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 Ancient candelabra, the wax candles of which had long since been replaced by electric ones, adorned the walls, along with tapestries and heavy large paintings.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.
I walked into the room, threw my knapsack in a corner, poured fresh blood into an iron goblet, and contemplated the fire dancing in the fireplace. Sometimes I thought about people and marvelled at how imperfect they are: where do they find time for studies, seminars, recreation and personal life when they need sleep and food every 24 hours, at least three times a day? We are another matter. We are always full of vigour and energy. We do not need to sleep, but only for a couple of seconds we go deep into the depths of our consciousness, and that is enough for a whole week. The blood of one victim lasts at least three days, a week at the most, depending on how hardened the organism is.
In the evening I went down to the main hall, where I found my parents and Markus and his fiancée: Mariszka had recently moved in with us and had become a legal resident of the castle and a member of our family.
Her mother and father always sat next to each other: they were very fond of each other and rarely parted. Mortals thought they were my brother and sister, so young and beautiful they were.
My mother was a native Czech. Despite the fact that she was over five hundred years old, she was beautiful: she had skin as matte white as snow, her beautiful long wavy hair of dark brown colour was astonishingly luxurious. Light brown eyes, a clear, gently arched brow line. My mother was a remarkably beautiful woman, and no mortal gave her more than twenty-five years of age.
My father, a true native of Foggy Albion, had the same white skin as his wife, but his coal-black hair gave him a somewhat gloomy and over-aristocratic appearance. His eyes – cold, blue, smiled rarely. In the eyes of mortals, he was a young, gorgeous man. In reality, he was five hundred and seventy-four years old.
