Two for tragedy. Volume 1 - стр. 31

Full of these thoughts I went to the next pair, but comfortably seated in my chair, I did not hear the teacher's voice. What he was talking about or how he was explaining the hieroglyphics adorning the blackboard was unimportant. I couldn't concentrate. I looked at that blackboard and saw blurred silhouettes spreading out on it like watercolours on wet paper.

In the afternoon, an unexpected sun peeked out, which brought me some difficulties. Pulling my jacket over my ears and trying to hide in the shadows cast by the university, I made my way swiftly to my car. When I reached it and placed my palm on the door handle, a ray of sunlight hit my skin, immediately turning my palm from young and beautiful to ugly, aged, yellowed like ancient parchment. I was instantly in the car and smiled mockingly at this little incident: fortunately, there were no witnesses I had to eliminate so that no one would ever know what Cedric Morgan was really like.

I arrived at the castle, put the car in the garage and went up to the main hall, which served as our sitting room and, occasionally, our dining room, when we, with goblets full of fresh blood, sat by the huge fireplace and had conversations on a variety of topics.

Although I had at my disposal my own spacious annexe, to which I had to walk across the castle, I occupied only one room. Along the way, I rarely encountered any unexpected visitors, as the castle was empty most of the time. I did not consider the presence of six servants, who travelled through the castle by secret passages, so as not to glimpse their masters, worthy of attention.

For a family as old, wealthy, and honourable as the Morgans, the presence of six servants was something extraordinary, out of the ordinary. But we got along just fine with that number, for with the advancement of science and technology, machines did most of the work. Yes, a hundred years ago servants did everything, and in those days our castles were cared for by no less than fifty servants. Now there was simply no need for them. Naturally, the servants were not humans, but vampires who could not find their place in life and preferred to obey the strongest.

Morgan's Castle was a work of art: Gothic architecture did not allow itself to be disfigured by the gaudy gilding and opulence of later styles. Austerity and simplicity – that is what caught the eye of the numerous guests of our cloister. The legs of tables, chairs, sofas and even wardrobes were ubiquitous decorations, representing the paws of predatory animals. Each room had large stone fireplaces guarded by stone predators, different in each room. Ancient candelabra, the wax candles of which had long since been replaced by electric ones, adorned the walls, along with tapestries and heavy large paintings. It smelled medieval, but it wasn't gloomy-it was lit by a subdued, soft light that illuminated the entire castle, hidden so skilfully that the walls seemed to glow from within.

My room was a large, rectangular room of little variety and luxury, covered with a thick, soft carpet, its grey colour blending with the stone floor. There was a wooden bed, just for show, a black, somewhat worn desk, a comfortable wide sofa, two large armchairs by the carved fireplace, guarded by two curved stone panthers, and my huge personal library on oak shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. Above the fireplace hung a large pastel painting in a rough oak frame depicting the stark landscape of a Norwegian fjord where our family had lived about a hundred years ago, and which was so etched in my memory that I had painted the landscape simply from memory. Heavy thick black curtains blocked the room from light and sunlight – I hated to see what a monster I had become in two and a half centuries, so the curtains were always tightly closed. This sparsely furnished room was my personal retreat and a place of true solitude, where I knew little or no disturbance.