Franz’s newest acquaintance was the unpleasant presence of his new supervisor, Oliver Worshcaw. He was a man more dreadfully unhappy than Franz himself, a person that no individual should be forced to converse with. He stared in glum amusement as Oliver swung his scepter around like a jester as they walked together in the foggy streets of the town.

“At some point, I wish I could just stomp upon them with my horse. Laugh at their stupid little screams. Stupid little people and their stupid little pounds. Oh! How wretched.” he hissed.

Franz pulled at the strap of his new cap, it was beginning to itch from his nervously sweating chin. Oliver continued.

“A fire. That’s what this town needs. A big, grand fire. And the town will learn to appreciate the many blessings our royal family has given us. Wretched things.”

Franz nodded absentmindedly, his index finger still pulling at the chin strap. Oliver huffed in anger, sweat began to drip down his red face while his stick continued to wave maniacally.

Franz heard the chatter of a woman in the distance of his vision, eventually two ladies came into view. A yellow haired lady sneered at the sight of him and Oliver. Franz cowered in shame behind his superior.

“And these women! How wretched” Oliver hollered.

What a hateful man, Franz observed. What could have caused him to look at the world so fiercely? Who hurt this wounded creature? Franz knew he was no one to judge a neighbor, his own importance in the world was almost non existent, but he felt a lingering pity for this bitter individual. A thought popped suddenly and Franz found himself in a fearful state. A closer look at Oliver brought him to a dreadful conclusion. Would this be his inevitable character? Franz shuddered at the thought. Between Franz Schwarz and Oliver Worshcaw, there was almost no difference.

Franz inspected Oliver with a new perspective. They could almost be relatives. Oliver had the same pale and sickly skin that reflected that of a week old corpse, uncomfortably paired with dark beady eyes similar to those of a watchful crow. He walked with a limp, but one from old age and a frown that seemed almost born onto his face. Oliver was a beastly thing, it almost made Franz feel younger.

Oliver gasped, Franz jumped in surprise. The old man hobbled about, dangling his gossip in the boring morning air of that August. 

"Did you hear about the incident at the station, boy?"

Franz shook his head, a most exciting sight to a terribly bored Oliver. He smiled and folded his arms jubilantly like a jester preparing to tell a joke.

“Well,” he started, “let me tell you. I would hate to be a police officer right now. Apparently, a prisoner escaped last night. But that's not the most strangest part about it, boy. This particular prisoner broke the jail cell with his bare hands. The fool who was guarding him could barely tell the tail when I spoke with him. Says the man was god himself.”

He fell silent, his eyes drifted behind Franz.

“Sir?”

“But that's no god, Franz. That's a monster, I'll tell you that.”

He gulped.

“But of course, there's no such thing as monsters. My bet's on a circus freak going on a little rampage.”

Franz and Oliver stood there, the fog moving swiftly between them, for a long while. Eventually, Oliver let out a small chuckle.

“Of course there is no such things as monsters. Certainly not here in Auchtermuchty.”

He turned back and patrolled, Franz followed suit.

Monster...Franz sat on the remark.

He was a logical man. He knew that only children believed in such frivolous things. But still, he wondered what could have had the strength to do such a thing to a solid jail cell. 

Franz agreed with his "circus" idea for a while. And as much as he attempted to stick with his certainty to accept his theory, a shrivel of doubt still loitered in his mind prodding at his instinct. Even if it was a circus oddity, could a man bend such a material? He never worked in welding, but he had seen plenty of structural frames of silver and iron in his days. None of them could be broken by men.

Not even by a freak.

                                           . . . .

Swish, Swish.

Clara’s hands held the duster delicately, as if it were a fan. She moved it swiftly across her master’s desk. His time at work had grown longer, taking a toll on his energy. He would arrive late, barely even noticing her days work, but still she dusted.

A final flick of her wrist dusted the frame of his father’s picture, completing her morning tasks in the hallway. She tucked the duster in her apron pocket.

Her master kept to himself most of the time, but he wasn’t rude. He gave her a room to stay in and allowed her to take breaks when she needed. She only wished he would converse with her now and then. She was terribly lonely. In the long dark hallways of the estate she often found herself making conversation with the paintings on the walls or herself.

Mr. Schwarz and Clara used to be close, she remembered. Clara was one of the few people in Auchtermuchty who knew German, thus their friendship was inevitable.

Clara had been surprised by his quick grasp towards English, though. He was a sharp boy, she soon learned.

Clara’s heels clicked on the marble steps as she stepped down to the first floor, her dark curls bouncing behind her.

When Mr. Williams took Franz in after his parents disappeared, Clara figured that he would work as an apprentice of some sort. Surprisingly that was not the case. She thought herself to be selfish for wanting him to stay at her level in the hierarchy, wanting to stay his equal. But she understood the blessing it was for him to have moved up in society. Although, she noticed, his mannerism told her otherwise. He was more anxious, now. More unhappy.

Back then she would’ve asked him if he was alright, if there was something on his mind. But now, she knows, she must nod and greet him. No words to be exchanged.

She readied herself to clean his office space before a knock on the door stopped her. She straightened her skirt and proceeded towards the front door.

She turned the door handle and was surprised to see a familiar face.

Mr. Williams.

“Ah!” He exclaimed, “Clara! Is Schwarz home?”

She shook her head, her lips pressed together. He missed breakfast that morning in a hurried departure. She had been worried for his health all morning.

“May I come in?” He lowered his hat and passed by Clara into the estate.

She closed the door behind him and followed quietly.

Mr. Williams reminisced the halls, his hands folded behind his back. Clara pondered his reasoning for visiting. If not to speak with an absent Franz, then for what?

“How is the young man? Schwarz I mean. Is he well?”

Clara ducked her eyes and responded, “Mr. Schwarz is ill, as usual, sir. But I have noticed that he has been sleeping less, too, sir.”

Mr. Williams rubbed his chin, his eyes fixated on the painting in front of them. It was the terribly gloom portrait of young Franz. Clara wasn’t very fond of it. Neither was Franz, she noticed.

“His father would be proud, you know. He always wanted Franz to live a comfortable life. I think I’ve given him one, don’t you?”

Clara nodded. Mr. Williams sighed deeply and left the hallway. He pulled a small envelope out of his coat pocket, fondling it with tender disposition.

“You and Franz used to be close, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

He ran a thumb over the envelope, tidying the edges before handing it to Clara. She took it and respectfully tucked it away into her apron without further investigation. Mr. Williams proceeded to see his way out.

“Hand that to Schwarz when he returns, Clara. Make sure you let him know it’s from me.” He instructed.

She nodded and patted her apron, assuring him of its safety in her care. She wondered if it was about his transfer. Mr. Williams tipped his hat, Clara quickly opened the door for him, lowering her head as he stepped out.

“Be safe, Clara. I heard there’s a man escaped from the jail.” He warned.

Clara lifted her head to respond, but the bank manager had already stepped into the amber brougham waiting for him in the front of the estate. She allowed herself a moment of gander, admiring the busy life in the street. She then sighed and shut the door.

Clara spoke aloud to herself as she made her way to the next room left to dust,

“A man has escaped from jail? How dreadful.”