Grimm's School for the Erratically Gifted: Chapter 2

Edmund left Moulde Hall on the thirty-first of August. In proper British fashion, it was raining.

No less than three days after the two professors had left Moulde Hall, a deluge of formal congratulations arrived from all corners of the upper-class across the Empire. Four days later, the official notice from Grimm’s School for the Erratically Gifted arrived.

When he held the letter in his hand, officially welcoming him to the student body of Grimm’s, he experienced his first feeling of Erkennenwissen, a or the sudden recognition of things already known.¹

He was leaving Moulde Hall, and he would not return for a full year.

Three weeks later, Edmund found himself dressed in his finest jacket, carefully crafted according to the latest fashions, standing outside Moulde Hall under a deep blue umbrella held by Ung. He held a ratty briefcase in both hands, pulled from one of the mansion’s ancient storerooms.

It was not fear of school that troubled him. He did not worry about all the possible problems that might arise during his education, or how he would need to get by without Ung’s help (which was rare), Matron’s support (which was even rarer) or Mrs. Kippling’s attention (which was plentiful, though dubious in value).

No, Edmund was not afraid of Grimm’s itself, but rather his concern for what would happen in his absence. He would be leaving Matron all alone to fend for herself against the machinations of their squabbling relatives. Could she manage on her own? After four years together, it was certainly possible that she had become dependent on his help. For the coming five years, their only correspondence would be through letters and the four brief breaks over the summer months.

“The young master is shivering,” Ung boomed, his thick gray head slowly bending lower to look Edmund in the eye. “Is he cold?” Edmund quickly shook his head. He wasn’t cold at all.

Ung nodded once, and began the steady process of straightening again.

The waiting was the hardest part, Edmund decided.

Finally, through the clattering sheets of dark rain, the faintly mushy sound of a carriage climbing its way up Haggard Hill reached Edmund’s ears.

“Every good soldier is afraid,” Ung said as the sound grew louder, his rumbling voice falling over Edmund’s head like an avalanche. “But they do the job anyway.”

Eventually, the carriage broke through the black mist, the old mare tossing her mane and scattering a wet smoky haze around her head as her bloodshot eye stared down at Edmund with a scornful air. The driver crawled down from the carriage like a spider, the black rain dripping like rotten syrup from his ragged top hat. His skeletal arm opened the carriage door for Edmund to enter while Ung lifted his small suitcase onto the carriage top.

For a moment after the door shut behind him, the world was still and silent, save for the rain pattering on the carriage roof. Then, the dark cabin began to sway as the carriage creaked away from Moulde Hall and towards the main gate.

Edmund tried not to look out the window at the building that had been his home for four years, but his face was pressed against the black-frosted glass before they had passed the gazebo.

Ung stood alone at the front door, watching the carriage vanish into the black fog. The five story mansion stood silent and calm, the rain turning everything a sketchy gray. Just before the house vanished into the monochromatic mists, Edmund thought he saw something flicker through the open doorway. A face? Mrs. Kippling, perhaps?

Edmund took a deep breath. If he was concerned about Grimm’s at all, it was because he felt woefully unprepared. He had scoured the library for information about the institution and found nothing of use. Old diaries, journals, and historical tracts detailed a great deal about the school, save what they actually expected him to study there. Even Patron Plinkerton, who’s journal referenced the school several times throughout its pages, was silent on this singular subject.

Without that important piece of information, Edmund was going to Grimm’s blind.

Well, if the Mouldes from ages past hadn’t written anything about Grimm’s, then someone had to, and it might as well be him. He had considered writing his own after first reading Plinkerton’s journal. A collection of diaries and notebooks of his own was as good a method as any of recording his experiments and explorations for future Mouldes.

But what to write first?

Edmund pulled one of his fountain pens and an empty notebook from his pocket. With a sharp and forthright hand,² he wrote his name and the date on the front cover.

His journal thus titled, Edmund paused, tapping his chin with the end of his pen. What to write next?

