Aliyn Raven (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
aliyn_raven) wrote2023-01-06 12:50 am
aliyn_raven) wrote2023-01-06 12:50 am
Entry tags:
If you go hunting a tiger... (Chapter 1)
Summary: I never wanted to live in their world. They dragged me here by force. Well, let them learn to live in the reality that I will create from their world.
https://www.wattpad.com/story/330893564-if-you-go-hunting-for-a-tiger
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44014216
As many as four men pushed me into the car. Of course, I fought back, but the result was zero. I couldn't even bite the hand that was covering my mouth: it was wearing a thick leather glove.
"You don't need to shout, Fräulein Alex," said one of the men, who was sitting next to the driver. The third and fourth were in the back seat on either side of me. The third held my hands, the fourth clamped my mouth. The first added: "Your grandfather wants to see you, Fräulein."
I was so dumbfounded by the word "Fräulein" said by a young guy that I missed "grandfather" past my ears. It's been about fifty years since no one calls a girl "Fräulein". "Frau" also no one ever says. A woman from birth to old age is only "Fru" in modern Alnorria, and no one dares to get into her intimate life. I only saw "Fräulen" and "Frau" in the old novels.
"Your grandfather, Signorina," said the second guy who was driving in the Southern Alnorrian dialect, "is waiting for you at his summer residence."
So. Grandfather, it is. This asshole came into my life yesterday around noon. And before that, I didn’t even suspect his existence all my nineteen years.
And, judging by the kidnapping, and even by the "Signorina", which has been out of use even earlier than the "Fräulein", nothing good awaits me in the company of my grandfather.
+++
More precisely, it was not grandfathered himself, but his lawyer, who showed up at granny's candy shop and informed me that Mr. Terrent ordered me to immediately come to the east wing of his summer house and begin training as the heiress of the TGS conglomerate.
It turned out that the guy who knocked up my mom out twenty years ago, cloud her mind before the end of all abortion terms and fled — this was the son of Dave Terrent, president of the TGS concern.
And my granny told me that he was a biker, very handsome and just as stupid, who at first promised to get married, settle down and deliver orders, but escaped and died in an accident even before I was born.
"And how did old Terrent intimidate my mother," I asked the lawyer, "that she didn't file for alimony? Besides, my mother died seventeen years ago, and my grandmother became my guardian. Alimony is paid only to the child, so both the guardian and the shelter can collect it. How did Terrent threaten my granny?"
We — my granny and I — were not beggars, the candy shop provided a more or less decent life, but a man is obliged to bear the responsibility for the production of children on an equal footing with a woman. If he doesn't want himself to change diapers and do homework with the kids, let him pay for a babysitter and a good school.
The lawyer — a man in his fifties, smartly dressed and colorless — said with surprise: "You just found out that you have a grandfather, but all you want to say is «alimony»?"
"Not only. Within a month I want to receive two million eight hundred thousand brangs, or I'll demand through the court's five million six hundred thousand ones. And since the court is a scandal, and commerce only succeeds in silence, it makes more sense for Terrent to pay."
The lawyer all tensed up, his face became predatory.
"Why did you decide that Mr. Terrent would pay you?"
"Because something always belongs to children in big business, and I'm my father's only heir. And if he was alive or had other children, you wouldn't be sitting here."
"And you don't care about your father's death?" The lawyer didn't particularly diligently portray indignation.
"My father left me before I was born," I reminded him. "But we don't live in the Middle Ages, and bastards have equal rights with marriage-children."
"Why such strange amounts? And why are they different?"
"A simple person can only shake the minimum out of the ruler of the world," I explained. "If for concerns and conglomerates the minimum is one million, then for an ordinary person it is a kilogram of average-quality potatoes. Now this kilogram is worth two brang eighty tungs. Probate and divorce lawyers, according to the newspapers, always take half of what the client will receive in court. All that's easy."
"But why potatoes?" The lawyer was puzzled.
"A kilogram of potatoes per day… or rice, it depends on the region… It means that a person will not die of hunger. This isn't enough for a healthy diet, it will not clothe, will not shelter from the weather, will not warm the house, but a kilogram of potatoes or rice is the ultimate minimum, below which life is impossible. Therefore, if you want to understand and appreciate everything that is connected with money, property, world stock price and all that, count through kilоgrams of medium-quality potatoes."
