The car got closer to the mansion's gate that carried the gold coat of arms. The jewel required maximum security night and day but it was black witchcraft that kept it safe.
After his wife disappeared in 'mysterious circumstances', the Knaast priest ordered the piece from a renowned Swiss artist and the man came to England to weld it on the massive gates.
Bjorg nodded at the five heavily armed men who flanked the car jogging, as he drove slowly along the lane of centennial oaks that led to the mansion Sylvia inherited from her mother.
As the Veyron reached the luxurious residence, Sylvia put back her sunglasses to cover her eyes from the sun reflecting on the small squares of crystal glass of the tall windows.
The country house was an example of Elizabethan architecture, and as it received renovations every decade, its rooms evolved into a mix of modernity and tradition, like the Knaast hotels.
Bjorg loved to show out the Knaasts were old money. Sylvia's mother was English nobility and he felt proud of it. Although he was guilty of Charlene's family bankruptcy after his careful interference through shell companies. It gave him a sense of pride because he had bought himself a noble even more. After all, when the noble duke accepted his proposal to his only daughter with glee, the man was unaware the family savior was the wolf.
Even if the Lord knew, Bjorg doubted the family would care much because The Knaast billions gave the former shine back to the aristocratic family. The truth was everybody got happy, except for Bjorg's wife. Yet, the Knaast priest was sure she had enjoyed her marriage to him until the day she felt Hazug's claws tearing her insides out.
Sylvia watched her father, the Knaast leader, and priest as he got out of his sports car and passed the keys to the driver/bodyguard. "Take her to the garage, Vladyk, and give her a wash and polish. My daughter got sick on the way here."
"Yes, Mr. Knaast."
The light and elegant row of columns and the stairs leading to the front entrance stood tall before Sylvia. She looked at them with dread. Her legs were noodle soft and she felt like asking the driver for a piggyback ride into the house.
Vladyk saw how pale she was and as he opened the car door he offered her his hand, which she accepted.
However, when her father glanced in her direction, she straightened her spine and told her legs to behave. Bjorg did not believe in showing weakness, and Sylvia was terrified of that frosty persona she met a few minutes ago in the Bugatti Veyron. That Bjorg Knaast was not her father but the cold Knaast Priest.
However, as always, Sylvia adapted fast to new facts. So when father and daughter stopped in front of the huge famous timepiece that was the focal point in the black marble lobby, she decided with pure Knaast philosophy, "Better bored and horny than dead."
Bjorg laughed aloud and her choleric royal-blue eyes met his amused ice blue orbs.
She mumbled between clenched teeth. "Stop reading me."
Shaking his head, he allowed his eyes to wander over the famous clock the Dutch astronomer and physicist Christiaan Huygens had built in the stone wall in the seventeenth century. It was another among the reasons the house was in the historical guides of England.
His face still turned to the clock, the Knaast priest's melodic voice sounded in Sylvia's head. "Nope. I will keep you under straight surveillance until the wedding."
She stopped short, eyes huge with fear, screaming in horror. "I hear you in my head!"
Bjorg froze her rant patting her shoulder then grabbed her elbow to guide her to the set of dark marble stairs that went up to her room.
He chose to ignore her overwhelmed expression and her faltering breathing adding, "Whenever I talk in your mind, pretend nothing is happening. Practice and you will develop the same ability too."
"I will enjoy calling you all the bad names I feel like when we are in one of those boring fundraising events you enjoy so much," she tried and when his cold smile turned to her, she knew she had done it.
"Remember you are of noble birth and behave," he told her.
"Oh, yes, I am very worried about my noble birthright now."
Suddenly the memory of her mother's inexplicable disappearance hit her.
"Did you kill my mother?"
Bjorg ran his long fingers through his silky white-blond hair and looked into his daughter's eyes. "I didn't. General Hazug did. I hoped you wouldn't connect the dots so fast. It must be a difficult day for you so far."
As it was the understatement of the last millennium, Sylvia broke into hysterical laughter.
The Knaast priest nodded at himself. "You need sex."
Sylvia blinked. "What?"
"You are a Knaast and your energy is depleted. I will send you Bruce, the gardener. He is under a spell to be submissive.
Sylvia growled. "I need sex because you destroyed all my life in the last hour. Not because my energy is depleted. I want to kill you, not sex."
The priest smiled. "If you were a Knaast witch I would be worried, but you are only a brat with no skills and nothing but addiction and whoring as life experience. I don't care for your rage, and sex will release some of this pent-up aggression you have going on. Bruce will do whatever you ask."