He was spared this particular concern by the introduction of a second uncertainty; namely why the carriage was beginning to slow.

He glanced out into the sooty darkness, past the streaks of gray covering the window. Just ahead, a figure was standing in the rain.

The carriage pulled to a halt, and the side door opened. With a soggy slapping sound, a small man in a long black coat and gray bowler hat slipped inside. He dropped a thick brown briefcase on the seat across from Edmund and sat down, pulling the door shut behind him.

“I do beg your pardon for this intrusion,” the man sniffed, pulling a monocle out of his vest pocket, “but I’m afraid we have some important things to discuss before you complete your journey.” Turning slightly in his seat, Mr. Shobbinton clicked open the clasps on his case.

Edmund stared; he almost didn’t recognize the man, but the click of the briefcase was far too familiar, even after having only met the man once before. He was Matron’s solicitor, though the title did not do the man justice. Edmund had grown to mistrust the man, or rather he mistrusted the idea of him. He was solicitor to not only Matron but the rest of the Moulde Family as well, and there were simply too many clever tricks and shrewd minds in the family to trust anyone who could keep them all straight.

“I don’t believe we have been properly introduced,” Edmund said, by way of polite greeting.

Mr. Shobbinton glanced up for only a second. His eyes were sharp and clear, and his hands moved like well greased machinery as they pulled a small sheaf of papers out from the briefcase and began to flip through them. “We may dispense with the pleasantries, as proper introductions have nothing to do with my duties. I have been instructed by my client to inform you of several facts that may be quite important for you to know in the coming years.”

“And who is your client at the moment?”

“I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information,” Mr. Shobbinton sniffed. “I am the Moulde’s family solicitor, and as such I am only at liberty to say that I represent all Mouldes with equal capacity, efficiency, and discretion.”

“Does that mean you’re my solicitor too?”

Mr. Shobbinton’s eyebrow rose again, slower this time, and if Edmund had thought Mr. Shobbinton had been frowning before, he didn’t know what his mouth was doing now. “Have you need of one?” He asked, slowly and pointedly.

“I don’t know,” Edmund answered honestly. “What would I need a solicitor for?”

“Proper grammar, perhaps?” Mr. Shobbinton’s mouth twitched, then his face softened. “Forgive me, but by the time this carriage reaches Brackenburg Central Station, I must have discharged my duties, and they are…copious. First, a list of names.” The solicitor glanced up and down again. “Lord Jasker Pounding, Victrola Skiffins, Sir Flank Wallis, Miss Dove, Wilter Ganbill —”

“Who are they?” Edmund interrupted.

“These are people that my client urges you to avoid during your time in Mothburn,” Mr. Shobbinton said. “Now, if I may —”

Edmund had recognized the name Skiffins; they were a family from the east end of the Squatling district, and the Poundings were new money from Ninnenburg, but the others were unfamiliar to him. “Are they dangerous?”

“Worse,” Mr. Shobbinton sniffed. “Mediocre. My client is concerned they will be poor influences. Now, if I may continue with —”

“Poor influences?”

Mr. Shobbinton heaved a sigh. “Grimm’s may be a school of great reputation, but the surrounding city of Mothburn is full of allures for the young and impressionable. I have here a number of names, locations, activities, and behaviors my client wishes for you to avoid during your five years at school, to keep both the reputation of yourself and the Moulde Family et al intact. Now, if I may continue?”

It should be said; history is rife with examples of situations where a single piece of information would have resulted in drastically different results. A lost packet of cigars or a delayed friar can mean the difference between a crowning or a beheading.

It must be with some sadness, then, that we acknowledge that Edmund did not listen to Mr. Shobbinton.

He knew very little about schools, much less about Grimm’s, but the one thing he did know was crystal clear in his mind: they were supposed to influence him.

It was irritating, really. Did his family not think he could handle it? That he couldn’t recognize for himself who was and was not a sanctioned teacher? Half of the names Mr. Shobbinton was listing didn’t even have ‘professor’ in front of them.

