Grimm's School for the Erratically Gifted: Chapter 3

For six hours the train traveled through the countryside, stopping at various towns to pick up and drop off passengers. Edmund watched each person embark and disembark with interest, noting which ones had regal entourages and which stood alone with their bags; which were embraced warmly by adults and which shared no more than a nod; which were dressed in gold and silver with fine bejeweled necklaces, bracelets, and rings, and which looked…well, looked more like Edmund.

When his ever-wound watch said six, he pulled his supper — a small sealed jar of soup — from his baggage, and drank the weak broth as quietly as he could. Victrola purchased a meal from the cart, and barely stopped talking long enough to chew and swallow.

Not five minutes later, the city of Mothburn appeared in the distance; a dark smudge on a gray moor.

“What a dreary town,” Victrola muttered as she stared out the window, her head shoved against Edmund’s. “My family has a mansion in Cliffside, and it’s an exciting place full of sailors and foreign merchants. Mothburn is probably full of a lot of boring people. I shan’t have a lot of adventures there, I imagine.”

Edmund was likewise unimpressed. Mothburn’s buildings were half as tall as Brackenburg’s, and there wasn’t even a black cloud of soot hanging overhead like a bed-cover. He could only see five clock towers, and seven — seven! — factories. For all intents and purposes, it looked exactly like any other small northern English city.

His eye was drawn, therefore, not to the city, but to the dark shape of Grimm’s School for the Erratically Gifted, a massive stone castle carved out of the countryside. Three tall towers stuck out from the walls like stove-pipes, and a square keep peeked out from the middle like a cautious giant.

The train slowed as it curved towards the city, gliding to a halt with the piercing scream of scraping iron and brass. With a shuddering heave and a spray of steam, the train stopped at the humble Southern Mothburn Station.

Victrola vanished with a quick farewell, and Edmund was not disappointed. After collecting his bag, Edmund stepped off the train and across the platform onto the wide street.

Those who have visited Mothburn know that there are few things worthy of astonishment. The list begins with Grimm’s, and ends with the infamous khaki set roads.¹ Edmund, however was astonished, and for neither of these facts.

Edmund was astonished by the sky.

His entire life he had known of the sun as a pale glowing circle hidden behind the black cloud of industry. Now, he could crane his head back and stare up at a sky that was clear, and bright, and nearly devoid of soot.

For some, this experience might have been soothing, or awe inspiring. For Edmund, it was terrifying.

He had never been to Mothburn before. He had never seen the sky before. He had never been a student before. He had never had a teacher before. For the next five years, he was going to be submersed in a world he had no experience in.

But he had wanted to see new things. Back when he had first laid eyes on Matron Moulde, he had wanted more than anything to see the world!² But after eight years behind a wooden fence, he spent four years behind an iron-wrought fence. Now, he was just a short walk away from five years behind a stone wall.

He knew about the building; he had read all seven of the volumes on Grimm’s history, including the boring parts when nothing happened. Grimm’s used to be a castle, becoming a cathedral after the King died, before becoming a school after the High Priest died. The city trudged along as the world circled around it. The school had grown piece by piece, sometimes helped along by a grateful alumnus, other times by eager hopefuls.

Edmund took a single step.

If he didn’t pass through the gate of Grimm’s, he would never become a student. He would never learn the things he could have learned, or done the things he could have done. The Founding Families would sneer and nod and say “of course, he wasn’t a real Moulde.”

Edmund took another step.

He was expected to arrive today. On the train. Get his housing assignments, unpack his luggage, learn the layout of the school, do what he was supposed to do.

Edmund didn’t take a third step.

With his humours rolling about in his stomach, Edmund pulled his notebook out of his pocket and began to write.