"Just don't say such nonsense in front of Mr. Terrent," the lawyer said squeamishly.
"I don't need to talk with him at all," I replied. "There are you for this kind of thing. And you will clarify to the old goat that for me his conglomerate is more of a burden than a profit. TGS has a lot of hemorrhoids, but zero pleasure. Therefore, I choose my share of the inheritance, and I do not want to know anything further about either my father or his family."
"No one," said the lawyer with icy malice, "dares to refuse Mr. Terrent. And no one dares to talk about him in such a tone."
I snorted and took out my smartphone.
"I'll repeat it all on social networks. The tabloids will be delighted. And Mr. Terrent will shit himself reading what they have to say about him."
The lawyer was not a fool, he assessed the situation instantly, and the most amiable smile bloomed on his face.
"Don't rush, Miss. The tabloids will make you uncomfortable too."
I, not yet suspecting where I had gotten myself into, grunted at the word "Miss" — the lawyer seems to have jumped out of the pre-hippie era, and does not know that if he speaks the northern dialect of Alnorrian, then he must use "Ms" or "Mx" — and I explained mockingly: "The tabloids will make a great ad for a candy shop. And for free!"
"But silence and advertising in quarterly forums are more useful for a family-oriented and nerd-oriented establishment." The lawyer's smile got even sweeter.
I shrugged. In general, he is right. Candy shops are only of interest to parents and quiet, solitude-loving enthusiasts of all sorts of individualistic hobbies — even when people order sweets for parties and weddings, they still choose the family-singleton shop, it's verified.
"Revenge tastes better than money," I replied. "In addition, the profit lost on the noise can be compensated by interview fees. And when the noise subsides, the candy shop will work as before. It will be even better than before: the scandal will be quickly forgotten, and the name of the place where there are sweets will settle in the subconscious of people. But a large enterprise will only have losses, and people will remember that it was involved in some kind of dirty scandal, so it’s better to look for products from other companies. Everyone hates super-rich people and only remembers bad things about them."
The lawyer's face twisted.
"You are very practical for a young girl," he hissed.
"Practicality is the most important thing for a girl," I was a little surprised at his remark. "So the granny said to me, and her granny told her. Fools can run conglomerates and concerns because for them the board of directors and a crowd of managers work. But a simple pastry woman or a lawyeress can only rely on herself."
The lawyer grimaced even more. Recently lost the process to some young, but zealous rivaless? It looks like it. But I don't give a damn. I said I had a job waiting for me and kicked the lawyer out.
+++
And now I'm going to my grandfather, accompanied by four scumbags.
Very beautiful and stylish ones, by the way. All of them are about twenty-eight years old and they have exteriors for every taste: brunet, blond, brown-haired and red. All have the stamp of education on their snouts. Ones are not at all like the riffraff that are hired for kidnappings. The only strange thing is that they are dressed in tuxedos during the day.
"Young Miss," said the one who was covering my mouth, "I will remove my hand if you promise not to scream."
I nodded as best I could. What's the point of yelling? Now I need to free my hands and show the sign of the victim to passing cars: it's a fist in which the thumb is clamped by the rest. And I hope these people have watched the social advertisements.
Red removed his hand. A brown-haired person also let me go. I wiped my lips with the back of my hand. Both guys here handed me disposable sanitary doilies. It was in sync, like they were rehearsing.
I didn't refuse, I took both, wiped both my hands and my face, and threw doilies into a small box, which was set up by the blond sitting in the front passenger seat.
"My name is Helmut," he said. "At your service, Fräulein."
"I'm Marco," the brunette driver introduced himself. "At your service, Signorina."
"I'm Raoul." It's a brown-haired one. He spoke with a slight French accent. "At your service, Mademoiselle."
"I'm James," the red said. "At your service, young Miss."
[Let me introduce myself: Alex,] I mentally said in the tone of this mediocre operetta. [And I really want to punch you in the snouts.]
But as enraging as the derogatory treatment and lousy behavior (you'll be sued for a sickly sum for "Mademoiselle" in France and the French-speaking regions of Switzerland and Canada), now is not the time to be outraged. I'd better put it on the bill which I'll issue my grandfather.
Unfortunately, the car had dark windows, and no one would see my SOS gesture. And these four kidnapped me in the back place of a candy shop, and there can't be any witnesses. They also took away my phone. It remains to be hoped that one of my friends will get worried that I have not been on social networks for a long time. Beyond that, the candy shop is closed.
