his eyes imploring. Ivan's, fathomless.
The young man bowed his head and stood, opening the door.
"Just out of curiosity," Ivan called, "what exactly did you see?"
Matas turned, thinking a moment, then answered: "Love. My brother was in love. And I took that from him."
.
o
.
Tauragė County, Lithuania, 1863
In the weeks following Tauras' escape, captain Braginski tore the town and county apart looking for him, hoping — hoping — his quarry had gone to ground, seeking shelter someplace familiar. But all the while knowing in the back of his mind the young rebel had fled the country.
He questioned the doctor that treated the man's injuries, the guards outside his door. All maintained their story: that they had last seen him that evening in his room, the guards even checking around midnight and finding him asleep.
The captain extended his efforts to neighboring counties, but none had seen the revolutionary, and he knew for certain, then, Tauras had crossed the border.
Ivan rode out one early autumn morning, glaring across grassy fields into east Prussia. Had it not been for their foreign allies getting involved — had it not been for them raising such an uproar — he could have simply crossed right then and continued his search. But his hands were tied. The captain ground his teeth at the thought. He turned his horse, heading instead for the Laurinaitis estate.
The family had written almost daily ever since word reached them about the captain looking for their son. Ivan ignored the letters, wanting to have Tauras in hand. Wanting to have exhausted every available resource before finally delivering the news.
He was shown to a sitting room by a servant, accepting a glass of vodka while he waited. The captain was not a man often guided by emotion, preferring instead to let duty dictate which course to follow. There were moments, though, when his cool exterior would strain, allowing the slightest crack to show. He felt it now as Juozas entered without so much as a greeting.
"Captain," the master of the house said with a slight bow. "I trust if you're here, then the rumors must be true."
Juozas sat. Ivan remained standing.
"Yes," the captain sighed. "I refused to believe it at first, knowing your loyalties. An oversight on my part."
Juozas leaned forward. "And I can assure you, those loyalties have not changed."
"I should hope not. Though one cannot help but wonder how your son" — Juozas' face soured at the word — "came to be involved in this."
"He has always been difficult. His ideals...aligned contrarily to my own. Tell me, have you apprehended him yet?"
Ivan sipped his drink. Juozas understood his silence as his answer. He pressed his lips together, bowing his head.
"Would he have any cause to return here?" the captain asked.
Juozas scoffed. He picked his head up, fixing his guest with a cold stare. "Sir. I washed my hands of him years ago."
Ivan studied him, remembering their dinner that past spring. Not much mention was made of Tauras then, other than to say he was at the seminary.
"Surely, you do not think my family culpable because of his actions."
"Whatever repercussions that may befall you, that is not for me to decide."
Juozas stood. "What will become of us, then?"
Ivan set his empty glass on a side table. "That I cannot say. Not until the fighting is done." He put his cap back on his head. "I apologize if my visit has caused you any further disquiet. I had hoped to have better news."
.
o
.
Tauragė County, Lithuania, 1865
Snow blanketed the grounds of the estate. A fresh dusting fell, already filling in his horse's hoof prints, as captain Braginski rode up the gravel drive.
Inside the manor house, fires warmed what few rooms were now occupied. The rest had been closed off to keep the chill from creeping down the halls. There would be no more balls held, nor dinner parties. It cost money and labor to heat such an estate — neither of which the Laurinaitis family could afford to spare at the moment.
The captain was shown to the master's study, where Juozas was slouched at his desk, sleeves rolled up, hair unkempt. A decanter stood on the desk, its contents half empty.
The master dragged his eyes up as his guest entered. Dark circles hung under them. Ivan remained standing, wondering briefly at the last time the man had slept, as Juozas poured himself a drink and knocked it back.
"It's outrageous," he slurred, pushing himself up. "After everything I've done. For my family — my family!" He reached for the decanter again, but Ivan slid it out of reach, frowning. Juozas sent him a damning glare. "And you. You!"
Ivan clasped his hands behind his back, letting out a slow breath as he waited for the man's ire to cool.
"This house has been in my family for generations. And now the tsar...the tsar..." Juozas pulled himself to his feet. "What are you here for? To escort me from my lands!?"
Ivan bowed his head. "You've been granted until the start of spring to vacate this property. After that, it will be turned over to the empire — "
"So you can parcel it off and line your pockets," Juozas scoffed.
Ivan sent him a quelling look. "No. I only thought you would rather hear it from me instead of reading it in a letter. And that...I wish I could do more. Had your son not been directly involved, I'm sure the tsar would have allowed you to keep your lands. But the taxes levied against them...they would have ruined you still. If you need any help making arrangements..."
Juozas' shoulders sank. He placed his palms on the desk, steadying himself. "No. I can manage."
Ivan nodded. "Very well, then. Until our next meeting."
He showed himself out, vaguely wondering if a letter would not have been the better choice. It would have saved him time. Been less personal. He could not begrudge Juozas his anger, though. The entire family was being punished for the actions of one individual — a coward who had fled rather than answer for his crimes. Still. The Empire could not make exceptions for one family. Not if this backwater country was to be brought to heel.
At the grand staircase, he paused. Juozas' younger son stood there, holding a book, about to ascend. He turned as he heard Ivan's boots echoing in the great room.
"Captain," the boy said. His face, his manner, were every bit as solemn as Tauras' had been.
"Yes, young master Laurinaitis?"
"You've been to see my father."
"Yes."
"And has there been any news?"
Ivan studied the boy, wondering just how much Juozas had told him. It would not do to lie, he reasoned. The boy would find out soon enough.
"I regret that this land — your estate — "
"I don't give a damn about the house," the boy shot back. "I meant has there been any news of my brother."
Captain Braginski's hands curled reflexively. The matter regarding Tauras' escape was as much a thorn in his side as it was for Juozas. His promotion had slipped further and further away each day that passed until he was quite certain he would be left to rot in this nearly forgotten westernmost fringe.
Ivan wet his lips, glancing away. "No, there has not."
"Would you let us know if there is?"
"Of course, young master."
