A sharp gust of wind, cold and smelling of industrial soot, swept through the broken window, rattling the remaining glass shards in their frames. Laima flinched, instinctively pressing closer to Jurgis, who had moved to shield her from the debris. The air, moments before warm with shared intimacy, now hummed with a different kind of charge – a brittle tension that made the hairs on her arms stand up. Jurgis’s eyes, once soft, had hardened into a familiar, wary glint as he stared at the rock on the workbench. It was an irregular lump of river stone, wrapped in a swatch of faded, dark plush – the kind often used for coffin linings. A solitary slip of scrap paper was tied to it with rough twine. Its message, scrawled in a hasty, almost childish hand, was stark. “*The future is costly. Our silence, more so. Pay for what you have purloined.*” Laima felt a prickle of cold dread, not because of the threat, but because of the sheer audacity of it. Purloined? What had they purloined? The prototype was barely assembled. It hadn't even left the workshop. She reached for the note, her fingers trembling slightly. Her gaze caught on a familiar, tiny smudge on the cloth – a faint, almost invisible trace of sugar. Powdered sugar, from a scone. A very particular kind of scone. Her mind flashed back to Borys, perched on an overturned crate just hours ago, crumbs showering his pristine black coat as he regaled them with fabricated societal decrees. “The schematics,” Laima breathed, her voice a thin whisper. “He took the schematics.” Jurgis’s head snapped up. “Who? Borys? But why? And how could he have known?” “He was here,” Laima said, a flush of anger rising to her cheeks. “He came for tea. He must have seen them, or perhaps even… felt them in my apron pocket when I gave him a refill. He’s always lurking, always watching. And he’s a collector of ‘Karmic Chits’ – a connoisseur of gossip and misfortune. This is his opportunity to profit.” The anger sharpened her focus, sweeping away the last vestiges of her self-doubt. The man wasn't just a nuisance; he was a thief. And a hypocrite. Jurgis’s expression was a study in grim exasperation. “Of course. The only thing more predictable than a greedy bureaucrat is a hungry one. He probably sniffed out the scent of future wealth like a bloodhound. And ‘stolen’? He’s accusing us of stealing *our own work*?” “He’s accusing us of stealing *his* potential profit,” Laima corrected, a new edge to her voice. “He invented the rules, remember? He considers himself entitled to a cut of all ‘unforeseen’ successes. This note is his demand for a betrothal swap tax, but for innovation instead of marriage. It’s a ransom for our own design.” Jurgis surveyed the broken window, then Laima’s determined face. “So, we go to him. The Undertaker’s lair. He has a back room, supposedly for ‘bereavement counseling,’ but it’s always smelled of stale pastries and cheap liquor.” “Then we’ll make sure he truly grieves,” Laima declared, snatching up the note. “He wants to play by his rules? Fine. We’ll play by ours.” The air outside Borys’s establishment, nestled in a quiet, cobblestoned alleyway known as Mourner’s Pass, was thick with the scent of lilies and something vaguely medicinal. Borys’s shop, ‘Elysium’s Embrace,’ was usually a picture of somber dignity, its polished brass sign gleaming under the gaslight. Tonight, however, a faint, rhythmic thumping vibrated from beneath the paving stones. Laima exchanged a glance with Jurgis, who merely raised an eyebrow. They found the entrance to Borys’s ‘counseling’ room — a discreet, unmarked door around the back, tucked beneath a dripping gargoyle. Jurgis knocked with a heavy fist. The thumping abruptly ceased. After a moment, the door creaked open, revealing Borys, looking flustered, a smear of jam near his left ear. He was still wearing his usual funereal attire, but his black cravat was askew, and a solitary scone crumb clung to his lapel. His eyes, usually shifty, darted between Laima and Jurgis. “Ah, my dear Varnas. Ruzgas. A rather… inopportune visit, wouldn’t you say? I’m in the middle of a rather delicate… consolation.” He gestured vaguely behind him, trying to block their view. Laima, however, was done with pleasantries. Her gaze swept past him to the dimly lit space beyond. It was less a counseling room and more a subterranean cavern of indulgence. Shelves crammed with exotic pastries, tarts, and cakes lined the walls, illuminated by flickering gas lamps. A simmering kettle sent plumes of scented steam into the air, mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. A plush armchair upholstered in silk brocade, surprisingly opulent, dominated the center, and from it emanated a series of frustrated wails. As Borys tried to usher them away, the wails intensified, resolving into a familiar, indignant