“Hey, Oz.” Cindy waved from the steps where she sat.
Walking, I was. Clear the head. Some day later. How much? Hundred truth I don’t remember. Week, maybe. Probably. Things get fuzzy when you chant. Time, what is time? Doesn’t matter. Chant to chant and sun to moon, you keep moving.
Gone to get a new pack of smokes. Had a lighter in my pocket. Felt good, gripped in my hand. Piece of paper too, just in case. Walking down the street outside Binny’s place.
Edmund waited for a full twenty minutes in the black rain of Brackenburg before knocking on the doors of Scower Mansion. He had expected to be greeted by servants, family members, even Matron Scower herself.
Instead, he had exited his carriage to an empty drive-way, walked up the rain-soaked dirt path to the giant double-doors of Scower Mansion, and waited for someone to open them. It was an unfortunate cruelty, as it gave Edmund a long time to consider; this was his last meeting. When he returned to Moulde Hall from Scower Mansion, the other eight Founding Families of Brackenburg would recognize him as the Patron of the Moulde Family. Not officially — that had been accomplished with a few signatures — but personally.
After twenty minutes, Edmund decided that knocking was his only course of action. As detailed in The Art of Savoir Faire, by Lady Yistemyr, knocking on the front door of your host’s house is a grave insult, as it suggests they do not know how to properly greet a guest. At the same time, to keep an expectant host waiting is an equal, if not greater transgression, and so Edmund decided, on balance, that he would rather be inside than outside.
It is an established fact that when it came to the salvation of the Moulde Family from the shame of history, Edmund Moulde had a plan.
The particulars of Edmund’s plan are, unfortunately, unknown to scholars and historians of our era. This is partially because, as will eventually be made clear, there are several theories as to what his ultimate plan was.
The Model Assembly theory states that Edmund created his plan in pieces, each a separate cog or spring that could be added or removed as his scheme progressed. If Kolb had never ranted and raved during the Brocklehurst Debut ball, Edmund would have found some other way to place Kolb in South Dunkin. Or perhaps he would have built his factory elsewhere, with a different surrogate that suited his purpose.
The In Totus theory posits that everything, from Edmund’s arranging his marriage all the way to the day of the nuptials, had been conceived by Edmund at age eight, underneath Haggard Hill with Orpha Moulde’s skull clutched in his hands. An entire wing of the Brackenburg Historical Society is devoted to the ramifications of European history if this is true.
The Order of Rubbed Sage continues to hold a biannual meeting in secret, devoted to the study and sharing of reputation ruining research hinging on the idea that Edmund’s plan had, in fact, failed.
While the truth of Edmund’s plans may never be known for certain, it is important to note that there were a great many obstacles along the path that he could not have anticipated.
In the timeline of events surrounding Edmund’s marriage, there are several chronological holes. While several events are known to have happened, either through contemporary record or logical deduction, it is not known precisely when they occurred. One such event is the scandalous and complicating arrival of Nausica Brocklehurst at Moulde Hall.
It is assumed, not without evidence, that Edmund was working in his study when there was a knock on the door.
Googoltha never knocks, Edmund’s brain spun into action. Ung only knocks if he thinks I’m hard at work, but he’s spent all his time in the garden recently. Mrs. Kippling always knocks, because she thinks it’s proper behavior. Enga…she only knocks if she thinks I need time to prepare for unexpected news…
After a long enough pause to collect his thoughts and prepare for a coming crisis, Edmund stood from his desk. “Enter.”
Week later. Two weeks. We chant. We all show, ‘cuz we’re a circle.
Darla dresses to the nines for it. I laugh at her, it’s only Cindy. She sticks out her sexy tongue at me. I imagine my lips wrapped around it.
Go to the digs. Door opens and I flop on the couch. Darla reclines, as always, letting silky silk fold and slip up her leg. Dressed to nines, but no care. Sexy that. Binny is sitting there in his cloud, Leon on the floor, facing the ceiling like it’s painted.