Oh, my granny! She's in the hospital, and when the news of the kidnapping reaches her, it's going to be a nightmare.
"If my granny dies because of Terrent and your gang," I began, hissing like a snake with rage, "I…"
"It's all right, young Miss," James interrupted me. "Your grandmother gave you a blessing."
Helmut immediately showed me the screen of the phone, which showed the grandmother in her hospital room.
"I'm glad, dear, that you accepted the invitation of grandf…"
"I have changed my mind!" I screamed. "I don't like him, and I'm going to you right now!"
"This is a recording, Mademoiselle," said Raoul. "Your grandmother is on her way to the Noddar clinic now, and if you will be a smart girl, she will stay there for the full course of treatment."
Chills ran through me. The old sneaky goat knew where to hit. Clinic Noddar is the best in the country, and very expensive. And the chance of getting free treatment from my granny is zero, she doesn't live on a pension with benefits.
And at that moment I realized one very important and insidious thing.
"And where is the guarantee that this isn't photoshop? Let me talk to my grandmother in person."
"If your grandfather, Fräulein," said Helmut, "will be pleased with you, we will take you to a meeting with your grandmother."
I kept silent. And mentally added zero to the amount that my grandfather owed me.
The car stopped. And James said: "Now we will go up to the roof, where the plane is waiting. Behave yourself, young Miss. You have yet to learn how to be a Lady, but even you know the minimum ideas of decency."
[Oh yes! The amount of compensation will be so decent that even a mega-billionaire will have a blow!]
I didn't say anything out loud, just bared my teeth in a parody of an amiable smile.
"A little more noble restraint," Raoul said, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
There was nothing more interesting. I was conveyed to the elevator, which took us to the roof, where a small light vertical take-off aircraft was waiting.
"The stupid showing off," I could not resist. "Why didn't the helicopter please him?"
"Herr Terrent is the head of a significant enterprise, not a policeman or a paramedic, Fräulein," Helmut replied haughtily. "Neither he nor his heiress can't use a helicopter."
Snobbery greatly limits the possibilities of a snob. I didn't say it out loud, but I mentally noted to myself that the household staff probably hated Terrent, and this should be used to collect compromising evidence. The more arguments I have for the trial and the scandal in the media, the better.
In the meantime, we're flying from the TGS office to Terrent's summer residence. And on the way, we fly over one of the factories and that part of the city's seaport, which belongs to TGS. It's another forty minutes flight from the estate, and I'm watching a movie. The convoyers seem to be unhappy. They hoped that I would get lost in ecstasy from the contemplation of other person's riches? Yeah, I need this headache like shit! How can I have fun with such a property?!
However, we are flying. The country house is quite drawn to the rival of Versailles. The convoyers seem to be waiting for some kind of reaction from me. But I don't give a damn.
"Don't you want to say anything, Fräulein?" Helmut asked. His voice sounded a little unsure. Did I break some of his calculations? Excellent! And I didn't deny myself one more pleasure.
"Someone has compensation for the insufficiency of sizes elsewhere," I said with an amiable smile. I waited a couple of moments for the convoyers to realize, and added before they could open their mouths: "I'm talking about the brain, not what you think. Although with that, too, probably not brilliant."
The convoyers are embarrassed! Here are really grown men, each in their thirties, blushed like Victorian young ladies.
I smiled quite. And Marco replied: "Sinor Terrent even hosts royalty in his residence!"
"What hell might they be needed for?" I was surprised. "They are all worth as much as a rattle. Monarchs are just a show for tourists."
"Not everywhere, Mademoiselle," said Raoul dryly. "The world is not limited to Europe, and there are still many places where the monarchy is omnipotent. And there is a lot of oil, neon, silicon, diamonds, and other things in all these places, without which it is impossible to produce chips, processors, and what else is needed for modern technology."
I just grinned. For me, this is another argument to get out of here as quickly as possible.
Meanwhile, the convoyers were leading me along a huge hall to a gilded marble staircase. And stucco molding everywhere. And paintings. And mirrors. And crystal chandeliers. And the frames are sparkling.
I have nothing against luxury, but only if it isn't so motley that my eyes fall into my ass.
The convoyers seemed to understand that I wasn't thrilled because they stopped in the middle of the stairs to the second floor.
