Duzenburg was too large to be considered a village and too small to be called a city. It was at that awkward adolescent stage, having outgrown its country charm but not yet possessing the culture and society that comes with a vast and varied population. The type of place where one could find a variety of businesses, but was too small to support multiple vendors within each trade. A community that grew so quickly I could walk the streets and be greeted by unfamiliar faces, yet it had not reached the point where I could turn a corner and get lost in the bustle.

I could wait for the Duzenburg to catch up to me. I was nothing if not patient.

I exited the carriage and dusted off my hat.

"Shall I wait for you here, sir?" my driver asked. More precisely, he was my father's driver. I had arrived in my father's carriage. And I had come to town at my mother's urging. It was an undeniable truth. I was a puppet purchased by, provided for, and at the mercy of my parents.

I took a breath before answering. The fresh air I had enjoyed at the start of my journey was noticeably absent, replaced with Duzenburg's own unique bouquet that consisted primarily of horse manure and sewage. A woman approached us. She carried a bag on her shoulder and two babes, one on each hip. Both children cried. Her posture screamed of exhaustion, her expression misery. Guilt washed over me like an ocean wave. I had contributed nothing to the world and had every want indulged. She, however, clearly struggled and likely worked herself to the bone.

"No need to wait, Giles. See to it that this woman and her children are brought home safely. I imagine she engages in more exercise than she deems necessary, while I am never afforded enough. I will find my own way home, once my business here is settled."

"Sir, you understand that the tailors is on the other side of town?" he asked.

"I am aware."

His jaw tightened. I am certain that he was tempted try harder to see my mother's wishes fulfilled, but wisely knew his efforts would be wasted.

"Very well," he said, before hopping down and greeting the small family I'd asked him to aid.

I placed my hat on my head, tipped the rim, and walked down the road in the direction of the tailor. As I turned a corner, I caught a glimpse of the woman and her children being loaded into the carriage. I paused. Her demeanor was completely changed. She almost looked... relaxed. I smiled, knowing I'd fulfilled my good deed for the day. But I did not dally. I could not afford to linger in plain sight.

I continued along my path until I arrived at a building with a conveniently dark overhang. I tucked myself into the shadows and waited. Once I was certain Giles was gone, I crossed the street and glanced up. It wasn't necessary. I knew precisely where I was, but I never could resist the view. That sign always brought a smile to my face—Rigsby Printing. Surely, any town with a printing press was destined for greatness.

I pushed on the door and called out, "Rigsby?"

I had not even taken a step across the threshold when I caught a whiff of something that dangled in the air. I turned at the waist search for the source.

"Robert? What are you doing here?"

It was Rigby. He'd entered the main office from one of the storage rooms. He stood along the wall opposite me carrying papers in his left hand and a cup of tea in his right. I stepped inside and closed the door.

"Just now, I was trying to identify what had caused that heavenly smell. It almost masked the stench."

He continued to his desk and set the cup down. "Most likely it was bread. A new bakery opened a few doors down. This time of day, she makes bread. She delivers it after her shop closes and then makes more before opening.''

I lifted an eyebrow. "She?"

"Yes. Times are changing." He tapped the paper he'd been carrying, forming an orderly stack, before placing them in the corner of his desk.

I set my cane next to the front door. "It is not so uncommon. There has always been a place in business for those women not blessed with enough wealth or beauty to secure a husband."

He looked at me over the brim of his spectacles. "Oh. I assure you, that particular baker has an over abundance in at least one of those categories."

"Really?" I looked out the window but found no sign of the shop. "Perhaps, I should pop over and buy a loaf of bread."

"No. You should come by in the afternoons. She makes cookies then. Her bread is excellent, but her cookies are divine."

I turned. Rigby flopped down into his chair and took off his spectacles. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. "But the smell did not reach you at home. Tell me. Why are you in town? Have you got something for me?"

"You know me so well. I do indeed." I walked toward him, reached into my inner breast pocket, and withdrew several sheets of paper. I held them out. "Here is an account of my latest adventures."

He snatched the pages from my hand, unfolded them, and began to read. His eyes moved down the page. Once they reach the bottom, the pages fell from his fingers. His eyes bulged out of their sockets and his mouth hung open.

"But you did not do these things yourself? You interviewed someone, surely."

I could hear the reverence in his voice.

"And where would the fun be in that?" I asked, enjoying his shock and admiration.

A draft of tomorrow's news sheets lay on the edge of his desk. One of the headlines caught my attention.

"But a waterfall? You could have drowned, or broken your neck."

Oh. Perhaps, I'd misread him. "But I didn't," I explained. I lifted the sheet and read. "Enormous wolf terrorizing locals? That's terrifying isn't it?"

He shook his head and took the new sheets out of my hands. "When you started this, you wrote of silly pranks. Taking a pear from a fruit bowl while touring a grand estate, or slipping into a lecture hall without an invitation. Your tales were amusing but not dangerous. I have said nothing as you continued to escalate things, but I can no longer remain silent. This has become ridiculous. You cannot continue behaving in such a reckless manner. What would your family say?"