Edmund closed his eyes, and let the patronizing efforts of Mr. Shobbinton and his unnamed client wash over him, ignored and forgotten.

Had Mr. Shobbinton been a Moulde, he might have noticed Edmund not paying attention, and tried a different tactic. As he was a solicitor, and therefore used to being ignored, he continued speaking, unheard, for the entire journey to the train station.

---

The behavior of pedestrians within a city limits has been best analogized by Lord Finable Woolfe and his “Rubber Sheet” thought experiment. To wit: given a large rubber sheet that represents any given city, the placing of a heavy object on the sheet will deform the sheet such that a number of ball bearings would slide into a correctly shaped representation of population density on any given day. ³

The Brackenburg Central Train Station was a very heavy object indeed.

Edmund, in all twelve years of his life, had never spent a single moment of it inside Brackenburg’s downtown. He had seen countless paintings hanging in Moulde Hall of the train station, as well as the city hall, the opera house, and several other significant buildings; but he had never stepped outside the iron-wrought fence to see them himself and was therefore woefully unprepared for the shear volume of citizenry.

The carriage slowed to a crawl through the cobblestone streets, edging its way past street-sellers, laborers, street-urchins, merchants, itinerants, police officers, and pedestrians.

Before long, the black-plumed carriage reached the train-station and shuddered to a halt. Edmund opened his ever-wound watch.⁴ The time showed 2:26, and train to Mothburn left at 2:50. They had made excellent time, considering.

The driver opened the door, and Edmund started to exit, only to be stopped by Mr. Shobbinton. “Forgive me, Master Edmund, but I have not completed my disquisition.”

It was 2:41 by the time Mr. Shobbinton slipped the papers back into his briefcase and clicked it shut, and Edmund’s heart was beating fast. He only had nine minutes to reach his train, and he hadn’t even walked into the station yet.

“Is there anything else?” Edmund had to ask, because he was polite.

“No,” Mr. Shobbinton gestured to the door. “I have discharged my client’s wishes, and you have a train to catch.”

Edmund gratefully leapt through the open door, grabbing his luggage from the driver’s outstretched hand. As soon as his feet touched the ground, the carriage diver was up on his seat and tapping the horse’s flanks with his whip. In less than a heartbeat, Edmund was alone.

Of course, as urbanites of every nation know, “alone” is a relative term in cities. Men and women were in constant motion around him, moving up and down the steps of the black-iron building that was Brackenburg Central Train Station. It was a slightly unnerving but wholly familiar sensation for Edmund, being alone in a crowd; it reminded him of the orphanage.

The station itself had been built generations ago by Mouldes, and it showed. The same sharp angles and pointed spires that adorned Moulde Hall framed the Train Station. A giant clock face covered in sharp spidery numbers glowed like an evil eye, staring down at the passers by, daring them to continue their day without knowing the proper time.

It had been the last building of Patron Plinkerton Moulde. He even built three of his titular engines in the foundations, and funded the rest of the construction out of his own pocket. It had been considered as a fine display of noblesse oblige until two years after his death, when the local papers commented that such a seemingly self-less display was obviously done for selfish reasons (e.g. to appear self-less) and thus turned public opinion against it.

Some day, Edmund thought, I will build something of equal weight, value, and notoriety.⁵

Of course, that wouldn’t happen today: he only had eight minutes to catch his train. Edmund needed to…

Needed to…

With only seven minutes until his train left the station, Edmund realized he had absolutely no idea where to go or what to do. He knew he needed to catch his train, but he had no idea what “to catch a train” actually meant.

The rain continued to pour down as pedestrian after pedestrian walked in and out of the dark station. Many were pulling slim tickets out of their pockets and unfolding pamphlets full of dates and times. Edmund hadn’t seen any place to acquire such items, but they seemed important to the process.

His first step was fairly obvious; there were people doing it all around him. He climbed the steps and entered the train station along with the teeming masses.

