"This is the dining hall. You will be eating all your meals in here, no exceptions."
Miles Edgeworth nodded his understanding. He took a quick glance at the man towering over him. He wore a long midnight blue tailcoat finished with gold buttons. Around his neck was tied an impressive white cravat. According to his father, that man was arguably the best prosecutor in the world. A ruthless man, he maintained had maintained a long string of perfect wins throughout his twenty-five years in courtrooms across the globe. Never had he lost a single case. He was the legendary Manfred von Karma.
In contrast, Miles' father was the opposite of this man leading him through the great mansion. His father, Gregory Edgeworth, was perhaps, the most legendary of all the men the young boy knew. A well-known defense attorney, Gregory Edgeworth did not boast an undefeated court record, but he did carry a heart that was overflowing with compassion and faith. That was the same heart that was ripped through by a bullet two years ago. Miles Edgeworth didn't have any memories of that horrific moment, but whenever he fell asleep, well, could dreams be a reflection of reality?
"Are you listening to me boy?" growled of the man standing above him.
"Ah, oh, sorry, sir," the child apologized meekly, his eyes pointed at the floor. He felt small in this enormous house, and positively miniscule next to this intimidating man.
"Pay attention! Now, if you will be so kind, I shall continue. This is the east upper corridor. There are four bedrooms here; all of them are reserved to receive guests that choose to stay overnight. If you are to be in this area, you are to stay quiet due to…"
Manfred von Karma's deep voice drifted off once more as the little boy started to look around the hallway. Like the rest of the house, the long corridor was extraordinary. Polished mahogany floor boards shone underneath brilliantly colored Oriental rugs. The walls were paneled with dark grained wood and hung with large, extravagant tapestries bearing the von Karma family crest. The ceiling was set high above his head, so tall it seemed as if it was the sky instead that hovered above. The smooth surface was painted a rich gold, split into a grid with long stretches of hand-carved trim, and every several meters hung a small chandelier of exquisite metalwork.
Miles Edgeworth felt out of his skin here in Germany. The lavishness of the estate was unsettling for he was not used to such opulence. His home was in America, but perhaps, it was his home no longer. After all, that horrific accident, the accident that killed his beloved father, it destroyed everything. Though it had been two years ago, it was still fresh in his mind as if it had happened just yesterday. It left Miles alone in the world, alone with the weight of the trauma, heavily bearing down onto his shoulders. The memories haunted him relentlessly. The aftermath of Gregory Edgeworth's death left his son with no family; Miles was bounced from orphanage to foster family, then another, and another. Then, like conjured out of thin air, appeared this man, this legend, Manfred von Karma, who offered to take the lonely boy into his home, a home halfway around the globe, but a home nonetheless.
"If you are to stay here, you are to listen to me! Do not let your mind wander off to other things while I am speaking!" Manfred von Karma's voice sharply pervaded back into Miles' head. Each of his words were tinged with venom and stung like daggers.
"Yes sir," the boy replied, his words barely audible. Though his head hung towards the floor, Miles could feel the prosecutor's stare burning at the back of his neck. The two remained tense and unmoving for several moments, and then, they started walking again.
The surroundings were so foreign to the boy, but so fascinating. He could not help but to notice the luxury, but at the same time, it overwhelmed him. The house was composed of a criss-cross of long corridors which opened to dozens upon dozens of rooms. Staircases winded up and down four floors of hallways and rooms. Each chamber was carefully decorated with utmost care and with impeccable attention to the tiniest of details. Even the corridors were finished to perfection; instead of a standard white wall and tile floor, the walkways were polished just as finely as every room in the mansion was, and absolutely dripping with the most expensive of design tastes. And despite the enormous size of the house, everything was immaculate. Not a cobweb in the corners, not a speck of dust on the furniture, not a fingerprint on the door handles.
More astounding still was that Miles had only seen the house. In fact, not only did Manfred von Karma own a mansion, he also looked over an entire estate of hundreds of acres filled with gardens, ponds, orchards, even a stable housing the finest horses one could find in the enture country.
"This is the library," the prosecutor declared as they reached a set of large carved wooden doors that gleamed with a great luster. "There is a great assortment of books here and I expect that you shall be studious and use them to your advantage. Your lessons are also to be held here, understand?"
"Yes, sir."
Standing tall above him, von Karma turned the polished brass handle of the door. With effort, he pushed the heavy portal open.
Miles was immediately awed. The enormous library contained shelves upon shelves of books stretched from the crimson carpeted floors to the tall cathedral ceiling above. Ornate stained glass windows arched across one wall casting various shades of rich crimsons and ambers. On the opposite wall was a fireplace trimmed with planks of beautiful timber. A mantelpiece stained a deep chocolate brown ran across the length of its top and on it sat cream-colored candles of varying heights, each supported by an elegant holder of pure gold. In the middle of the room was a large square table, intricate designs of interlocking vines carved into its wooden legs. Four chairs surrounded the table, and in one of them sat a little girl.
The prosecutor led Miles over to where the girl was sitting. "This is my daughter, Franziska von Karma," he announced with pride. The child, of perhaps four years, was dressed silk blue dress trimmed heavily with lace. A large jeweled broach shimmered on her high collar. She wore her ice blue hair short; it was cut perfectly straight, hanging just below her ears. She acknowledged her father with a small nod, then turned and took a long piercing stare at the strange new boy with two cold blue eyes.
"Miles Edgeworth," the girl muttered.
"Uh, it's a pleasure to meet you Franziska," Miles mumbled. Awkwardly, he stuck out his right hand in front of her, anticipating a friendly handshake.
Instead, the girl batted it away fiercely with her own hand. Her eyes narrowed, her stare boring even deeper. "My name is Franziska von Karma, and I am the daughter of the great Manfred von Karma." She pronounced every syllable distinct and perfect; each word echoed in the chamber. "You are a fool from America, and I shall not shake hands with such a fool." With this, she stood up from the chair and pushed it back under the table. With her chin held high, she marched towards the door.
"Franziska," rung the voice of the older von Karma, quiet yet stern.
"Yes, Papa?"
"Miles Edgeworth is not a guest. He is to live here with us. Might I suggest that you think of him as a sibling?"
Something in the girl's eyes flashed and the corners of her turned up in the trace of a smirk. She turned towards Miles and declared, "Of course little brother."
As she turned and walked out of the library doors, Miles could feel a tremble ripple down his spine. The little girl, barely out of toddlerhood was seven years his junior but just like with her father, he felt strangely intimidated by Franziska von Karma.