"Fräulein," said Helmut, "now you will appear before your grandfather. You must not forget that your grandmother's life depends on his favor for you."
*****
Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.
https://www.wattpad.com/story/330893564-if-you-go-hunting-for-a-tiger
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44014216
As many as four men pushed me into the car. Of course, I fought back, but the result was zero. I couldn't even bite the hand that was covering my mouth: it was wearing a thick leather glove.
"You don't need to shout, Fräulein Alex," said one of the men, who was sitting next to the driver. The third and fourth were in the back seat on either side of me. The third held my hands, the fourth clamped my mouth. The first added: "Your grandfather wants to see you, Fräulein."
I was so dumbfounded by the word "Fräulein" said by a young guy that I missed "grandfather" past my ears. It's been about fifty years since no one calls a girl "Fräulein". "Frau" also no one ever says. A woman from birth to old age is only "Fru" in modern Alnorria, and no one dares to get into her intimate life. I only saw "Fräulen" and "Frau" in the old novels.
"Your grandfather, Signorina," said the second guy who was driving in the Southern Alnorrian dialect, "is waiting for you at his summer residence."
So. Grandfather, it is. This asshole came into my life yesterday around noon. And before that, I didn’t even suspect his existence all my nineteen years.
And, judging by the kidnapping, and even by the "Signorina", which has been out of use even earlier than the "Fräulein", nothing good awaits me in the company of my grandfather.
+++
More precisely, it was not grandfathered himself, but his lawyer, who showed up at granny's candy shop and informed me that Mr. Terrent ordered me to immediately come to the east wing of his summer house and begin training as the heiress of the TGS conglomerate.
It turned out that the guy who knocked up my mom out twenty years ago, cloud her mind before the end of all abortion terms and fled — this was the son of Dave Terrent, president of the TGS concern.
And my granny told me that he was a biker, very handsome and just as stupid, who at first promised to get married, settle down and deliver orders, but escaped and died in an accident even before I was born.
"And how did old Terrent intimidate my mother," I asked the lawyer, "that she didn't file for alimony? Besides, my mother died seventeen years ago, and my grandmother became my guardian. Alimony is paid only to the child, so both the guardian and the shelter can collect it. How did Terrent threaten my granny?"
We — my granny and I — were not beggars, the candy shop provided a more or less decent life, but a man is obliged to bear the responsibility for the production of children on an equal footing with a woman. If he doesn't want himself to change diapers and do homework with the kids, let him pay for a babysitter and a good school.
The lawyer — a man in his fifties, smartly dressed and colorless — said with surprise: "You just found out that you have a grandfather, but all you want to say is «alimony»?"
"Not only. Within a month I want to receive two million eight hundred thousand brangs, or I'll demand through the court's five million six hundred thousand ones. And since the court is a scandal, and commerce only succeeds in silence, it makes more sense for Terrent to pay."
The lawyer all tensed up, his face became predatory.
"Why did you decide that Mr. Terrent would pay you?"
"Because something always belongs to children in big business, and I'm my father's only heir. And if he was alive or had other children, you wouldn't be sitting here."
"And you don't care about your father's death?" The lawyer didn't particularly diligently portray indignation.
"My father left me before I was born," I reminded him. "But we don't live in the Middle Ages, and bastards have equal rights with marriage-children."
"Why such strange amounts? And why are they different?"
"A simple person can only shake the minimum out of the ruler of the world," I explained. "If for concerns and conglomerates the minimum is one million, then for an ordinary person it is a kilogram of average-quality potatoes. Now this kilogram is worth two brang eighty tungs. Probate and divorce lawyers, according to the newspapers, always take half of what the client will receive in court. All that's easy."
"But why potatoes?" The lawyer was puzzled.
"A kilogram of potatoes per day… or rice, it depends on the region… It means that a person will not die of hunger. This isn't enough for a healthy diet, it will not clothe, will not shelter from the weather, will not warm the house, but a kilogram of potatoes or rice is the ultimate minimum, below which life is impossible. Therefore, if you want to understand and appreciate everything that is connected with money, property, world stock price and all that, count through kilоgrams of medium-quality potatoes."
"Just don't say such nonsense in front of Mr. Terrent," the lawyer said squeamishly.