"I know what Father thinks — what he says — but...I also know he misses my brother terribly. I think he regrets the way things have been between them. And that he's never had the chance to rectify it."
The boy tapped the book against his palm, surveying Ivan a moment. He then turned and continued up the stairs.
.
o
.
Tilsit, East Prussia, 1869
Tauras was at the work table that evening, folding and binding the printed sheets that would become the next copies of the professor's book. Their time until the next run was dwindling. As much as he wanted to keep planning, he knew it was foolish to keep pushing it back further. Eduard had already set everything in motion. The plan had served them well in the past. He just needed to keep reminding himself of that.
Tauras pressed the bone folder to the paper, making a sharp crease. He moved the sheet to the side, reaching for the next one, as footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Eduard.
They had hardly spoken the remainder of the day, with Eduard disappearing to his room for a large portion of it to "think".
He took a seat opposite his cousin, pulling a stack of prints and another folding tool close, and started working.
"I wanted to apologize," Eduard began. "For this afternoon." Blue eyes flitted up, then back down. "And...not only that, but...I've been...unfair. With regards to you and — and the Prussian." He chanced another glance up. Tauras was looking at him now, and Eduard threw caution to the wind. "I know it can't be easy for you, and however you might — feel — about him. Especially given our circumstances. I know it's complicated, and...you don't need me making it more so."
They finished their work in silence. Eduard knew his cousin. Knew when he was ready to speak about something and when he still needed time to think things through. And personal matters — matters of the heart — were never easy for someone like Tauras. Eduard knew it from his relationship with Feliks — and the aftermath. Tauras had shut that part of himself away, following his effective disownment. And this Prussian had sparked something in his cousin he had not seen in a long time.
"Can I see them?" Tauras asked quietly. "The papers?"
Eduard blinked, forgetting for a second what his cousin was talking about. A lifetime had passed since he left to see Jan that morning. He took the fake travel documents out of an inner pocket and set them on the table.
Tauras picked the top one up — a passport — and examined it.
"Von Bock?" he said, lips twitching in a subtle smile.
Eduard spread his hands with a self-satisfied smirk. "Figure I'd give you a name that's easy to remember."
Tauras scratched a fingernail over his brow, puffing out a laugh. It was a subtle jibe on Eduard's part. A way of getting back at the family who had decided he was not worthy of the Laurinaitis name.
"Yours is just Bock, though."
Eduard rolled his eyes. "I know. The 'von' indicates status. You're an aristocrat, remember?"
"...Right."
Tauras thumbed through the papers. Whoever had made them had been thorough. The paper looked and felt worn, the ink a little faded — though Tauras doubted anyone who wasn't a printer would even notice something like that — and the passport had been stamped and signed a few times. Apparently he had visited Bohemia, France, and Switzerland.
Tauras swallowed, his hands clammy. It was one thing crossing the border hidden by sheaves of rye in the back of a wagon, and quite another to do it in the full view of Russian guards with fake papers in his pocket. He had none of Eduard's charisma, none of Raivis' audacity. He may have been bolder when he was younger, but that person was surely gone now...wasn't he?
Tauras shifted his shoulders. He thought of Gilbert again. Of the alleyway. And the day after. Moments he was not ready to examine, but ones where...he felt pieces of his old self breaking through...
There aren't many people who would dare speak to me the way you do.
Tauras pushed the memory away, focusing instead on the document in his hand, the name that was not his inked on the line there. Thomas von Bock. He repeated it to himself, the name becoming an invocation, a way for him to remember what it was like — what he was like — before he learned how it felt to have everything stripped away with a few words and the stroke of a lash across his back. The person in those papers had never known the utter sense of defeat the came from fighting for and losing their homeland. The person in those papers did not know what it was like to be marked, wanted, afraid the smallest slip up would rain trouble down upon them and those they cared about. They did not know how it felt to be going back into the lion's den. They simply spoke and did and took. And watched as the world bent itself around them.
Tauras looked at Eduard. "This is good work."
His cousin pushed his glasses up his nose. "Naturally."
Tauras took the papers up to his room, hiding them under the loose board behind the concealed opening in the wall. When he returned, he found his cousin still seated at the work table, an oddly somber look on his face.
In a blink it was gone.
Eduard's charismatic smile lit up his blue eyes as he stood.
"Drink?" he offered. "My treat. I think we could both use one."
.
o
.
Gilbert was only half-listening as Kohler droned on about border reports. He had just been out there himself to inspect their patrols earlier that week — and had met with his sergeant then too, but Kohler apparently deemed it necessary to give his commander a detailed report of the intervening days before his furlough started tomorrow. Gilbert had tried to steer the conversation away from work — they were at a bar, after all — but Kohler managed to somehow find ways back to that topic, wanting to ensure his commander was up to date on all the goings on before his leave started — not that there was much to report, but again Kohler somehow found a way to make mountains out of molehills.
Gilbert drank his beer, thankful the sergeant had agreed to join him for a drink and not waylaying him at the garrison. The atmosphere and the alcohol were at least making it somewhat tolerable, even if Kohler was currently regaling him with the latest grains ration count for the horses.
"Oh, and speaking of horses," the sergeant said, catching Gilbert's attention, "I spoke to the farmer the other day."
"Farmer?" the sergeant-major echoed, sipping his beer and playing dumb. He knew Kohler well enough by now to know the man saved any information that may be of interest for the very end. A game of one-upmanship. One Kohler often played against himself, as the man had been talking nothing but trivialities for nearly an hour.
"The one whose horse was stolen. I showed him the poster."
"And?"
Kohler folded his arms and shook his head, his gaze dropping down. "He didn't see who took it. The animal still hasn't returned. And he wants us to do something about it."
Gilbert laughed. The thought of using his men and his resources to retrieve a lost horse wandering the countryside was utterly absurd when there were things of far greater concern.
Kohler was looking at him as if he didn't understand what was so funny.
Gilbert sighed. It had been almost three months since his transfer, and it still jarred him sometimes just how provincial Tilsit could be when compared with Berlin.
