Clara

She had read the letter too many times to count. Over and over, trying to make sense of why Peter had kept such urgent information from Franz. His parents' will, for god's sake! Clara could only imagine how torn he must've felt then. When he arrived, she would comfort him to her best ability. 

A loud knock startled her. She peeked at the great entrance from her dormitory down the hall, a few doors down from Mr. Schwarz's bedroom. A large shadow covered the blurred window. 

"Who could that be?" She mumbled under her breath.

The knock came once more. She hurried down the stairs, one hand sliding down the banister. Another set of hurried knocks rang again. 

"Coming!"

She reached towards the handle and opened the door slightly. She looked out into the dim evening and saw the sweaty face of her master. She lowered her gaze towards his neck and noticed blood stains on his skin. 

Clara gasped and covered her mouth with one hand. Before she could question him, Mr. Schwarz spoke briskly and sneakingly, "Open the kitchen window, Clara. Then go to your dormitory and do not come out."

She nodded and rushed to the kitchen. While she unlocked the kitchen window, the main door closed. She turned to find her master gone, only a trail of red footsteps leading into his office. The door shut before she could call after him. Worried, she formed the sign of the cross with her hand across her chest before running towards her dormitory.

                                        . . . .

Klaus

The man had a quaint little library in his office. Certainly smaller than what Klaus was used to. He owned practical books; language and history books mostly. He imagined that the man had very little time to indulge himself in anything more enriching like Secrets of the Human Brain, which was one of Klaus's favorites as a young boy. 

He ran a gloved finger across the chestnut spines of the books on the dusty shelves. He was so indulged in inspecting the man's collection that he hardly noticed him shaking in pale fear in the corner of the office room. 

The man followed his movements cautiously, a hand in a steady fist. He wasn't sure if he was scared or prepared to fight him. Either way, Klaus felt no threat. Instead, he tried to make some light conversation.

"Do you speak any of these?"

He shook his head, "I don't."

"Funny, an array of languages upon your shelves but still a simple Englishman." He chuckled. 

The man wiped his nose with his sleeve, "Germany. I'm from Germany, sir."

Klaus nodded, delighted, "Always nice to meet a foreigner, and a German at that. A fascinating little country, Germany."

He turned slowly, afraid of startling the man he had just threatened an hour ago. He was short. Not the kind of short that made you think average but the kind of short that made you think of a 13-year-old nephew. His hair was thick and dark, which led you away from the idea that he was any older than 30. Although the gray wrinkles scattered across his face made you think otherwise. 

He could've been handsome if life had been kinder. He folded his arms over his chest.

"What do you do Mr..."

"Schwarz. Franz Schwarz." The man finished.

"Schwarz."

Franz kept his distance, his back pressed against the wall at the other side of his desk.

"I'm a tax collector, sir."

Klaus tried to remember what Auchtermuchty tax collectors did. He recalled a lot of pacing and yelling, but rarely any actual tax collection. When he looked at Franz Schwarz, The very short Englishman from Germany, he couldn't see him pacing and yelling. Perhaps limping and muttering, maybe a few coughs. 

He noticed Mr. Schwarz's eyes drift down to his shirt and he noticed the blood stains scattered over his chest. He lightly giggled to himself, peeling the shirt from his sweaty skin. He had forgotten about...that. It was important but not enough to stop him from making light conversation with his new hostage.

Klaus cleared his throat, "This is mine if that's what you're thinking. I got shot, you see."

"I don't think you can lose that much blood from a gun." He argued.

"Well, they were multiple bullets." 

"You don't seem injured."

Klaus huffed and lifted his shirt ever so lightly. 6 deep bullet wounds rested just beneath his ribcage, still bleeding and tender. Franz swallowed hard and wrinkled his forehead. Klaus could tell he was conflicted. It was a gruesome injury, and yet here he was speaking calmly and conversing about books and nationalities. He lowered his shirt and proceeded to rummage around the sweating German's office drawers. 

"Do you have any sewing supplies? A medical kit would be lovely but I can settle for a thread and needle," he said. 

Franz collected himself and squirmed around Klaus in a nervous fit.

"N-no! You need to get to a hospital quickly--stop don't touch that--those wounds could be fatal! I'm surprised you're not dead yet--please, you're getting blood everywhere."

Klaus shook him off, "You understand that I am in no position to be in a public area, correct? Or is that what you want?"

Franz's gaze went cold, the reality of the situation hit him. He stepped back and wrung his hands. Klaus pushed one of the drawers closed. Normally he would have immediately removed the threat in front of him with a swift blow to the head. But he found the little man interesting, and not many people in the sad little town were interesting. He wanted to keep him around a while.

Klaus said, "Don't cross me."

Franz nodded and wiped his nose again. Klaus grunted and pressed a hand on his abdomen. It was starting to get bothersome. He brushed his curls out of his face.

"Your maid," he started, "she must have some type of thread and needle around the estate."

Franz stuttered, "I think she does. I think she has some upstairs. I'll call her down--"

"I'll follow you."

"I would prefer you to stay here, I don't need a larger mess for her to clean. It's better to keep you bleeding down here, in my office."

"I'll be careful."

Franz breathed deeply, his brow furrowed in a stressful knot. Klaus could see the man running around his head like a mouse in a cage. He had no escape. Klaus was as good at killing rodents as he was at catching them. But he found it more entertaining to see them drive themselves mad in captivity then it was to see them squirm in his tightening grip.

Franz nodded and motioned for him to follow him out of the office and upstairs.