"I don't need to talk with him at all," I replied. "There are you for this kind of thing. And you will clarify to the old goat that for me his conglomerate is more of a burden than a profit. TGS has a lot of hemorrhoids, but zero pleasure. Therefore, I choose my share of the inheritance, and I do not want to know anything further about either my father or his family."
"No one," said the lawyer with icy malice, "dares to refuse Mr. Terrent. And no one dares to talk about him in such a tone."
I snorted and took out my smartphone.
"I'll repeat it all on social networks. The tabloids will be delighted. And Mr. Terrent will shit himself reading what they have to say about him."
The lawyer was not a fool, he assessed the situation instantly, and the most amiable smile bloomed on his face.
"Don't rush, Miss. The tabloids will make you uncomfortable too."
I, not yet suspecting where I had gotten myself into, grunted at the word "Miss" — the lawyer seems to have jumped out of the pre-hippie era, and does not know that if he speaks the northern dialect of Alnorrian, then he must use "Ms" or "Mx" — and I explained mockingly: "The tabloids will make a great ad for a candy shop. And for free!"
"But silence and advertising in quarterly forums are more useful for a family-oriented and nerd-oriented establishment." The lawyer's smile got even sweeter.
I shrugged. In general, he is right. Candy shops are only of interest to parents and quiet, solitude-loving enthusiasts of all sorts of individualistic hobbies — even when people order sweets for parties and weddings, they still choose the family-singleton shop, it's verified.
"Revenge tastes better than money," I replied. "In addition, the profit lost on the noise can be compensated by interview fees. And when the noise subsides, the candy shop will work as before. It will be even better than before: the scandal will be quickly forgotten, and the name of the place where there are sweets will settle in the subconscious of people. But a large enterprise will only have losses, and people will remember that it was involved in some kind of dirty scandal, so it’s better to look for products from other companies. Everyone hates super-rich people and only remembers bad things about them."
The lawyer's face twisted.
"You are very practical for a young girl," he hissed.
"Practicality is the most important thing for a girl," I was a little surprised at his remark. "So the granny said to me, and her granny told her. Fools can run conglomerates and concerns because for them the board of directors and a crowd of managers work. But a simple pastry woman or a lawyeress can only rely on herself."
The lawyer grimaced even more. Recently lost the process to some young, but zealous rivaless? It looks like it. But I don't give a damn. I said I had a job waiting for me and kicked the lawyer out.
+++
And now I'm going to my grandfather, accompanied by four scumbags.
Very beautiful and stylish ones, by the way. All of them are about twenty-eight years old and they have exteriors for every taste: brunet, blond, brown-haired and red. All have the stamp of education on their snouts. Ones are not at all like the riffraff that are hired for kidnappings. The only strange thing is that they are dressed in tuxedos during the day.
"Young Miss," said the one who was covering my mouth, "I will remove my hand if you promise not to scream."
I nodded as best I could. What's the point of yelling? Now I need to free my hands and show the sign of the victim to passing cars: it's a fist in which the thumb is clamped by the rest. And I hope these people have watched the social advertisements.
Red removed his hand. A brown-haired person also let me go. I wiped my lips with the back of my hand. Both guys here handed me disposable sanitary doilies. It was in sync, like they were rehearsing.
I didn't refuse, I took both, wiped both my hands and my face, and threw doilies into a small box, which was set up by the blond sitting in the front passenger seat.
"My name is Helmut," he said. "At your service, Fräulein."
"I'm Marco," the brunette driver introduced himself. "At your service, Signorina."
"I'm Raoul." It's a brown-haired one. He spoke with a slight French accent. "At your service, Mademoiselle."
"I'm James," the red said. "At your service, young Miss."
[Let me introduce myself: Alex,] I mentally said in the tone of this mediocre operetta. [And I really want to punch you in the snouts.]
But as enraging as the derogatory treatment and lousy behavior (you'll be sued for a sickly sum for "Mademoiselle" in France and the French-speaking regions of Switzerland and Canada), now is not the time to be outraged. I'd better put it on the bill which I'll issue my grandfather.
Unfortunately, the car had dark windows, and no one would see my SOS gesture. And these four kidnapped me in the back place of a candy shop, and there can't be any witnesses. They also took away my phone. It remains to be hoped that one of my friends will get worried that I have not been on social networks for a long time. Beyond that, the candy shop is closed.
Oh, my granny! She's in the hospital, and when the news of the kidnapping reaches her, it's going to be a nightmare.