"I'll have some men start a search," he conceded. "But if they can't recover the horse after a week, I'll have the man compensated for his loss." Gilbert rubbed his brow, shutting his eyes a moment. "Anything else, sergeant?"
There was no response.
Gilbert opened his eyes. Kohler's attention was locked on a man at a table in the middle of the room.
"It can't be..." the sergeant muttered.
.
o
.
Rather than make for Tauras' usual riverfront haunt, Eduard had turned, going up to the high street and the center of town.
The bar was one Tauras had been to on few occasions over the years. One where his cousin liked to conduct business. Far enough away from their own so as not to run into any of their regular customers.
There was a decent crowd and money to be had, Eduard thought, as he cast a swift, appraising glance around. Grinning to himself, he pushed his way up to the bar while Tauras found a table.
"Berwald!" Eduard called in greeting.
The bartender — a burly, brick house of a Swede — looked up from pouring a drink. "You!" he growled, reaching over the counter and grabbing Eduard's lapel, pulling him close. "You have some nerve! We had an agreement. Card games are one thing — "
"Oh come on, Oxenstierna," Eduard protested, holding up his hands. "It's not like they were locals. Fucking trussed up Berliner nobs. They had it coming. I knew it, you knew it, the whole damn bar knew it!"
Berwald let go of his jacket, leveling an icy glare. "Be that as it may, your business is bad for my business. I've had spikeheads in here a lot more than I like. And one of 'em just happens to be a fucking trussed up Berliner nob" — he nodded to a corner behind Eduard — "who would love nothing more, I'm sure, than to help out his fellow citizen."
Eduard swallowed, feeling his stomach sink at that. He didn't need to turn around to know which gendarme Berwald meant. Gilbert's dialect stood out on the eastern edge of the kingdom — much like his own Saxon accent.
"Look...I'm just here to drink tonight. Just me and my cousin. That's all."
Berwald folded his arms, eyeing Eduard. "...Alright. But if I get wind of so much as a penny going missing..."
"I know. I'm out. But don't worry! You won't have any trouble from me tonight, I swear."
"Hmph. We'll see."
Berwald poured him two beers. Eduard took them back to the table, eyes lingering on Gilbert a moment. His back was to the bar as he talked with another man. Another gendarme, Eduard guessed, his face hidden by the corner's dusky shadow.
He set the drinks on the table, angling his seat to keep one eye on Gilbert and the other on the bar. He may have known Berwald for a number of years, but that did not mean he trusted him any more than he had to.
"What's the matter?" Tauras said. "You look agitated."
Eduard glanced at his cousin, picked up his beer, and drank. "Nothing." His eyes swept the bar again. Gilbert — and the man he was with — were no longer at their table.
"Bock? I say, Bock! Is that you?"
Eduard turned, the voice at once familiar and yet...
"Mathias?"
Impossible, Eduard thought. But there he was, standing before him, beer in hand. The boy who had once blacked his eye and called him a cheat when they were at boarding school.
"Well if it isn't the old schoolyard gambler." Mathias took a seat, his deep set eyes raking Eduard up and down. "Good Lord. Your prospects haven't changed much, have they?"
Eduard cleared his throat, glancing at his cousin. Mathias followed his gaze. It was clear from the curl of his lip how little regard he held for Tauras based on sight alone. His worn workers' clothes and unkempt appearance were clearly beneath someone of Mathias' class.
"Everyone was convinced you were destined for great such things," he continued with a sneer, looking back at Eduard. "Yet here you are, dressed in the same poor, drab rags like you wore at school. I guess there's no erasing that bit from your personal history."
"Funny to see you in Tilsit, Mads," Eduard said coolly. "Running back to daddy's money? How have things gone for you, since our days at school?"
"Actually, it's sergeant Kohler now, if you don't mind. I'm with the garrison. Keeping our border secure, you know."
"Sergeant?" Eduard scoffed. "Not captain? What's the matter, Mads? Daddy couldn't afford the commission?"
Mathias set his jaw, a steely glare fixed on his face. "Tread carefully, Bock. I know what kind of person you really are — "
"Sergeant?" another voice cut in. "Everything alright here?"
An unsettled look flickered across Kohler's face as Gilbert joined them at the table.
Eduard sent Mathias a toothy grin. "Good evening, sergeant-major," he said. "How's the head?"
"Fine, thank you. I hope I did not inconvenience you too greatly this morning, Mr. Laurinaitis, with my poster request. You seemed somewhat...distracted," Gilbert said, redirecting the conversation. No one at the garrison knew how bad his migraines could get — and he took great care to keep it that way.
"Poster?" Mathias echoed before Tauras could even counter the sergeant-major's comment.
"Yes. The one you gave me. I'm having copies made to distribute around the city. Tauras and his cousin are printers."
Kohler glanced at Eduard. "A printer huh? Guess you managed to land yourself some honest work, Bock."
"I could say the same of you," Eduard shot back.
A tense silence followed. Eduard and Mathias each held the other's gaze, each one daring the other to speak.
"...I take it you know each other, then?" Gilbert observed.
"Boarding school," Eduard and Mathias said together.
"This one spent his free time gambling," Mathias said.
"And this one spent his money paying me to do his homework," Eduard countered.
"You cheat — "
"Idiot — "
"Gentleman!" Gilbert interjected.
Mathias glanced from Eduard to Gilbert, the abhorrence evident in his eyes. He picked up his beer and drank.
Gilbert sighed and lit a cigarette, then took out a deck of cards and started shuffling. "Anyone for a game of Skat?"
Kohler jerked a thumb at Eduard. "You really want to play with someone like him?"
Gilbert shrugged. "Why not?"
"You'll lose your wallet, for one thing," Mathias said.
"We don't have to make this a betting game." Gilbert's eyes locked on Eduard's. "I trust you know how to play. What do you say?"
"Alright."
"And you, Mr. Laurinaitis?" Gilbert said. He glanced up at Tauras, then back at his hands as he continued to shuffle. "Shall I deal you in?"
"N-no, thank you. I'd rather just watch."
