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It’s rather unkind, after a train crash and a few days of walking, to be reminded that regardless of how much Matt resembles the lost grand duke, he has to act the part, too. Anatoly reminds his brother of this, anyway.
Some of the men they auditioned had the acting polished to perfection but sadly didn’t look the part. Matt on the other hand is a dead ringer for every ferrotype and painting of Matthew Michael Murdock, but acts nothing like a royal. There is no need for a blind boy in an orphanage to possess the best decorum, Vladimir supposes.
One could argue that manners change over ten years, but Vladimir and Anatoly aren’t about to take that risk.
Matt strides ahead of the brothers with an even gait, and though he might not stomp, he certainly doesn’t float like royalty is supposed to. He has a large bag slung over a shoulder and a long timber cane clutched in one hand, sweeping over the ground a few steps before him. The auburn highlight to his brown locks shines in the afternoon sunbeams that peek through the overcast sky.
“It’ll get dark soon,” Anatoly says. “We should stop, set up camp.” As if to agree, the wind picks up a little, its biting cold trying to tear through warm layers of coats and jackets.
Matt turns on his heel, a baffled expression on his face. “Why? It’s not that late, is it?” Wide brown eyes blink expectantly, no longer hidden behind his crimson glasses that were lost in the snow amidst the wrecked train.
Vladimir checks his watch, wrenching the suitcase in that hand higher to see. “Almost five.”
The brunet frowns, almost pouting. “That’s another hour of daylight. If I can walk around seeing nothing, you two can handle dusk.” With a self-assured nod, Matt turns back around and marches onward down the dirt path.
Vladimir follows the path with his eyes; the earth bordered by lush grass, weaving past tall trees and leading to a bridge not too far away, then disappearing over another hill. “Aren’t you tired?” he asks, jogging to catch up. What feels like the heel of a shoe in the bag at his back hits him square in a rib.
“No. We stayed at an inn last night and stopped for lunch for an hour today. Why, are you tired?”
Vladimir rolls his eyes. “And if I am, your grace?”
“Too bad.”
Anatoly chuckles quietly, a few paces behind them. Vladimir doesn’t bother to send a glare his brother’s way, while Matt smiles as if he has won. That’s one more for the tally that Vladimir knows Anatoly is keeping, but can never find, and so can’t tear to pieces.
“You know we can’t have an audience with the-” Vladimir coughs, “with your grandmother, unless we convince her assistant that it’s really you.”
“But I don’t even know if it is really me that’s the grand duke,” Matt protests, tone earnest. “Besides, how could the assistant know?”
Anatoly sighs. “The dowager empress gives her assistant questions to ask, tells them what to check for. If you don’t act enough like royalty…” he trails off with a shrug.
Vladimir nods in thanks for the explanation, then looks to Matt once more. “We told you what we know; what you can’t remember. If she says that you are the lost Grand Duke Matthew, you’ll be going to parties in ballrooms and dinners with other royalty.”
“Interviews with newspapers, greeting the public,” Anatoly says, waving an arm.
Vladimir hums, “Exactly.” The group is closer now to the latest swift stream that cuts across the rolling green hills, ready to cross the bridge above it here. The crossing is scarcely large enough to allow a carriage safe passage through, but plenty wide enough for the trio.
Matt’s confident stride falters and he slows the sweep of his cane. “I’m not so sure. It sounds like a lot to learn in a couple of weeks.” His cane hits timber, tapping the boards leading to the bridge’s raised platform.
Vladimir stops walking and drops his bags into the dirt, wispy clouds rising up around his boots. “You were born in a palace by the sea,” he says.
Matt stops walking, bringing his cane to stand by his side. “Back east?” he gestures to the way from which they’ve travelled.
“And north by fifty miles,” Anatoly says, setting his bags to the ground with a little more care than his brother. “You grew up in the palace, outside the city, riding horseback and reading books. Wearing expensive clothes, playing in the gardens.”
The brunet keeps his conflicted expression, eyebrows drawn together. He shrugs his shoulders, readjusts the bag strap there with his free hand.
“Imagine how it was,” Vladimir says as he steps onto the edge of the bridge.
“Like you said, there's a lot to learn-” Anatoly begins, following his brother.
Matt waves his cane dismissively and lifts the bag from his shoulder. “All right. If you really think I should learn… I’m ready.” He gives them a forced smile. “Where do we start?”
The brothers share a victorious grin while Matt awaits an answer. The elder brother speaks first. “Your walk. It’s all right, but it needs to be more regal. As if you were greeting other royals at a lavish party.”
Matt sets his bag and cane on the ground, then attempts to stand up straighter. It’s difficult to tell if it worked, thanks to the heavy greatcoat he wears.
“Take off your coat; you look like you slouch, with it on,” Vladimir says, reaching out to tug at Matt’s sleeve.
Matt follows, wandering onto the upwards slope of the bridge to its platform, and works on the buttons of his coat. “This is a bridge, right? It’s more even ground to practise walking on,” he says, but he doesn’t sound so sure about it all. He turns and waves a hand, in search of the bridge railing. He sheds his coat and wrests the scarf from his neck to set the articles upon the timber, then turns back to the brothers.
Vladimir stares for perhaps a moment too long, admiring Matt’s muscular figure, the pale expanse of his throat and the strong line of his jaw. “Shoulders back,” Vladimir says, pushing at one said shoulder with a shake of his head, “and stand up tall. Take a few steps.”
Matt shifts his posture as he’s told and adjusts the collar of his long-sleeved shirt. He places one hand on the railing to orientate himself, then lets go and walks a little ways across the bridge.
The brothers follow along, scrutinising the supposed-royal’s gait.
“Lift your feet a little,” Vladimir says.
Matt takes another few steps, his shoes no longer scuffing the wooden boards. He reaches the end of the bridge and turns around, almost tripping over his own feet. Vladimir sighs.
“Arms up, out to your sides; float, don’t just walk,” Anatoly says.
The would-be grand duke raises his arms as if pretending to soar, and takes a few careful, light steps. “I feel a little foolish,” he says with a frown. “Am I floating?”
“Like a little boat,” Anatoly says. “Then you give a bow.”
Matt lowers his arms a little and bows deeply, then straightens his back once more. He keeps one arm up, while his other hand smooths back the dark locks of hair that have fallen out of place from the bow. “And then?” he asks, frown replaced by a small smile.
“Your hand receives a kiss,” Anatoly says, matter-of-fact. After a moment of silence, he takes a step to jab a pointy elbow into his brother’s ribs.
Vladimir winces, glad for the cushioning of his overcoat, and obliges. He takes Matt’s closest hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles, skin chilly from the lack of gloves. He makes a mental note to find another pair at the next village.
Matt blushes for a moment and turns his head away, as if looking to the river running beneath them. “I don’t know about all this,” he mutters to the river, but doesn’t take his hand back. “How can I learn it? Habits take time.”
“We have time,” Vladimir squeezes Matt’s hand before he lets go.
“Trust me, if my brother can learn to act like a royal, anyone can,” Anatoly says.
Vladimir kicks at his brother’s shin, and gets a shove to the shoulder for his trouble. He stumbles back, loses his footing, and hits the floorboards with a resounding thump.
Matt laughs warmly, and suddenly the fall is almost worth it.