His first step completed, he was at a loss for what to do next. He saw men and women talk to people in dark blue uniforms. He saw white gloves point deeper into the station where steam and whistles blew.

Ordinarily, Edmund would have surveyed the entire organism that was The Train Station, and in the span of a quarter-hour he would have been able to travel from Cliffside to Bastingstoke as if he had been born in a passenger car. Unfortunately he only had five minutes left, so a quick consideration of his options gave him only one obvious answer; after all, a Moulde used every tool at their disposal, and what were servants but just another tool?

Edmund carefully constructed and tested sentences in his mind, ensuring he had the right tone, meter, and structure, before he swallowed his nerves and walked towards the closest uniformed man. He was quite large, the wrinkles on his neck from a tight collar rather than age. Edmund stepped closer, and carefully pitched his throat as he gave a small cough — a clearer “excuse me” had never been uttered.

The man looked directly at him. “And how may I help you, young master?” His voice was thick and rough, covered in coal dust.

“I am heading to Mothburn,” he said. “Grimm’s School for the Erratically Gifted.”

“Ah!” the man’s large hand twisted, pointing down the way. “The Two-Fifty to Mothburn is on platform six.”

“Thank you,” Edmund said, turning to follow the man’s hand. He stopped when the same hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“Begging your pardon, mi’lud,” The hand slowly released Edmund’s shoulder and touched the brim of his hat. “Might you be the Young Master Moulde?”

Edmund had never been recognized before. When he was young, he simply never had the knack of it. When he became older, he had learned the life of a Moulde well enough to know that being recognized was rarely an ideal state of affairs.⁶ Even accepting all this, Edmund’s life had not been one that provided much opportunity to be recognized, and as such it was a new and worrying sensation for him.

“I might,” Edmund admitted, glancing around for readily available escape routes or improvisable weaponry, should the need arise.

“Jolly good!” The man’s face split into a massive smile as he pointed again with a flat hand. “May I escort the young Master to his train?”

“I don’t have a ticket yet,” Edmund said, looking first at the outstretched hand, and then back at the grinning mustache, so eager to be helpful.

“What a coincidence,” the man flourished again and a ticket was in his hand. “I happen to have a recently purchased ticket for the Two-Fifty to Mothburn here in my pocket.”

Edmund stared. He knew it wasn’t a coincidence — the man’s tone made that clear — and something about his flourishing hands reminded him quite strongly of one of his cousins…

“Do you know a Mr. Kolberman Popomus?” Edmund asked as he carefully slid the ticket out of the man’s hand.

“If you mean a fine gentleman with whom someone might have traveled to the easternmost edge of India, and to whom someone may owe no small amount of money; then no, I have never met the man.” His grin still wide, the man cast his eyes about the station. “Come, let’s walk together. Sharply now!”

Edmund raced after the swift stride of the man, ducking and weaving between bustling men and women, all of whom were hauling luggage and children about with similar care. Edmund could barely see through the throngs of people and almost lost sight of the man once or twice, but before long he found himself staring at a row of giant train engines.

Much has been made of Brackenburg Central Station and the engines that called it their home. Each train was unique, designed and decorated by one of preeminent artist-engineers. The largest was almost as big as house, the smallest no larger than a horse. From brass and gears to steel and gold, every engine was a tour de force of modern travel.

“See this one?” the large man shouted over gusts of steam and piercing whistles. “This is the Pemblebrook Flyer. Makes the trip from here to Voklögerstaäag in less than a week, and it’s like floating on silk the entire way.” It was thick and wide, almost flat with three tall smokestacks that stuck out from the broiler at an angle. The pilot was thin and pointed, leading the front like a spear. The engine reminded Edmund of a rakish frog with a beard, covered in soot.