Gilbert dealt the cards and finished his cigarette while Mathias signaled for another round of beer.
"So this poster," Eduard began, placing down a card.
"No. You're not allowed to speak, Bock," Mathias said. He wore a look of concentration as he studied his hand and the card on the table.
"Need a little help there, Mads?" Eduard offered. "The game's only just started. I know it's a French suited deck and all, but the concept's just the same. You see, there are these numbers — "
"I said shut it!"
"Sergeant," Gilbert said, a warning edge to his voice.
"Apologies, sergeant-major. But that's how he gets you. That's how he wins. He starts talking and just won't shut up. It's distracting."
"As part of the party responsible for reproducing this poster," Eduard said, "I only wanted to know a little more about it."
"Kohler, it's still your turn."
"I know." Mathias' eyes flicked up to Gilbert's, then back to his cards. "Fine." He tossed down a queen of hearts.
Gilbert placed a seven on top of Mathias' queen.
"Nice play, sergeant-major," Eduard said. "Not giving me any points, I see. Unlike Kohler here."
"I swear to God, Bock..." Mathias growled.
"Get yourself under control, sergeant, or consider your leave revoked. It's just a game. Understood?"
"Yes, sergeant-major."
Eduard smiled to himself as he picked up the cards he had won and placed another on the table. "Why was it in Russian? The poster?"
"Because that's where it came from. Russian border command gave it to me a few days ago," Mathias ground out, laying a card down. "The man's a smuggler. They shot him in the arm, but he still managed to get away."
"Ah," Eduard said. The buzzing sensation in his arm had been gradually building all night. He had managed to stave it off, helping Tauras fold the book pages, but there were a few times when he could not feel the folding bone in his hand. He drank his beer, hoping the feeling would soon pass. "So you think you'll find him here?"
"It's worth looking into," Gilbert said, winning the hand. "Though I daresay, the description fits more than half the men in this town." He placed a card down, the play shifting back to Eduard.
"But not a lot wear glasses," Mathias pointed out.
"I don't even think our suspect does," Gilbert said.
"You think it could have been a disguise?" Eduard asked.
"Exactly."
Gilbert won the hand again, and eventually the round. They played two more, with the sergeant-major winning the second and Eduard narrowly beating him in the third.
"Looks like you've met your match," Kohler said to Eduard, puffing out a mocking laugh.
Gilbert shook his head, looking somewhat dumbstruck. "No, sergeant. It looks like I may have met mine." Nobody had beaten him at Skat. Nobody. Not since Drechsler.
Kohler stood soon after and put his helmet on, wishing Gilbert and Eduard a good night, deliberately ignoring Tauras.
Eduard picked up the cards and reshuffled them. "Another game?"
"Sure," Gilbert said. "I don't suppose you know how to play Two-hand?"
"I do."
"Not many people know that version. Where did you learn it?"
"I grew up in places like this, sergeant-major. I know all the games."
"But I thought you were at school with Kohler."
"For a time, I was, but" — Eduard glanced at Tauras — "my father could no longer afford it."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr...um — "
"Bock."
"Right. Bock," Gilbert repeated. He looked from Eduard to Tauras then back.
"My mother was German. It was her name," Eduard said, intuiting the question before the sergeant-major asked it. "My father was Tauras' uncle."
"Ed — " Tauras began, a warning to his voice.
"It's alright cousin," Eduard said, holding Gilbert's gaze as he dealt the cards. "There's no point hiding it. I'm a bastard. In more ways than one. The family tried to keep my parentage as much a secret as they could." He glanced at Tauras again, but his cousin was looking guiltily at the table. "The play is to you, sergeant-major."
They went seven rounds, with Eduard winning all but two. And even those Gilbert wasn't sure whether he actually won or if Bock had let him.
Eduard gathered up the cards. Gilbert leaned back in his seat, watching his hands.
"Roll up your sleeves."
Eduard smirked. "Think I cheated? Don't let Mathias' contempt for me color your opinion just yet."
"Humor me."
Eduard did as asked and began unbuttoning his cuffs, but his forearm went numb then. All sense of touch gone. His fingers missed the button.
"Arthritis," Eduard said without missing a beat. He shook his hand out. "After folding prints all day today and then playing cards, my fingers are done."
A feeling like his hand had been plunged in icy water returned and he slipped the button open, pushing his sleeves up.
"See? No cards."
Gilbert's eyes lingered on Eduard's arms a moment. "It's been quite awhile since anyone has bested me at Skat."
"Not many people know how to play, really. Most play it as a game of chance. The rest, a game of skill."
The corner of the gendarme's mouth twitched. A curious smile. Gone as soon as it had appeared. "And what's the difference?"
Eduard leaned his arms on the table, right resting on top of left. "Well. Chance is hoping you get a good hand. And skill is knowing there is no such thing."
"Hm. With a mind like yours, Mr. Bock, it is a shame you were unable to finish your schooling."
"Oh, I consider it a mercy," Eduard smiled. "That much knowledge would have just made me even more insufferable."
Gilbert rose. "Now I know who to call upon the next time I'm in need of a challenge."
"I'd be happy to play you again anytime," Eduard replied.
The sergeant-major took his leave, with the two cousins following soon after.
The moment they were out of the tavern, Eduard's gregarious manner sobered. His grin faded as he shoved his hands in his coat pockets, shoulders hunching in the chilly night air. His longer legs easily outpaced his cousin's as he made his way down the street.
"That was exhausting," Eduard muttered.
Tauras trotted to keep up, eventually falling into step. He tried catching his cousin's eye, but Eduard deliberately kept his gaze focused on his feet as he walked.
"How did you do it?" Tauras finally asked.
"Do what?"
"Beat him."
Eduard cheated a glance to the side. "You didn't think I could? That wounds me, cousin."
"No — I didn't mean it like that — "
Eduard chuckled. "I know."
They walked in silence a while longer. The sky above was a deep, inky blue, pierced with pinpricks of starlight. Gas street lamps cast pools of amber light along the sidewalk, throwing the cousins' shadows upon building walls as they passed.