"If my granny dies because of Terrent and your gang," I began, hissing like a snake with rage, "I…"
"It's all right, young Miss," James interrupted me. "Your grandmother gave you a blessing."
Helmut immediately showed me the screen of the phone, which showed the grandmother in her hospital room.
"I'm glad, dear, that you accepted the invitation of grandf…"
"I have changed my mind!" I screamed. "I don't like him, and I'm going to you right now!"
"This is a recording, Mademoiselle," said Raoul. "Your grandmother is on her way to the Noddar clinic now, and if you will be a smart girl, she will stay there for the full course of treatment."
Chills ran through me. The old sneaky goat knew where to hit. Clinic Noddar is the best in the country, and very expensive. And the chance of getting free treatment from my granny is zero, she doesn't live on a pension with benefits.
And at that moment I realized one very important and insidious thing.
"And where is the guarantee that this isn't photoshop? Let me talk to my grandmother in person."
"If your grandfather, Fräulein," said Helmut, "will be pleased with you, we will take you to a meeting with your grandmother."
I kept silent. And mentally added zero to the amount that my grandfather owed me.
The car stopped. And James said: "Now we will go up to the roof, where the plane is waiting. Behave yourself, young Miss. You have yet to learn how to be a Lady, but even you know the minimum ideas of decency."
[Oh yes! The amount of compensation will be so decent that even a mega-billionaire will have a blow!]
I didn't say anything out loud, just bared my teeth in a parody of an amiable smile.
"A little more noble restraint," Raoul said, looking at me in the rearview mirror.
There was nothing more interesting. I was conveyed to the elevator, which took us to the roof, where a small light vertical take-off aircraft was waiting.
"The stupid showing off," I could not resist. "Why didn't the helicopter please him?"
"Herr Terrent is the head of a significant enterprise, not a policeman or a paramedic, Fräulein," Helmut replied haughtily. "Neither he nor his heiress can't use a helicopter."
Snobbery greatly limits the possibilities of a snob. I didn't say it out loud, but I mentally noted to myself that the household staff probably hated Terrent, and this should be used to collect compromising evidence. The more arguments I have for the trial and the scandal in the media, the better.
In the meantime, we're flying from the TGS office to Terrent's summer residence. And on the way, we fly over one of the factories and that part of the city's seaport, which belongs to TGS. It's another forty minutes flight from the estate, and I'm watching a movie. The convoyers seem to be unhappy. They hoped that I would get lost in ecstasy from the contemplation of other person's riches? Yeah, I need this headache like shit! How can I have fun with such a property?!
However, we are flying. The country house is quite drawn to the rival of Versailles. The convoyers seem to be waiting for some kind of reaction from me. But I don't give a damn.
"Don't you want to say anything, Fräulein?" Helmut asked. His voice sounded a little unsure. Did I break some of his calculations? Excellent! And I didn't deny myself one more pleasure.
"Someone has compensation for the insufficiency of sizes elsewhere," I said with an amiable smile. I waited a couple of moments for the convoyers to realize, and added before they could open their mouths: "I'm talking about the brain, not what you think. Although with that, too, probably not brilliant."
The convoyers are embarrassed! Here are really grown men, each in their thirties, blushed like Victorian young ladies.
I smiled quite. And Marco replied: "Sinor Terrent even hosts royalty in his residence!"
"What hell might they be needed for?" I was surprised. "They are all worth as much as a rattle. Monarchs are just a show for tourists."
"Not everywhere, Mademoiselle," said Raoul dryly. "The world is not limited to Europe, and there are still many places where the monarchy is omnipotent. And there is a lot of oil, neon, silicon, diamonds, and other things in all these places, without which it is impossible to produce chips, processors, and what else is needed for modern technology."
I just grinned. For me, this is another argument to get out of here as quickly as possible.
Meanwhile, the convoyers were leading me along a huge hall to a gilded marble staircase. And stucco molding everywhere. And paintings. And mirrors. And crystal chandeliers. And the frames are sparkling.
I have nothing against luxury, but only if it isn't so motley that my eyes fall into my ass.
The convoyers seemed to understand that I wasn't thrilled because they stopped in the middle of the stairs to the second floor.
"Fräulein," said Helmut, "now you will appear before your grandfather. You must not forget that your grandmother's life depends on his favor for you."
*****
Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.