“This,” he dragged Edmund along just a hair faster than was comfortable, “Is the Algamore Express!” The train, proudly labeled in ornate gilded lettering, was almost two stories tall. The front of the black cylindrical engine was outfitted with intricate fortifications and cloisters so that it looked to Edmund like a miniature cathedral had sprouted wheels and decided to go for a stroll. The front of the engine had a giant clock mounted to it, glowing brightly. “Always on time, the finest train from the east,” the man sighed, happily. “In fact…oh…excuse me for just a moment.”

In an instant, the man had vanished into the teeming crowds, leaving Edmund all alone. For a moment, Edmund was lost in the swirl of humanity, when the man was suddenly pulling Edmund along again, shaking and flexing his other hand.

“Begging your pardon,” he said breathlessly, “I just saw someone I simply had to say hello to.”

There was the Piccadilly Rover, which was made entirely out of reinforced tin. The Hamlettonian Flash, which looked more like a pile of furniture than an actual engine. The Lack-a-day Run-by, which was full to the brim with passengers, hanging on to the sides and clambering over the roof like ants, waving small bags and swatting at each other with their luggage. The Maharajah was gilded iron and tempered steel, sleek and covered with spinnerets. The Number Seven-A was a mottled box covered in gears and levers and had twenty eight wheels, each no bigger than a dinner plate. The Crownfarthing looked almost plain, except for its one giant wheel that bisected the train like a saw.

Finally, at the end of the line of fabulous trains lay The Lord and Lady Grimbold. A gray-green engine with sharp lines and five smokestacks. The boiler was short and stubby with a bulge in the middle that gave it the appearance of a snake half-way through eating an egg.

“Here you are, Young Master Edmund,” the man tipped his hat as he started to walk away. “Do tell Mr. Popomus that I got you here safe when you see him next, yes? I would be ever so obliged. Oop!” The man noticed something in the crowd and rolled up his sleeves. “There’s another one. Safe travels, Master Moulde!”

“Thank you,” Edmund called out as the man vanished into the steam and the crowds.

After having his ticket stamped by the conductor, Edmund sat in the first empty passenger room he could find. It was soft, red, and rimed with silver. Carefully setting his suitcase on the floor opposite him, Edmund sat next to the window and stared out at the teaming masses.

It was his own fault, really. four years ago he had manipulated his cousins into fighting together for a common goal, and in so doing managed to raise the opinion of the Founding Families towards the Moulde Family. Now, with so much riding on his shoulders, he couldn’t expect his cousins to behave differently, could he? They would do anything to make sure he achieved great things at Grimm’s, including Wislydale — or Junapa, maybe? — hiring Mr. Shobbinton to give him advice, or Kolb leveraging an old debt to make sure he arrived safely.

It was reassuring, somehow, to know that he wasn’t the only one who saw the importance of his attending Grimm’s. He wasn’t entirely on his own after all. Of course, he’d have to get the diploma on his own, but his relatives were trying to make sure he’d at least get a fair shot.

Matron would have scoffed at him. Mouldes didn’t want fair shots, they wanted sure bets. The dice were always loaded somehow, so a true Moulde would make sure they were always loaded in their favor.

An unsettling thought drifted through Edmund’s mind. If the Moulde Family was so intent on helping Edmund get to school, there must have been someone else working just as hard to make sure he didn’t. The Moulde family had its enemies, both inside and out, and there were any number of advantages that could be acquired by sabotaging a young heir’s education at Grimm’s.

Matron must have suspected, along with Kolb and Mr. Shobbinton’s client. There was someone out there who was trying to stop Edmund graduating from Grimm’s.

These thoughts may strike some as paranoid. To Mouldes they are survival techniques.

---

Edmund only had to wait for a minute or two before a loud whistle blew in the distance, answered by a loud blast of steam. Some workers shouted at each other from across the platform, and Edmund felt the train begin to move. His heart beat faster as the station outside the window drifted away, slowly at first, and then gaining speed.

Edmund had never been on a train before. He knew the principle, and in practice it was only slightly different than a horse and carriage. The rhythmic hooves on cobblestones were replaced by a chugging engine on brass rails — louder, but every bit as rhythmic. The vibrations were stronger, smaller, and more frequent. Less a rambling sway and more a nervous quiver, like the engine was terrified of its own strength.