"Did you believe what you said," Tauras ventured. "About chance and skill?"
Eduard's pace slowed a half step. "Why do you ask?"
"I don't know. It...made me think. Everything I've done — even now — has been left to chance. I've never...never had to rely on skill. Not like you."
"Don't sound so envious, cousin. I'm the fool who still holds out hope one day he'll be dealt a good hand."
Eduard glanced at Tauras, sending him a small smile. He then stopped, back straightening as if having just realized something.
"We need to get home. Now."
Eduard quickened his pace. The streets were largely deserted but he knew better than to assume he and Tauras were alone or out of earshot.
The print shop was pitch black by the time they arrived, as were the other buildings along their street. The only light came from the moon shining down from a cloudless sky, reflecting off the Memel. Eduard unlocked the door and lit a candle. He went into the kitchen, lighting the larger candelabra on the table, and poured himself a glass of vodka as the door swung open. Tauras entered, a little winded from trying to keep pace with his cousin.
"Ed, what is it? What was that about?"
"Mathias. If he's one of the border patrol..."
Dread settled like a cold weight in Tauras' stomach at those words. And what they meant. "He'll recognize me if I try to cross."
Eduard nodded. "Exactly." He folded his arms, one hand rubbing his chin in thought.
Tauras wrapped his hands around the back of a chair and hung his head.
"But..." Eduard began, tapping his lip with his finger. "I've never seen him at the crossing. So either he just got posted out there or I've been very lucky. Or, more likely, he makes the lower ranks do it. Jesus, what are the odds?" He fell silent, his mind working through various scenarios.
"The carriage is the only way," Tauras said quietly.
Eduard looked at his cousin, his eyes wide in the dim light. "No — no! It's too risky, now that we know who we're dealing with. We've got to find another way — "
"Remember what Gilbert said: Mathias is going on leave. He won't be at the border. I could still get across, at least. The books just need to be bound. I could easily finish them tomorrow — "
"Yeah. And how would you get back?"
"We talked about using other routes before. I could...could try one of those."
"But the time involved, Tauras. What am I supposed to tell your customers? You can't just leave that abruptly. If only we knew when and how long Kohler would be gone..."
"...I could find out."
Eduard sipped his drink, eyeing his cousin and already not liking where this was going. "How?"
Tauras said nothing. A vague idea was forming — one he was not yet ready to share, and one he was not sure would even work. He and Gilbert had been dancing around each other for weeks. An odd sort of give and take. Much like the way he and Feliks would act around each other. He reached for the gold cross necklace under his shirt collar.
"Tauras..."
He looked at Eduard and then just as quickly glanced away, his hand letting go of the cross. "I'll think of something." He poured himself a measure of vodka and swallowed it down, his face drawn. "I need to get to work."
Tauras took the candlestick back out to the work room and used it to light two oil lamps. He settled himself at the table with the wanted poster of Eduard. The work order with Tauras' price quote was still clipped to the top. At the bottom of it, Gilbert had scrawled his address. He would need to finish the sergeant-major's order sooner than expected, if this was indeed his plan.
.
o
.
The following evening, Tauras sat in his cousin's room with a sheet draped around his shoulders. Water ran down his cheek, down his jaw, dripping onto the floor as Eduard plunged his comb into a wash bowl and ran it through Tauras' wavy brown locks, smoothing and straightening his hair down.
Then he started cutting.
Small clippings gathered on the sheet and on the floor. A magazine lay open on Eduard's bed, showing drawings of popular men's hair styles. Every now and then, his cousin would pause, study a picture, then return to his task.
The last time Tauras had had a hair cut, he was working as an apprentice to Mr. Drucker. The old man made him cut his chin length hair, not wanting it to get caught in any of the machine gears. After Drucker died and Tauras inherited his equipment, he started growing it again, choosing to tie it back when it became bothersome. He knew he ought to take better care of his appearance, but working day in and day out left him so exhausted. How he looked was the least of his concerns when weighed against everything else.
Tauras swallowed as Eduard began cutting his top layers and longer pieces of hair fell. This haircut was more than just an attempt to rein in his appearance. It was the first step to becoming the person in those forged papers upstairs in his room: Thomas von Bock. The first step to him crossing the border with a suitcase full of books in a language banned by the Russian empire. The first step in his journey home.
Eduard stepped back, tilting his head this way and that. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms. He pushed them to his elbows and set the comb and scissors down to run his fingers through his cousin's hair, shaking it out. Tauras winced, feeling the wet strands snag and pull.
"Well?" he asked.
"It'll do," Eduard said, gesturing to the mirror on his dresser. "But I wouldn't go adding 'barber' to my skill set just yet."
Tauras stood, letting the sheet fall from his shoulders, and examined himself in the mirror. Despite what his cousin may have thought, Eduard did not do too bad of a job. The longest layers underneath brushed the top of Tauras' shoulders, while the shortest hit around his cheekbones.
"Long hair isn't exactly in fashion at the moment, but the layering helps break it up. And you don't look like a viking anymore," Eduard smirked, pushing his glasses up his nose. "You can still tie it back if you want."
Tauras pulled his hair back, looking at his reflection. There wasn't much of a change from how he normally looked — his overall appearance just seemed more...polished.
"I've got a suit that should fit you," Eduard was saying. He had gone over to his wardrobe and started rummaging. "Here. Try this on." He tossed a dark grey jacket and matching pants at his cousin.
Tauras caught the clothes. He ran his fingers over the fabric, remembering when he first met Feliks. The young count's father had worn something similar. He remembered thinking how drab it looked, making the count seem somewhat forgettable.
Tauras slipped the suit on. He and Eduard were a similar build, and it fit him well. The only alternations needed would be to hem the pant legs and jacket sleeves. Eduard pinned the fabric in place as Tauras examined his reflection again. The last time he had worn anything like this had been ten years ago. He had been eighteen. His father had not yet learned the truth about his eldest son. And he had not been yet been disowned. Tauras swallowed and looked away.
