Klaus Hargreaves

The house falls asleep, enveloped in the coolness of the northern state and hearts that have long since lost hope. The gloomy walls and the extinguished flames in the numerous fireplaces are asleep. The blue-dark roses grown in the garden of the homely Grace are asleep, every corner of the mansion, shrouded in viscous bliss, is asleep. The old scientist is probably already asleep, too, in voluntary confinement, growing overgrown with the centuries-old dust of his chambers. Only young Damenika is not sleeping, hypnotizing the hands of the wall clock with her intent gaze. She had grown accustomed to Klaus coming to her after lights out on Fridays. Fridays were individual training days, which meant he was subjected to the most brutal torture every time. The days of forced overnight stays in crypts were over, but they were replaced by something even more sophisticated. One of Reginald's favorite quests was to send Four on a walk through the cemetery and then force him to recount the stories of those he had met there. After such promenades, the usually incessant Klaus could remain silent for days. On those rare days when his wobbly figure appeared in the doorway of a darkened room, Damenika would invitingly pull back the covers and remain silent with him. Or she would talk until the sound of her voice lulled her brother to sleep, and he would fall into a restless, painful sleep in her arms. That was always the case, until he began to venture out into the streets. Now all that remains of their ritual is an empty bed unmade and a door unnoticed. An hour later, Damenika hopelessly clicks the lock and dives into the icy bed, watching the shadows dancing on the ceiling. Friday evening is burning out, smoking its last minutes, when the shutters of the old window creak, letting in a late guest. Damenika rises on the pillow, peering into the velvet darkness and the nimble silhouette sliding along it. The serene silence of the room is shaken by a short chest cough. Seventh sighs with doomed indignation when the heavy smell of tobacco and alcohol reaches her. “Hey,” Number Four hisses, groping his way deeper into the room.

The house falls asleep, enveloped in the coolness of the northern state and hearts that have long since lost hope. The gloomy walls and the extinguished flames in the numerous fireplaces are asleep. The blue-dark roses grown in the garden of the homely Grace are asleep, every corner of the mansion, shrouded in viscous bliss, is asleep. The old scientist is probably already asleep, too, in voluntary confinement, growing overgrown with the centuries-old dust of his chambers. Only young Damenika is not sleeping, hypnotizing the hands of the wall clock with her intent gaze. She had grown accustomed to Klaus coming to her after lights out on Fridays. Fridays were individual training days, which meant he was subjected to the most brutal torture every time. The days of forced overnight stays in crypts were over, but they were replaced by something even more sophisticated. One of Reginald's favorite quests was to send Four on a walk through the cemetery and then force him to recount the stories of those he had met there. After such promenades, the usually incessant Klaus could remain silent for days. On those rare days when his wobbly figure appeared in the doorway of a darkened room, Damenika would invitingly pull back the covers and remain silent with him. Or she would talk until the sound of her voice lulled her brother to sleep, and he would fall into a restless, painful sleep in her arms. That was always the case, until he began to venture out into the streets. Now all that remains of their ritual is an empty bed unmade and a door unnoticed. An hour later, Damenika hopelessly clicks the lock and dives into the icy bed, watching the shadows dancing on the ceiling. Friday evening is burning out, smoking its last minutes, when the shutters of the old window creak, letting in a late guest. Damenika rises on the pillow, peering into the velvet darkness and the nimble silhouette sliding along it. The serene silence of the room is shaken by a short chest cough. Seventh sighs with doomed indignation when the heavy smell of tobacco and alcohol reaches her. “Hey,” Number Four hisses, groping his way deeper into the room.