Thank you for nothing," she agreed begrudgingly because she was hot and bothered. Then as the thought crossed her mind, she smirked, hopeful. "Is the gardener a Knaast warlock? Sex will be the best if he is."
Bjorg threw his head back and his whole seven-foot body shook with mirth. "No, Sylvia. He is my slave. I take him when I am too angry or bored. He has nothing to offer besides his delicious body, so he offers me sex and blood."
Sylvia balked. "Are you gay? How come I never noticed?"
Bjorg's beautiful mouth quirked in one side.
"Are you?"
Sylvia blinked, reminded of the many women who had passed nights in her bed.
"You need to see things clearly, Sylvia. I am a Knaast warlock. Sex in any form feeds my power."
"What about Alfred? He has nothing either, but he is a Knaast warlock, anyway."
"Alfred pretended to be the poor manager of the London hotel just because I asked him to take care of you. His family is in the hotel business since the middle ages and his name is a tradition in the market. He invested high in the Knaast chain. He is far from poor."
"So why did he act as my pimp?"
The man shrugged. "Money is always welcome, I guess, and a session with you costs a small fortune. No one of sound mind would say no to such profit."
Bjorg Knaast's daughter stood in the hall, under the pink crystal chandelier, which was one of the few things in the lobby not original to the seventeenth-century house. It was there only because it was a gift from Queen Victoria to her favorite duke.
Sylvia Knaast was agape.
Tears ran down her creamy white skin. "What am I to you, dad? I don't know anymore," she whispered.
"You are a Knaast. Your safety is relative and connected to this fact. Don't you ever forget your marriage is the General's decision. He orders and we obey or die. It's good for your health to keep that in mind. Life for the pleasure of it is over."
The Priest ignored her tears and walked away. Over his shoulder, he said. "Rest a little. You need to look a million."
She dried off her face with both hands and her father's voice resonated in her head again, "The future President of Brazil is eager to meet his first lady."
The information hooked her out of her mood, as Bjorg intended.
"Will he be the President," she asked, ready to adapt, once again.
"Sure," the Knaast Priest confirmed and disappeared into his library.
As a consequence, when Bjorg's daughter climbed the black marble stairs towards her bedroom, she was neither angry nor sad, but excited. A mischievous smile stretched her lips. "First lady Sylvia Knaast sounds fantastic, father," she reached out to tell Bjorg and felt his amusement.
"I guessed you would feel so."
- The other inhabitants of the Knaast mansion
Once, when electricity became a fancy thing, the house went through deep changes, but not enough to make it change too much.
Years before, English clock makers introduced the gold second's pendulum to the original creation in the lobby and extended the piece to the floor in a beautifully carved case. Because it was one of the first clocks in history to receive the second hand, it had brought many admiring visitors.
On the way to her bedroom, as she passed by many pieces acquired by Charlene Knaast in London auctions, Sylvia thought she should change, and follow on her mother's steps. On Charlene's side, the tradition of art collectors was common and connected nicely to the English nobility.
A First Lady should sponsor artists and musicians, and that she could do. Her house was a museum. She would take along what she could and have a nice warm house party to introduce herself to the politicians and other influent people using arts as an excuse when she arrived in Brazil. Her knowledge of the topic was extensive. Her grandmothers had invested time all her life to be sure she would become a Lady. Now, it would pay off.
So she decided the guided visits her mother enjoyed leading would start next week because if they did not fit Bjorg's schedule it was perfect for her plans.
Although Bjorg loved the visitors' admiration, bringing up his daughter as a single parent took the time the priest did not spend in the business because a Knaast could not grow up under strangers' supervision.
"Father" she called him, using their connection
"Yes, Sylvia," he answered.
"Let's please the English government and my grandmother. I want to guide visitors from next week on."
"You are a real Knaast, and very strong. General Hazug said it when you were born. Nothing can keep you down," he admired. "Making plans, aren't you?"
"Yes. I want to sponsor a female horsemanship contest only aiming at women. I will open it with Belle, doing myself a demonstration of our stables, followed by a parade of our chariots."
Bjorg was silent for some minutes. "We can do it next summer."
"No, father. We are doing it now. Put on a big prize, offer our horses for those who don't have one. Let's make it inclusive. The marketing campaign must be good and fast. We can do it."