"My public demands it, and my family must never find out. I'd be disinherited. You know how mother frets." I pulled a chair out from under a second desk and dragged it closer to Rigby. "Speaking of my public, how many of last month's pamphlets did we sell?"

"Six-hundred, but that isn't the point. If you continue like this, you will be killed soon enough, and we will have no new pamphlets at all." He waved his arms around as if doing so would help illustrate his point. "Why don't you just make it up?"

I sat down. "Write about fake adventures? Don't be absurd."

"People do it all the time. It's called fiction."

I shook my head. "And what would the readers think of me if they found out? They love me because I am bold and daring. You want to turn me into some boring writer who hides away all day and imagines what it must feel like to live life." I pointed to the pages I had handed him earlier. "Seven."

"What?"

"Print Seven hundred of that story there. I will see that we grow our following."

"Unbelievable." He closed his eyes and exhaled. "You're concerned about your subscribers? This is your life we are speaking of. And why do you care what they think of your Captain Barver? No one associates him with you. And even if they did, how would they have any way of find out whether or not you had actually done these feats? Half of the readers probably already assume it's all fiction."

"They may not know my name or face, but I know the identity of the Captain. You cannot imagine how thrilling it is to sit at a tavern and overhear strangers speak of him. He is a legend. It would crush me to hear them call him a fraud."

Rigby leaned forward and removed a pipe from his desk drawer.

"But these stunts are getting too dangerous." He stroked his chin. "Your obsession with popularity is unhealthy and pointless. Any respect or admiration gained through this publication is directed toward a fictional man."

"You are mistaken. I am the Captain."

"Forcing yourself to assume and act the role of someone you are not, does not change who you are."

"I do not force myself to do anything. I am a man of adventure."

"No you are not. You may enjoy the attention, but we both know, that is not your life. You are the son of a very successful merchant who will go into law or the clergy. There is worth and value in these professions, and you should learn to accept that." He turned and looked at a large box of printed cards. "This doesn't have anything to do with Michael, does it?"

I gritted my teeth. Even hearing my brother's name annoyed me. I wanted to snap that such a suggestion was an impossibility. Why Rigby, if my behavior is in any way objectionable, it could not have been Michael's doing, for he is infallible. Or so I'd been taught. The perfect child—handsome, smart, brave, kind, and completely and utterly dull. How my parents had failed to notice he was shallow, superficial, and boring, I will never understand. He was a portrait of a great man. Lovely on the surface and a void of nothingness below.

"What? No. Why would anything I do ever be because of him?"

Rigby sighed. "I've known you since we were children. Your father's store used to be right next door to this very building..."

"Yes. I am aware. I may have voiced some sort of resentment or jealousy toward my brother years ago. If so, you must forgive me. I ways a child then and have since grown up. I do not think of him any longer."

Rigby stood up and crossed the room. Out of the box be had been eyeing earlier, he withdrew a card. "I'm glad to hear it. There really isn't a need to compare yourself to him. He was born first. Naturally, he would be the first to reach certain milestones."

He dropped the card in my lap before reclaiming his seat. I read it twice. It was an invitation to a ball in my brother's honor. Heat crawled up my neck. I looked at the date. "This is scheduled for next week. He's coming home? And you knew?"

"I assumed you did as well."

"No," I snapped. "Clearly, I did not." I stood up, knocking the chair over in the process. I paced and stared at the floor. "So that is why she insisted I get fitted for a new suit," I mumbled to myself. "Everyone must look perfect for the brave war hero."

"You are meant to be at the tailor?" Rigby pulled out his pocket watch. "He is across town, and he closes..."

"I am well informed on businesses hours, Rigby."

"You are certainly on edge for a man who never thinks of your brother..."

"I don't," I snapped. "But if he is going to return home and be paraded about as if he is a God, I don't have a choice, now do I?"

Rigby laid a hand on my arm. I stopped pacing and stared at him. How had he snuck up on me like that?

"Have you ever considered why it is that Michael receives so much attention?"

I scoffed. "I assume that attractive features coupled with intelligence is more important than ignorance, shallowness, and grace?" I asked in mocking tones.

"Or it is because he puts his efforts towards causes that help the community. While you scale buildings and jump from waterfalls, he fights in war..."

"He doesn't fight. He is in charge of ordering goods."

"I did not mean to imply he is brave, nor do I want to encourage your rash behavior, but if you insist on taking risks, ignore decorum, and go against your family's wishes, maybe you could at least try to do things that might make a difference in the lives of those around you."

"I see. I must do something to prove I am better than Michael. And, if I find myself in a dangerous position but manage to escape, my family will accept it if the end result is that I have improved their lives."

He cocked his head to one side. "Um. Well, sort of. I think if you act with purpose, say enlisted in the military, you might be able to share some of your experiences with those who matter most to you. Maybe, having earned their respect, you will find the fulfillment you need and can at last be content living a balanced life."

"I understand your meaning."

"Good." He looked at his pocket watch. "If you want to make it to the tailors..."

"Say no more." I opened the door and walked outside.