Long before becoming the Baroness of Groldavia, shortly after taking her first steps, and even before pronouncing her first words, young Lady Florence was already receiving a rigid education within the ideals of a dame of her time and status: at age 3, she could already brag about taking her tea with as straight a back and as perfectly angled a little finger as a miniature coat stand. At age 8, she knew with Swiss precision when to feign a burst of laughter at a social gathering and for how long to hold it, and her tonality would serve as a baseline for tuning forks. Already at age 16, the synchronization between her crinoline fullness and her parasol spin were more suitable for a military march than for a spring walk in Hyde Park. It was her aunt, Aurelia, who made her a complete lady, and thus, when Florence reached her legal age, Aunt Aurelia took on herself the choosing of a worthy suitor amongst the many ones Florence had.

Aunt Aurelia was a very pragmatic woman with a strong cunning for social climbing, an ability she used to make Florence the perfect spouse she could never be, while at the same time enjoying the various gifts those gentlemen wanted to lavish her niece with. After a meticulous selection process and several viability studies, she offered the young girl’s first nuptials to the elderly Lord Anthony Bertold, a rich businessman who didn’t even make it alive to consummate the marriage ‒ an eventuality which sparked a dispute for her love between the two associates of old Bertold, much celebrated as profitable in the eyes of Machiavellian Aurelia.

Aunt Aurelia passed away after being atrociously burnt alive during a reception for the Mahārāja of the princely state of Kapurthala, where her pompous crinoline went up like a torch when she approached an oil lamp. After many years following her plans, Florence inconsolably cried at such an ill-fated occurrence due to protocolary imposition, but in truth she felt liberated from that heavy burden on her free will. A will that led her, three times a widower, to become the highest ruler of a small nation ‒ a peak never reached by the family name Saxton-Durmingham, the last great pillar of which Aunt Aurelia thought she was. Florence couldn’t complain, but well ‒ she did: everything was so utterly boring; sepulchrally boring, monotonous, instinctive, routine, devoid of any emotions.

Until a mysterious English Lord came to stay in her lands…

For as long as he can remember, Lord Alistair Ainsworth has found shelter in the shadows, looking for explanations to the unexplainable wherever common sense dreads to be acknowledged and science is never invited. Surprisingly enough, he’s always obtained answers to those questions ‒ at times simple, at times obscure, and invariably incorrect, but answers after all. Perhaps this urge for giving answers to pretty much everything is the reason he’s suffered so many setbacks from the academic community since he was an infant ‒ they have spared no humiliations to describe his extravagant abilities and his absurd methods. That, nonetheless, has only just spurred on Lord Alistair’s courage to keep delving into his investigations ‒ when you’re an aristocrat as rich as he is, ‘wasted time’ has no meaning at all.

Both his fortune and his disposition to squander have bought him courtesies and kindliness wherever he goes, but that doesn’t satisfy his hunger for respect and veneration, so he’s willing to do whatever it takes to achieve them. Even leaving behind the comfort a man of his standing enjoys in Victorian London and travelling to the most remote place in Europe, the region of Groldavia, where he’ll preserve his sumptuous lifestyle, but endure a colder climate.

It is there where he’ll find proof of the existence of a ‘Kingdom of Witches’ erased from the pages of History, which was ruled by a recurring but godforsaken personage in the darkest chapters of humankind: Waldemar Gorobec, the Warlock. Fascinated by the mystery around this terrifying figure, he decides to buy Castle Börtön, redecorate and settle in, to begin a field research by the warmth of the chimney, in the company of his selfless butler, Nigel.

And thus, our story begins…

According to the most renowned compendiums on the art of servitude, some of the qualities of the exemplary butler are: discretion, tidiness, exquisite manners, an obliging, attentive and resolute attitude, and determination. Nigel has proven he’s got much of the latter during the six years he’s been serving as Lord Alistair’s butler, and minimal quantities of the rest. No one could blame him, however, given that, if he’d ever had such a compendium at hand, it wouldn’t have been worth a penny with a master such as his.

Exercising the virtue of patience to the point of exhaustion, Nigel has learnt to gently ignore the constant mood swings of his master, his outlandish routines and the wide range of insults he’s been the target of. All while holding onto his sanity and preserving his faith in humankind. Hence, even though his abilities for the job would make the London aristocracy drop their collective monocle, his skill for detachment made him worthy of staying at Lord Alistair’s side for longer than any other living creature on Earth ‒ which is a landmark in the profession, most assuredly unsurpassed and likely unsurpassable.

Raised among stoves, if anything can match his passion for cooking is his devotion for fine dining. Luckily, Lord Alistair’s diet is as scarce as it is little-varied, so he can make any kind of culinary fantasies a reality sparing no expense. His dream, though, would be opening a restaurant where he could make delights for refined palates. This has led him to embrace some of the theories of his master about reincarnation, since with his salary he’d need several lives to make that a reality, if his calculations are right. Currently, he’s content with enjoying the small pleasures life offers him, placidly and without any distress.

But that’s about to change…