The Knaasts kept the vast stables with his prized horses open for visitation twice a week during summer and spring and spent a fortune a year to keep the several family-owned carriages. There were pieces from the seventeenth century. The perfect antiques also received visitors.
When the weather was pleasant, people could walk in the gardens, and families came for picnics and rowing in the vast artificial lake.
The security team hated the visitation season when they had the task of keeping stragglers from the house. Sylvia was planning a security nightmare, but he liked the idea. That would shut up that reporter like a charm.
"All right. Let's do it."
For the engagement dinner party, the Knaast mansion had all the lights on, so the black velvet of the new moon night framed the sparkling building.
The famous house was a jewel against the darkness as the windows' square glasses created a multiplying effect on the stars.
And that night, Sylvia's fiance and his family would feel the profound impact of the house. The Knaast Priest wanted them to get the full experience of visiting with a family who lived in a museum-like residence. However, it would be good enough if they understood how powerful and wealthy the Knaasts were.
Following the same pattern as the rest of the house, the sophisticated kitchen was a mix of modern and antique.
While Electric and gas cooktops aligned on the granite counter a variety of pans boiled, and a large team of cooks and servers prepared the important meal.
They worked under the glorious plasterwork in the ceilings that paired with friezes to remind the old historical splendor. Whoever entered the room for the first time stopped short at the view of the gigantic stone fireplace.
The masonry master prepared it to offer food for more than a hundred people four hundred years ago, and seven men could stand inside the piece. Thick logwoods lay in a four-foot-tall pile beside it.
As Bjorg had not asked for barbecue as a courtesy to his guests, the blackened chains connected by a skewer hang from metal bars unused. The contraption could grill a whole calf with spare room for half a dozen chickens but was cold that evening.
An old man stood by the counter opposite the unlit hearth, giving the last touches on elegant dishes. To his left, other dishes were ready for the presentation.
The trays and plates were lined up in their serving order on a carved wood table dated as far as the centennial house.
Flowers and vegetables adorned the polished surface, as well as fruit and whatever the cook needed. To his right was an enormous pestle, standing as an ornament.
Yvonne, the governess, smiled at him.
"You are a magician, Olaf! You can make peasants' food look a French dish!"
Olaf, the Norwegian cook threw his head back in laughter. They were always ribbing each other over French and Norwegian cuisine.
"Peasant's food, huh? The nerve of your girlfriend, Vladyk. Hear her call your mother's recipe peasant's food."
Vladyk was relaxed and did not look like the same man who had offered Sylvia his hand.
He chuckled. "Ma will straight her, Olaf. In two weeks, we are visiting her."
The old man lifted his bushy eyebrows and his teeth appeared in a wide smile. "So it's serious."
Vladyk embraced Yvonne from behind and kissed her face, declaring with pride, "Serious as it comes."
The governess kissed him back.
"I am the luckiest woman on earth."
Olaf snorted. "No, you aren't. You work for the Knaast."
Two pairs of surprised eyes studied the man.
Vladyk's shaped eyebrows almost met. A vertical crease marked his forehead. "What do you mean, old man?"
Yvonne tilted her head. "I don't get you either, Olaf."
The cook crossed his arms over his chest. "I am from the Knaast city, you know it."
Both nodded and Vladyk smirked. "Yes, you come from the coldest part of Norway and the seaside, to make it humid. How can you stand it with your old bones, man?"
Olaf didn't laugh, as customary, and Yvonne felt he was dead serious.
"What is that, Olaf? You are making me nervous."
The old Norwegian sat on the long wooden bench that stood along with the table and bent his head, leaning on his elbows.
"There are strange rumors involving the Knaasts. Rumors my great-grandmother liked to whisper by the fire when the winds howl. But I am not a gossiper."
"Good. Don't spread this kind of thing." Yvonne said, sounding cold.
Vladyk's aquamarine eyes, sharp with intelligence, fixed on his fellow countryman. "Olaf is sound, Yvonne. Let him make his point."
She turned her emerald orbs to her lover and assessed him. She saw doubt in the blue depths and sighed. "Go on, Olaf."
The cook pressed his lips and breathed deeply, with his brows beetled together in thought.
Then, he chose a knife from the block and started to chop mushrooms.
"The Knaasts control those lands for over a millennium. We have an old saying, something that came from the times when our forefathers fought wolves with their bare hands."
Vladyk radiated amusement.
"We have many of those, Olaf. What about the old tales make you nervous?"
"When a person is wicked and devious like the devil himself we say 'He's evil, but not as evil as a Knaast'."