"Are you done?"
Eduard nodded.
Tauras dressed himself again in his workman's clothes — stiff and sturdy cotton, meant to last years, unlike the fine wool suit. It seemed absurd his family ever had enough money to spend on such fine things. To think he used to have a new wardrobe every season of every year when buying clothes was a luxury for him now.
Tauras went out to the second floor sitting area. Eduard had the map out again. He perched himself on the edge of the couch, studying it, going over the plan in his head.
His cousin soon joined him.
Tauras rubbed his brow. "The posters will be finished drying tomorrow. I should be able to deliver them later that day. Once I find out about Mathias, we can choose the day I leave. I'll let my customers know I'm going back home...to visit family."
Eduard pressed his lips into a thin line and sat. His cousin looked at him. The candlelight cast Tauras' face in sharp ridges, darkening the heavy circles under his eyes. Eduard swallowed and looked at his hands. His cousin had mentioned Mathias. And though Tauras never outright said what his plan was for getting that information, Eduard had a pretty good idea. Romance, feelings of attraction, were areas where he was admittedly out of his depth. Sure, he knew how to charm both men and women, but the connection was just never there. He sometimes thought perhaps being raised to treat every stranger as a mark had somehow predisposed him to lack those feelings. But watching his mother and stepfather, reading the letters Tauras would send him about Feliks, Eduard knew his absence of romantic attraction was just simply a part of who he was. Still. He did wonder what it was like, to experience it. He only hoped his cousin was not compromising his own feelings for sake of this.
"Tauras…you don't have to do this. There are other ways."
"Like what? I'm the only one with a reason to be there. He'll be expecting the delivery to be made by me," Tauras said sharply, remembering the look Gilbert had given him as he wrote out his address. "We need this information now, Ed. We can't afford to wait and hope to run into him at the tavern again."
Eduard looked at his cousin. The shadow was firmly in place behind Tauras' eyes. He hated seeing that look there. Almost as if his cousin were two people occupying the same body. The Tauras he knew and the one he didn't. The secret one. "I just…don't want you hurting yourself in the process," he said quietly.
"I won't."
.
o
.
Sergeant-major Beilschmidt's residence stood just south of the garrison, in one of the more affluent suburbs, surrounded by parks and tree-lined streets. There was a millpond nearby where residents could spend an afternoon rowing on its calm waters or enjoying a leisurely walk on the footpath rimming its edge.
Maybe I just like being by the water.
Gilbert had said that. At the tavern. An age ago, it seemed to Tauras. He shifted his gaze from the pond back to the house in front of him. To his left, the sun was setting, sending its golden light spilling across everything it touched. In the windows, the curtains were drawn, reflecting the deepening sky back to him, offering no indication of whether the sergeant-major was indeed home.
Tauras drew a deep breath. And knocked.
The door opened revealing a short, plump old woman whose grizzled hair was pulled back in a low bun. Stern grey eyes stared up at Tauras, waiting for him to state his business.
"...I, uh, have a delivery. F-for sergeant-major — "
"Mr. Laurinaitis!"
The voice rang from within.
Tauras looked past the old woman's shoulder and saw Gilbert descending the stairs.
"Stop scaring our guest, Mrs. Marquardt," Gilbert grinned, playfully admonishing the woman. "Let him in."
Mrs. Marquardt stepped aside as Tauras entered. She shut the door, disappearing soon after into one of the rooms just off the foyer.
"Apologies," Gilbert said. "She came with the house. A decent housekeeper, just not very friendly to people she doesn't know."
Tauras cleared his throat. "I have your posters ready." He held up the rolled sheets of paper tied with twine.
"Bring them up to my study."
Gilbert mounted the stairs, indicating Tauras to follow. As he did, he passed a large room that he guessed to be the parlor. There were chairs and a couch, a fireplace against the far wall, and an upright piano beside it. Tauras' eyes lingered a moment on the instrument, struck by a sudden memory of home. It had been years since he last played...
"That came with the house too."
Tauras looked up. Gilbert was watching him from halfway up the stairs.
"I prefer the flute myself," the sergeant-major continued. "Easier to feel where your fingers are on it. My father still insisted I learn piano too, but my brother was always the more accomplished one."
They entered the study. Gilbert took a seat at his desk. Tauras hovered awkwardly across from him.
"You finished these much sooner than I expected," Gilbert said. He gestured to a chair. Tauras lowered himself onto its edge. "May I see them?"
"Of course!" Tauras tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and started to untie the twine.
"Your hair is different."
Tauras glanced up. Gilbert was watching him again. The Lithuanian wet his lips. "My cousin — Eduard — h-he gave me a haircut." He unrolled the posters, handing them to Gilbert.
"It looks nice."
Tauras' cheeks reddened. He let his gaze fall.
"You don't know how to take a compliment," Gilbert observed, spreading the prints on his desk.
"No — I mean, that is — I..."
Gilbert's face softened momentarily as Tauras sat stammering. He looked down at the posters, his eyes becoming inscrutable.
"Your...cousin...is a very interesting person, Mr. Laurinaitis."
Tauras picked his head up at that. At the way Gilbert had said cousin. Almost as if he doubted the relation. For the past few days, Tauras wondered how best to broach the subject of Mathias. Now he wondered whether using Eduard, and Gilbert's apparent curiosity about him, might be a way in. But before he had a chance to speak, the housekeeper entered, letting Gilbert know his supper was ready.
Tauras cursed to himself. His opportunity was dwindling...
"Would you dine with me, Mr. Laurinaitis?"
Tauras blinked, unsure if he had heard Gilbert correctly.
"That is, if you're not busy," the gendarme continued, his focus still on the prints. "Mrs. Marquardt always makes too much. And the company would be...welcome." Pale eyes flit up.
Tauras swallowed, his throat having gone dry. "...Thank you, sergeant-major. I-I would enjoy that."
A fleeting smile lit up Gilbert's face. He went downstairs to have his housekeeper set another place at the table, then returned to get Tauras once everything was ready.