It is a failure of imagination to assume that all criminals are poor. While it makes a crude sense — why be a criminal if you don’t need the money? — it fails to account for the fact that any criminal worth their shackles will not remain poor for very long.
It is therefore far more logical to assume that the majority of criminals are rich; indeed, their criminal enterprises were undoubtedly what provided their fortune.
This perfectly rational state-of-affairs means, inevitably, that whenever there is profit to be made, there is value to be stolen. With these opportunities, the rich criminals of society will pay — often handsomely — to steal even more wealth out from under another person’s nose.
In the entrepreneurial spirit of the age, wealth came in many forms. The invention of futures markets meant that knowledge had become as profitable as gold, and oftentimes more so. Legal Proof of Ownership was as valuable as the asset itself, and anything that could be owned could be sold, coveted, and eventually stolen.
The next morning, Edmund sat in the large dining room for breakfast, a poorly cooked egg floating in weak broth. The stale bread that was a staple of Moulde Hall cuisine had been burnt on one side, and then — in a display of Mrs. Kippling’s insistence on getting it right — burnt slightly more on the other.
Even considering the blandness of the meal, Edmund didn’t taste a thing. He was too busy staring at the paper in his hand, too preoccupied with the implications of what he had written in his sleep to bother with simple things like flavor.
It was rare in Edmund’s life that there were no options. He was an educated man, both from university and from the War, and he had learned quite quickly that there were few situations in life that did not have at least three possible paths ahead. Edmund stared at the page he had written in his sleep. He had been very clear. This time, there were no options.
Scandal.
Bockabell Mansion was the seventh of eight homes owned by the Cromley’s in Brackenburg. Built in 1861, it was the height of modern fashion at the time, and was well known among the Nine Founding Families as one of the more scandalous and inappropriate expressions of architecture in all of Brackenburg.
“We are thinking of dismantling it,” Matron Dryshire Cromley mused, gesturing with a cigarette held in an elegantly manicured hand. “All of France is agog with this new ‘arts décoratifs’ style. I know the Founding Families are dreadfully upset with our efforts, but we feel it is important to keep up with the times.” She took a puff of smoke. “Now that my mother is gone, we actually might be able to.”
Edmund gave a small nod. “I must apologize for not attending Matron Hagetha Cromley’s wake.”
“Of course,” the new Matron Cromley sighed. “I too have to apologize for not attending Matron’s wake.”
Of course, both of them had perfectly good reasons for not attending the wakes — Edmund wasn’t about to pause his education just to come back for a Cromley, even the one who had signed as a witness for Edmund’s arranged marraige, and Dryshire wasn’t going to show up to any Moulde’s wake until she was certain she was well and truly dead — but, they both needed to keep up appearances, and that meant a personal apology, in addition to the ones already given in writting.
When my sizzle is done, I climb right back into the kitchen off the escape. Stick half finished, pocket for later. Grab a drink of water on the way, dry mouth, no pop. No clean glass. No dirty glass. Use my hands and slurp like thirsty.
Walk into the room. Kid’s gone, everyone else sitting around, looking at the ceiling.
They’re all silent. Not moving. Not speaking. Rude.
I look up. Nothing there. Cracks and plaster. Nothing.
A church can mean many things to many people. In the quiet rural and uncrowded towns, a church can be a place for gathering and fellowship. For the bustling cities, a church can be a place of quiet, to get away from the same clusters of humanity that fill the streets. With the right preacher, a church can be a place to find guidance and moral clarity among the complicated and confusing customs of the time. With the right parishioners, a church can be sanctuary and succor for the poor and unfortunate.
Cathedrals have no such flexibility. There are no friendly vicars who dismissively wave their hands at the mud on your boots. No smiling monks who are willing to roll up their robes to help birth a calf, or thatch a roof. A cathedral is a shrine writ large; a divine embassy on mortal land. When you step across a cathedral’s threshold, you are stepping into a world where your mortal concerns are secondary. You are not a believer in a cathedral, nor parishioner, nor penitent. You are a guest.
The Brackenburg Cathedral and Metropolitical Church of God was a well built cathedral.
