Novels

Edmund stood in front of Moulde Hall, dressed in the finest fitting suit he had been able to purchase in town, watching the carriage driver drive up the hill.

Ung had been waiting in his room to help him dress. Edmund was no expert, but Ung had assured him that the suit was well made and a perfect fit. The collar was broad and tall, and the vest was a thin leathery gray with Plinkerton’s watch tucked neatly into the pocket. His pants were well fitted, resting lightly on his shiny black shoes, while faint beige ruffles slipped out from around his sleeves like flowers.

Edmund cast the lantern around the tomb, casting shadows over the rough stone. Plinkerton didn’t create this room; it was far too old. The long steps and secret door weren’t likely the original entrance either; people would notice if the crypt of the first Moulde was suddenly covered by a clock statue. There had to be another way out…the original way out.

Edmund was beginning to realize the problem with trying to be three things at once; a person, a Moulde, and an Edmund. It required him to translate the confusing thoughts and actions of others three times before he could understand the situation with precision.

The Mansion struck ten in the evening, the deep boom rolling over Haggard Hill. The storm clouds continued their bubbling creep over the city, turning the warm velvety darkness of nighttime into the empty gray darkness of foreboding doom. Black rain fell fast and hard against the windows of Moulde Hall.

Edmund raised his crank lantern higher against the gloom. He had found it in a storage-room filled with gardening supplies; a clever tool that somehow turned the rotation of a crank on its side into a dim reddish light. Edmund had prevented himself from taking it apart then and there only by promising himself the opportunity later, when he had the time.

It is important to recognize — as Edmund did when he grew much older — that the discovery of Aoide changed everything for him, and not for the better.

Before Aoide, his days were a whirlwind of repetitive activity. In spite of Edmund’s enamouration with the library, he still had responsibilities, and as painful as it was for him there were times he needed to leave his beloved library to fulfill his obligations; namely, exploring the locked rooms of Moulde Hall, eating a lonely dinner at six of the clock precisely, spying on his family, taking Matron her tray of lunch, and his lessons.

When he was sufficiently armed with the scripture of the ages, Edmund removed the last nails from the tapestry and pulled down the rest of the crumbling wall..

From the front, the statue looked like a beautiful marble statue that wouldn’t move, no matter how long Edmund prodded at it. Around the back, however, was a large opening at the base of the woman’s torso. A few frayed threads stuck to two threaded bolts suggested the opening had once been covered by a piece of cloth, and perhaps it still would have been, had the rat not found it before Edmund.

It was almost dinnertime when they finally stopped. Edmund had lost every game.

Before they started, Edmund was skeptical; Draughts looked perfectly balanced to him. Both sides had the same number of pieces, the same rules for movement…any game had to end in a tie, or at least be very close.

By the end of the sixth game, Edmund had learned differently. He was beginning to see the whole board at once and to plan more than a single step ahead. He was finding pleasure in small victories; he had captured three of Junapa’s pieces in the last game and even kinged one of his own.

“Wonder of wonders!” Kolb’s face was a beacon of delight as he opened the door. “How delightful! When I told Ung I would eat in my room, I hadn’t expected to be served by the future heir!” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t tell Wislydale the heir of the family is carting around cooking like a compliant courier. He’ll pitch a right fit.”

Edmund handed Kolb the tray, and then pulled out the letter. “This is also for you.”

Edmund awoke the next morning feeling different than he ever had before.

Leftover rain dripped from the roof outside. The storm had continued all night, letting up only slightly after the mansion struck six in the morning. The sudden silence had jolted Edmund from his shallow sleep.

His sleep had to have been shallow; getting to sleep had been so difficult. He had settled into bed at the stroke of one in the morning. Even so late, no matter how still he lay, his heart beat so fast and thoughts sped through his brain at such a rate that he had lain awake for hours, assaulted by a thousand ideas all demanding his attention.

Trigger Warning: poem referencing self-harm

By the time he reached his room, Edmund wasn’t angry at all. He was an orphan, would always be an orphan, and was going to leave the mansion. Everything made sense again. He grabbed up his poetry notebook from his desk, chose meter and scheme, and began to write.

It was still raining.

Edmund had resolved himself to explore as many rooms in the Mansion as possible, and wasting even an hour for meals in familiar rooms felt inefficient; so when he acquired his lunch from Mrs. Kippling, he asked for a different dining room.

She directed him to a medium sized dining room, designed to seat six diners at most. There, Edmund ate his thick chunky soup that was almost a stew and smelled of oats.