The dining room was across the hall from the parlor. A rectangular table stood in the middle of the room, with seating for six: a chair at the head and far end, and two chairs on either side. Gilbert's plate was at the head, Tauras' to his right. The place of honor. Usually reserved for a lady, but as there was no hostess seated at the other end for him to sit beside...
"I hope you don't mind the arrangement," Gilbert said, seeing Tauras eyeing the plates. "I prefer this to shouting down the table to one another."
"No," Tauras said distractedly, again struck by his remembrance of proper seating etiquette. He pulled out his chair and sat, again feeling awkward in his stiff work clothes. Gilbert was not in uniform, but even his everyday dress was of a far better quality than Tauras had worn in years. He looked at his hands. He had scrubbed them as best he could before leaving, but under his fingernails there seemed to be an ever-present layer of black. He hid them under the table, hurriedly picking out the stain as Mrs. Marquardt served the first course, a lentil soup.
Tauras unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap, careful not to slurp or let the soup drip anywhere but the bowl.
Gilbert sipped his wine, watching the Lithuanian with a somewhat amused expression. "I must thank you again, Mr. Laurinaitis, for finishing my order so expediently."
Tauras dabbed the corners of his mouth with the napkin. "Well. I knew it was of importance. Even more so after hearing you and sergeant Kohler discussing it." He cleared his throat and blinked, having realized what he just said. Mathias' name had flown from his lips so effortlessly. He only hoped he could keep the conversation going in that direction...
"Hm. Yes. Sergeant Kohler." Gilbert folded his arms and sat back. "I apologize for his rudeness. The man is overbearing enough as it is, but seeing your cousin...that was a side of him I never expected. Well" — he flicked his wrist dismissively — "at least he'll be out of my hair for a few weeks."
Tauras furrowed his brow, trying to appear politely interested. "…Is that because he'll be back at the border? He…mentioned something about border security before you joined us the other night."
Gilbert laughed. "No. Not immediately. He's taking a leave of absence." He sighed and drank some more wine. "Kohler has not been exactly pleased with my appointment as commander. He thinks it should have gone to him. He's used his dissatisfaction to create some rifts between myself and the other men."
Tauras remembered the guards and the tree. And one of them calling Gilbert a demon under his breath. He shifted his shoulders as he reached for his wine, wanting to push the memory away.
"I have a feeling he's going to use his leave to further the cause for his promotion," Gilbert continued, "if he can get the right ear to listen to him. And given his father's status on the city council, that should not be too difficult..."
A far away look crossed his face then, his jaw working as he chewed the inside of his cheek, thinking. The dining room fell silent.
Mrs. Marquardt entered with the second course. The appearance of a platter of poached cod in mustard sauce shook Gilbert out of his thoughts. He refilled his wine glass.
"My apologies again, Mr. Laurinaitis. I did not mean to bore you with talk of my work."
Tauras sipped his wine. "Oh, not to worry. It's far more interesting than mine, I'm sure."
Gilbert's lips twitched. He watched as Tauras cut his fish, how he ate the flaky meat, the tines of his fork pointing down...
"Is it customary in Lithuania for even printers to observe such etiquette while eating?"
Tauras' chewing slowed, the cod scraping against his throat as he swallowed.
"Your cousin went to boarding school — with Kohler, no less, so I doubt it was far from cheap, knowing his family as I do. And you speak with, and display, mannerisms of someone far above your social class."
"Sergeant-major, I — "
"I believe I've asked you before about your family, Mr. Laurinaitis. What they did. And I believe you told me they were farmers. Of a sort. Yet your bearing would suggest otherwise."
Tauras' heart hammered against his chest. He shut his eyes briefly.
There's nothing to be done for it.
"You are correct, sergeant-major." His voice was thin, as if he could not properly draw breath. He drank a measure of wine and cleared his throat. "My family's fields produced a significant portion of the grain and legumes consumed in the western part of my country. But we did not work the land. The serfs did."
The sergeant-major sat back in his chair, one elbow leaning on the armrest, watching the Lithuanian with a somewhat bemused expression.
Tauras put his knife and fork down, dabbing his mouth again with the napkin. He rose, sparing Gilbert a look, then exited the dining room.
The sergeant-major hurriedly pushed his chair back and followed. "Mr. Laurinaitis! Please, don't go — "
But Tauras had not left. He was in the parlor, seating himself at the piano when Gilbert caught up with him.
"It is bad manners to leave the table halfway through dinner, you know."
It was the same tone Gilbert had used with his housekeeper earlier. Tauras could hear the grin in his voice. A warmth spread through him at the thought, his chest feeling suddenly light. He turned his head a fraction, peering at Gilbert over his shoulder, lips twitching in a subtle smile.
"Do you doubt me?"
Gilbert blinked. "I — doubt — what?"
Tauras' smile widened. He flexed his fingers, turned back to the piano, and began to play.
Bright, fast notes sounding almost like a march filled the parlor. Gilbert drifted over to a chair and sat, watching.
"This was my governess' favorite song," Tauras said. "She would have me play it everyday. And if the tempo was not to her liking, or I missed a note" — the music suddenly stopped — "she would rap my knuckles with a rod."
Tauras faced Gilbert again, the parlor quiet save for a clock ticking away the seconds on the mantle.
"We had been something along the lines of what you would call 'baron.' And we came damn close to losing that title after the revolt in 1830." Tauras' shoulders rounded, his gaze dropping to his hands, now clasped in his lap. "The empire wanted to reduce the nobility, fearing it might lead to another revolution. But my family had always been loyal to the tsar. And my father fought even harder after that to raise our status..." He swallowed, not wanting to think about how his family was faring now, following his participation in the last rebellion. After the 1830 uprising, many noble families had lost everything — not only status, but property and rights — just for offering assistance to anyone connected to the revolt.
"Then why did you leave?" Gilbert asked quietly. "Why leave a life of privilege for one of poverty?"
Tauras shifted his shoulders again, but was saved from answering by the appearance of Mrs. Marquardt, hovering like a shadow to Gilbert's right.