shriek. “Borys! You swindling charlatan! You promised me a vision of ‘unprecedented social elevation’! You said my Karmic Chits were practically overflowing! Instead, Ignas is practically hysterical, his elixir is failing, and my dressmaker says the damask I wanted is out of stock! This isn't divine destiny; it’s a bureaucratic nightmare!” Ruta, hair disheveled, face splotchy with tears and rage, sprang from the armchair, a half-eaten eclair clutched in one hand. Her eyelids twitched, then narrowed into venomous slits as she spotted Laima and Jurgis. “You two! What are *you* doing here? Spying? Gloating? Borys, I thought this was a private consultation!” Borys wrung his hands in theatrical distress. “My dear Ruta, a misunderstanding, I assure you! Merely… a scheduling oversight. These things happen.” “A scheduling oversight resulting in *my* divine path being sabotaged by your fraudulent ‘Book of Etiquette’!” Ruta screamed, flinging the eclair across the room, where it splattered against a shelf of artisanal chocolates. Laima stepped forward, her voice calm amidst the chaos, cutting through the thick, sweet air. “It seems we’re all here for the same reason, cousin. Borys has a rather… expansive interpretation of ‘services rendered.’ We, for instance, are here about our missing schematics.” She held up the blackmail note. “This, I believe, is your handiwork, Borys? Or perhaps your choice of coffin shroud is becoming too recognizable.” Borys’s face went pale beneath his ruddy cheeks. “Purloined? My dear Varnas, I assure you, such accusations are quite… unfounded! I am merely a humble purveyor of comfort in times of distress, and occasionally, a minor intermediary of… societal truths.” “Societal truths, like the entirely fabricated ‘Karmic Book of Etiquette’ and tally chits that you use to extort everyone in Ostrava-Krin?” Laima’s voice was dangerously low now, her gaze unwavering. “The same system you sold to Ruta as ‘divine prophecy’ to secure her betrothal swap, and which you now use to punish anyone who deviates from your arbitrary demands? The same system you invented with the rest of the lower classes to grift the elite?” Ruta gasped, mouth dropping open. “What? A grift? My past-life advantage… the omens… all fake?” Her face crumpled in fresh, even more furious tears. “You LIAR! I’ll have you exiled! I’ll have your entire pastry stash confiscated!” Borys looked between the two women, his eyes frantically searching for an escape. “Now, now, let’s not be hasty! Accusations of such… magnitude… could have severe repercussions. For everyone. Especially if such information were to reach the ears of the wider public. Imagine the chaos! The questioning of authority! The… loss of faith in our venerable institutions!” He cast a panicked glance at Jurgis, who stood by Laima’s side, arms crossed, an almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. “Exactly,” Laima said, pressing her advantage. “Which is why you will hand over our drafting sheets, Borys. Now. Otherwise, I will ensure that every common citizen, every struggling inventor, every family unable to afford your ‘betrothal swap tax,’ knows exactly how this system works. I will expose your entire operation, from the fake omens to the exorbitant chit assessments, and your little underground pastry empire will collapse beneath public outrage. And you, Borys, will be the most unpopular undertaker in Ostrava-Krin. No more free snacks.” Borys whimpered, his eyes fixed on Laima’s unyielding face. The thought of losing his pastry supply seemed to break him more than the threat of public exposure. “The technical rolls… fine! They’re in the hidden compartment behind the macaron shelves. Just… don’t tell anyone about the artisanal marmalade selection!” Ruta, however, had had enough. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. Betrayed by Borys, humiliated by Laima, her ‘destiny’ reduced to a cheap trick. Her gaze landed on the polished mahogany showcase table where a gleaming resin-brass prosthetic leg, their *physical prototype*, was carefully placed beneath a glass dome. It sat there as Borys’s brazen trophy, meant to tempt prospective buyers. With a guttural cry of rage, Ruta lunged forward, sweeping her arm across the table. The gas lamp perched precariously on the edge toppled with a sickening crash. Glass shattered, and a burst of flame erupted, licking hungrily at the linen runner. As the fire spread, Ruta snatched the prosthetic leg from its stand, the polished brass catching the orange glow. She turned, her eyes wild with malice, and slammed the heavy iron cellar door shut, the clang echoing through the smoke-filled room. A heavy bolt slid into place with a definitive *thunk*, plunging Laima, Jurgis, and Borys into the rapidly darkening, burning cellar.

The Undertaker's Double Cross