Edmund reached into his pocket and pulled out his notebook. Staring out the window, he began to write.

He kept his gaze on the window while the world moved past. The soot and steam made strange patterns beyond the glass, with shapes and shadows of people scattering them like cobwebs.

Then the shapes became taller and thicker. Light shone through building windows and tall glass lanterns sped past as the train picked up speed. The world brightened as the dark cloud of industry lifted overhead, and Brackenburg vanished.

Even through the soot-caked windows of the train, the world beyond the glass grew brighter and more colorful. Greens and yellows crept in, and Edmund found himself staring awe-struck as colorful plants and trees and townhouses flew away alongside the train. Large houses with tailored gardens and white-dressed women with parasols flickered into view and then vanished again. In the distance, men played Cricket on flat fields.

In minutes, the world became even more rural. The sun beat down on rolling green hills spotted with fluffy white sheep, and dark brown horses pulled muddy carts and plows on dusty farms.

It was nothing Edmund had never seen before — he had read plenty of almanacs and books on animal ailments, all of which had pictures — but there was a melancholy swirling in Edmund’s chest as he stared through the train’s black-rimmed glass. Seeing the world from inside a fast-moving cage of metal felt much the same as from inside a immobile mansion made of brick and stone. It was beautiful, and sad, and wonderful, and terrible, and Edmund didn’t yet have the words to encompass it all.

“I said, what’s your name?”

Edmund blinked. His mind had been wandering, flying alongside the train as it sped through the countryside, drinking in the new colors and shapes, and he had completely missed the fact that someone else had sat down across from him.

She had dark brown hair and glittering green eyes that stared at him from the other bench. Her mouth was small and firm, while her hands clasped her knees like an eager cat.

“Edmund,” he answered, glancing down at his notebook. He had filled three pages already.

“You’re going to Grimm’s, I can tell,” she said as the world flew past their window. “My name is Victrola, Victrola Skiffins. My father is the Baron Skiffins, of Skiffinsdell. You’ve probably heard of me; my family owns a house on the east end of the Squatling district.”

“I have,” Edmund admitted. He’d heard her name recently, in fact…when was it?

“I’m fourteen,” she twittered, “which is young for a student. You’re going to be my best friend.”

“Okay,” Edmund said. He had never had a best friend before, but he was fairly certain they were not acquired by decree.

“We’ll be in the same house,” she said, settling back in her seat and tapping her fingers together, “And probably have lunch together too. We’ll have some of the same classes, but not all, and you’ll probably want to be more than friends in a few years, but I’ll have my own boyfriend by then, and you’ll just have to be sad until we have an argument about how I’m not paying attention to you anymore, and then you’ll reveal your hidden passion for me, and then we’ll be friends again.”

“Okay.”

“And then you’ll either be my best friend for life, or you’ll die in a terribly noble way and I’ll be very sad. I haven’t decided which yet. You’re awfully short.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t recognize you. I know all the best people in Brackenburg, so you must not be that important. What’s your name?”

“Edmund.”

“You already told me that name. I mean what’s your family name?”

“Moulde.”

“Don’t be silly,” Victrola laughed. “You can’t possibly be a Moulde. The only real Mouldes are Matron Moulde and her recently adopted Heir to the Moulde Estate. You can’t be him.”

“I think I am,” Edmund said.

“You can’t be. The Mouldes are a terribly important family, you know. They run a whole ninth of the city. Why just one of the Founding Families is richer than all the other families of Brackenburg put together! If you were a Moulde, you’d be dressed in a silver suit or fine silk, and you’d have butlers and maids all looking after you, and I’d never get to sit next to you, until you caught my eye across the train car and sent one of your servants to surprise me with an invitation to have tea with you before we reached Grimm’s, and then I’d become your best friend. That’s how things are done.”