"I've cleared away dinner. I'm guessing you two were done since you left your plates and decided to play music."
Tauras glanced at Gilbert, who grinned guiltily back and stood.
"You eat like he does," the housekeeper said, directing her stern gaze at the Lithuanian. "Like a little bird pecking at its plate. I keep telling you" — her dark eyes now on Gilbert — "you're too thin, sir."
"My apologies, Mrs. Marquardt," Tauras said. "It was delicious. I just...have not eaten like that in quite some time."
The housekeeper put her hands on her hips, considering him a moment, then looked back at Gilbert. "Well, I'm off, Mr. Beilschmidt. Unless you need anything more from me. Your coffee is in the silver pot on the buffet. I'll be back tomorrow first thing for breakfast. And you" — addressing Tauras again — "make sure he gets to bed at a decent time tonight. His mood is always the worse for it when he doesn't. And nothing I've said or done has made a bit of difference." She put her hand on Gilbert's cheek a moment, her eyes softening.
Gilbert saw Mrs. Marquardt to the door. "You have your orders, Mr. Laurinaitis," he said over his shoulder, smirking.
Tauras turned back to the piano, running his fingers over the keys. He began playing something slower, softer. One of his favorite nocturnes. Now that he had the information he needed regarding Mathias, he really should be getting home. Eduard would want to know, though it would not affect their plans much. Tauras would have plenty of time to cross the border and back, though he would still need to find another way for future runs. They could not risk Mathias being at the crossing and recognizing either of them. He was looking at at least two weeks — and he did not plan to stay in Tauragė any longer than he had to. Just long enough to deliver the books and establish contacts in another town —
Gilbert appeared beside the piano, startling Tauras out of his thoughts, his fingers stuttering on the keys. He folded his hands in his lap as the Prussian leaned against the upright, holding a cup in either hand. The dark scent of coffee filled the parlor.
"My apologies. I didn't mean to interrupt your playing," Gilbert said. He handed Tauras a cup and took a seat on the sofa next to the piano. "This governess...was she responsible for your artistic skill as well? I can hardly draw a straight line, not that my father encouraged such pursuits. Art was a fine activity for others, just not his sons."
Gilbert's eyes looked down and away as he said it, his voice colored with a bitter note. Pity plucked like a string at Tauras' chest. That evening was the first time he had heard the sergeant-major speak of his family. He turned to face Gilbert, their knees just barely brushing.
"My father employed a number of tutors for his children. But, yes. She was the one responsible for ensuring I was well-rounded culturally. Provided it was not our culture." Tauras sipped his coffee, eyes flicking up to Gilbert's. "My governess was Russian. The two pieces I played were Russian. My father believed — as did many members of our class — that Lithuanian language and culture was best suited for those of a lower social standing."
"I gather you did not hold with that belief?"
Tauras let his eyes fall. "No. I did not."
"Is that why you left?"
Tauras blinked, lifting his gaze. His face was set. Gilbert's, curious and open. And Tauras wanted nothing more in that moment than to tell him everything. To have one person that knew. And understood. The cup began to tremble in his hand.
Gilbert drew nearer, their knees now interlocked. "Mr. Laurinaitis — "
Tauras leaned forward. And kissed him. The cup tumbling from his fingers, landing with a soft thud on the rug.
Gilbert tensed. He pushed himself away and rose, one hand going to his brow as he turned away.
"I — I'm sorry — "
The apology was hardly out of the Lithuanian's mouth before Gilbert rounded on him again. Tauras stood, bracing for a slap, a punch. Certainly not Gilbert grabbing him by the lapels and pushing him up against the wall for another kiss.
The gendarme was a man accustomed to fighting. It permeated everything he did. The kiss was no different. It was not deep. Not enticing. It was rough. A challenge. Matched by the man's rigid frame.
The shock of the suddenness of it was soon forgotten, though, as Tauras found Gilbert's chest, his waist. If Feliks had been a willow branch, graceful and pliant, Gilbert was an iron rod. Everything about him felt wrong, but Tauras could not let go. Hands followed firm lines down to his trousers, tugging, pulling, tearing them from Gilbert's hips. Fingers scrabbled at his belt — his or Gilbert's, he didn't know, didn't care, limbs tangling in a frenetic dance to get the bare minimum out of the way. Pale fingers gripped into his thighs, then, as the gendarme hoisted him against the wall.
Gilbert's head was a daze, drunk with wine, drunk with desire, as he took Tauras. For the first time in years, he remembered how it felt. Taking without thought, without question. Like the rush of the charge as he spurred his horse on. Conquering and taking and winning. After so much had been taken from him — the academy, his commission, his career, his chance to gain his father's respect — each thought punctuated by a thrust of his hips and God if he could just have this one chance...
Somewhere in the distance, artillery screamed. Or maybe it was him or his head or Tauras, he couldn't tell and it didn't matter as he finally came, long and hard because good God it had been years.
Gilbert's arms shook as he held Tauras, all his strength gone. The Lithuanian's legs were still around him, trembling slightly. And it was then Gilbert realized the full weight of what he had just done.
"Tauras..." he whispered, stricken.
But the Lithuanian simply lifted a hand to the gendarme's cheek, his own face flush, and kissed him softly.
.
.
.
A/N Heeeey Book Smuggler readers! I apologize this chapter took so long to write! But I do hope the length makes up it. Most of the history bits were covered in context in the chapter, like the abolishment of Lithuanian nobility following the uprisings. Another little fun fact is related to the last names I've used for some of the OC characters: Drucker, the man Tauras was apprenticed as a printer to, and Mrs. Marquardt, Gilbert's housekeeper. Both names sort of describe the bearers' positions. Drucker = printer in German, and Marquardt means something along the lines of guardian (and Mrs. Marquardt is kinda like his guardian in this lol!) Thank you so much to everyone who's read, favorited, and commented on this story so far! I really thought I'd be wrapping things up by now, but stuff feels like it's only just beginning...
Next up: the morning after Tauras and Gil's...encounter. And Tauras goes on his first smuggling run.