The walls, stone and once-fine, were stained. The gate, iron and once-ornate, was rusted. The garden, visible through the bars, was overgrown. The windows, tall and arched, were dirty. The roof, slate and once-solid, had missing tiles.
Viktor chuckled. The sound, low and amused, was genuine. The 'they-really-did-not-fund-this-place' amusement that was also recognition.
He recalled the reports. The funding, the allowance that was supposed to maintain the capital mansion, was minimal. The Count, his father, had allocated barely enough to keep the roof on. And even that minimal funding, routed through the Heartfield administration, was stolen. Siphoned. The bureaucrats, the nobles, the people who were supposed to oversee the maintenance, had pocketed the difference.
The proof was before him. The mansion, which should have been a jewel in the capital's crown, was a tarnished brass button.
