The transfer from the country to the city had been difficult for Alexander and meneer Ogthoven. Both were accustomed to the silence of rural isolation and the trappings of a large mansion. Admittedly, many areas of the tuinhuis van Ogthoven were dilapidated and in urgent need of repair, but those areas suitable for habitation remained spacious and lavish. Alexander had spent the best part two decades exclusively within its walls and grounds, and, though meneer Ogthoven had spent more and more time in Amsterdam as the Age of the Vampire had drawn in ever closer, those visits had retained for him a sense of ambassadorial grandeur and novelty. However, as meneer Ogthoven's interests in the city grew and the manor's state of collapse worsened, it became inevitable that they would have to move.

They had moved into the flat above The Burlesque perhaps fifteen years ago; Alexander no longer had any meaningful grasp of time, being simultaneously over fifty years old and looking just twenty. Back in the tuinhuis van Ogthoven there had been no means of or reason for measuring the passing time: occasionally meneer Ogthoven would bring a newspaper back from the town with him, but Alexander's grasp of Dutch was poor and his interest in current affairs nonexistent, so, apart from the changing seasons, years had begun to mean nothing to him.

The flat was a small one, with bulk of the building devoted to the running of The Burlesque. Of four stories, the flat took up just one, with two floors kept vacant for paying guests and, of course, the main lounge was one storey of its own. The space didn't really bother Alexander, but meneer Ogthoven's temper was its own concern, and, when they had first moved in, his sire had felt cramped to say the least, and become proportionately irate. Since then, they had settled into their new lives somewhat; meneer Ogthoven had hired managers for his various businesses, leaving him more time for politics and to take occasional trips back to the manor to oversee its refurbishment and, for his own part, Alexander had taken on some shifts in The Burlesque, on meneer Ogthoven's instruction, which kept him busy while his sire was unable to occupy him. He had slowly become accustomed to the disruptions of urban life and the people and noise from downstairs came to bother him less.

He lay on his bed in his room. Officially it was the flat's guest room, though Alexander probably no longer qualified as a guest, having slept in it almost every night for fifteen years. It was a tiny room, only a few metres across in either direction, and almost entirely featureless - it comprised a chest of drawers, a wardrobe and a single bed with plain sheets. Its sole decoration was a single [i]Sex Pistols[/i] poster neatly taped to the wall, its four sides perfectly parallel with the other lines in the room. Alexander no longer listened to music, and much less punk - meneer Ogthoven had bought it for him to encourage him to personalise his living space, but Alexander had only put the thing up out of politeness.

He had been lying on his bed from the moment meneer Ogthoven had headed back down to the lounge, his eyes wide open. Really, he was trying to stare at the ceiling, but his gaze kept being captured by the half-glass of blood on the chest of drawers - not that he had any desire to drink it. His overriding desire was to wash up the glass. It was cluttering up the room, but he shouldn't waste it.

Meneer Ogthoven had invited him downstairs, and so Alexander, who'd already made sure he was presentable before meneer Ogthoven returned, had put on his shoes ready. "Only if you want to," meneer Ogthoven had said. Alexander rubbed his face with his forearm and rolled over, careful that the soles of his shoes didn't touch the clean linen of the bed. Perhaps he ought to go; Meneer Ogthoven wouldn't have asked him to unless he wanted him there. And there was nothing to do up here; with his sire out of town, Alexander had exhausted all possible tasks and chores that might keep him busy during the days, having cleaned the flat to within an inch of its life and all of the laundry had been done. If meneer Ogthoven had changed his shoes, he'd have something to polish - but he hadn't.

There was no putting it off any longer. He took a deep breath in, a trick he'd learned from his sire that was biologically pointless but useful for calming oneself down. With one hand on the bannister, he headed down the stairs.