Edmund looked around, noting how many other occupants of the passenger car were not looking at him in awe or astonishment. This strange girl certainly was making a convincing case.

“Have you heard that the dead walk in Mothburn?”

“No.” It was silly. The dead couldn’t walk after they were dead. Life was one of the resolute prerequisites for ambulatory motion. Wasn’t it?

“I’ve heard gossip that there’s a shadowy ghost haunting the Mothburn Graveyard. Turns into a bird and everything. I wonder if I’ll see it? I expect you won’t, because I expect you to have my classwork done at a reasonable hour.”

“I think we’ll have to do our own work,” Edmund said. Matron had been very clear on that point. Surprisingly clear, in fact.

“Don’t be so silly,” Victrola smiled without showing any teeth. “You have to do my work because I’ll need to keep up my academic standing while I sneak out at night and go explore and have adventures.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You are really very silly,” Victrola tossed her hair. “That’s what best friends do, and we’re best friends. We must be, since this is going to be our first year at Grimm’s and we’re both supposed to be nervous about what we’re going to learn, and we’re both sitting in the same room on the train. That’s how Best Friends meet.”

Based on Edmund’s memories of the orphanage, best friends were acquired after spending time beating up a smaller orphan. It was probably best to not ask if this was what she expected.

“I have an ancestor with your name,” he said instead. He didn’t explain in detail, as the penny dreadful nature of Victrola Moulde’s hospital had soured much of Brackenburg on doctors and medical care in general.

“Oh,” Victrola cocked her head at him. “Are you really a Moulde?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Not just a related family like the Brocklehursts or the Knittles?”

“No.”

“Hmph,” Victrola shrugged. “You don’t look like one. Well, you’re still my best friend. And don’t even think about falling in love with me until at least third year. I don’t want to get distracted.”

“No.”

“Although there’s not much chance of that. You’re not much to look at, are you?”

“No.”

“That’s fine. That just means you must be very smart or brave. The best looking people are always villains at our age. Isn’t it funny how that happens? When you’re young, all the villains are ugly old witches or trolls, and the heroes are beautiful knights and princesses. Now that we’re older, all the best heroes are plain while the villains are always good-looking.”

Edmund stared at Victrola as she rambled on, painting a very vivid picture of the story her life was going to tell.

Edmund looked around the passenger car again. No one was looking at him.

He didn’t mind being ignored. He really didn’t. Being ignored was a skill he had practiced from a young age. He could vanish in a crowd, disappear in shadows… he could even hide in plain sight, standing near a wall or pillar, and people would just pass him by.

But if he was going to be Patron Moulde some day, he needed to be noticed. He needed to grab the world’s attention and drive the conversations of people he had never met. He need to prove himself with a grand display that even the Founding Families could no longer doubt that Edmund was a Moulde.

Once that happened, the Moulde Family would be reborn in the esteem of its peers. They would be respected again. The Moulde Family would be saved from its own petty squabbles and unambitious schemes. They would be the subject of admiring gossip once more. Talked over. Whispered about. Admired.

Edmund just needed to convince everyone he was a genius.

How?

Geniuses did things. Patron Plinkerton Moulde was a genius, and his invention of the Plinkerton Engine revolutionized industry across the Empire. Matron Victrola built Hospitals that revolutionized healthcare.⁷ In his time, Patron Albathere revolutionized biology, though the courts eventually agreed he had done so by accident. Even Patron Rotchild had revolutionized the banks of Brackenburg.⁸

What sort of revolution could he cause? He needed to plan.

Fading into the background, Edmund turned to a new page in his notebook and let his mind explore the possibilities.

The rest of the journey passed in silence, with Victrola constantly musing about the color of her first boyfriend’s hair, bragging about her familial bloodline and ancestry, or wondering exactly which of her teachers she would hate first only to win over by her last year with her natural intelligence. While this may not appear as silence, Edmund decided the statement was fundamentally accurate, as nothing of significance was actually said.

---