Dear Diary,
When I was first adopted two years ago from Mrs. Mapleberry’s Home for Wayward Lads and Ladies, I had dreamed that I was going to a place of wondrous delights, or perhaps just mild curiosities. Anything would have been better than the monotonous life I had led up until that fateful day.
With great joy, I realized that the new world into which I had been thrown was full of horrors and terrors beyond even the dreadful specter of boredom. For the first time in my life I was Lost. I was Alone. The silence that used to be the master of the nighttime spread to the morning as well.
Now I see I have become used to my giant home, and look to the future with fear. What strange things will I find that fill me with dread? What will I see that will make me crave the times I was lost in the maze of Moulde Hall? What new people will I meet that will cause me to long for the dark and spiteful eyes of my relatives?
Or will things be wonderful?³

There. Now it was on paper. The uncertainty of his future was now carved in ink on paper; conceivable, and therefore controllable.

His heart jumped again as a blast of steam and train-whistle signaled the train leaving the station. Edmund turned to see the one possible escape from Mothburn steadily move away without him.

There was no going back now.

It is easy for those unfamiliar with Edmund’s modus cogitari to assume that this might make things more terrifying for Edmund. He was now, for all intents and purposes, trapped.

While he did feel trapped, it did not have the effect on Edmund that one might expect. He couldn’t go back, so he had to go forward. His uncertainties could now be focused entirely on which direction “forward” was.

After all, he didn’t have to go to Grimm’s right away. School didn’t officially start until tomorrow, the first of September. Yes, he was supposed to go straight to Grimm’s, but could he do that knowing he might never see Mothburn again if he did?

Edmund looked back up at the towering university, and then back down at the surrounding city. He wouldn’t allow himself to be so trapped. There was a whole city outside of Grimm’s, and yes, while Mothburn was maybe an eighth of the size of Brackenburg, it was still full of people and places and things to see and do.

Before settling down for five years of his life, he’d take his time to explore the bustling city that encircled the pedagogical environs of Grimm’s School for the Erratically Gifted. He wouldn’t get lost: the giant castle of Grimm’s was a hard landmark to miss, looming down over the city like a gargoyle.

His heart light and his feet swift, Edmund turned his back on the school, and began to walk.

---

If Edmund were to ever research something new, Mothburn was newer than anything he had ever seen before.

After only ten minutes of wandering the Mothburn streets, dragging his luggage behind him, Edmund had pinpointed several differences from Brackenburg. Something in the pedestrians’ steps was different; they moved slowly with their heads held high, rather than adopting the head-down quick pace of Brakenburg. Women laughed with their companions, and children shouted as they were carted around on parents’ shoulders. Even the men, against all propriety and convention, smiled from time to time.

Then there were the colors. Brackenburg was black and gray, with patches of dark blue and moldy green. Even the Squatling district, where the upper-class had their mansions, was never lighter than a dim yellowish tan, or faded purple.

Mothburn, on the other hand, was white, brown, red, and blue. Green shrubs with real flowers poked over fences that shone white in the sun. Bright awnings shaded colorful doors that framed clean streets. It was disconcerting to see the similar shapes and lines of English architecture surrounded with life. If Brackenburg was the melancholic black bile of the country, surely Mothburn was sanguine blood.

It took only a quarter hour for Edmund to find the Merchant district. While general stores and cafes dotted every city block, it was the Merchant district where they stood proud and tall, unashamed to catch the eye or draw attention to their wares with bellowing calls and brightly painted signs for butchers, pawn shops, grocers, barber-surgeons, solicitors, haberdashers, clothiers, and more.

The streets was full of pedestrians, wandering to and fro, shopping or shouting across the streets at each other. Out of habit, Edmund eavesdropped on several different conversations.

“…’ere, you seen Rutludge’s? Mr. Rutluge ‘as gone and put price tags on ‘is stock.”

“Sos you can’t even ‘aggle? What’sis worl’ commin’ to, I asks you?”

“No, my dear, I’ll swear I saw the exact same style at Lady Tinbottom’s last soiree.”

“Good heavens, you have saved me, darling, from an unimaginable catastrophe! I’ll inform Mrs. Linkletter that I have decided to go with the blue hat instead.”

“I say, old chap, heard any news on the latest Ripper murder? Just two days ago —”

“‘Cor! Ewe call that fresh? My mam be fresher’n that! An’ she’s Quaker! Show me a —”

“Oh, I say! Mr. Fipps! What luck running into you on the street. I wonder if you’ve had a chance to —”

“— another victim? What is the city coming to. It’s obviously the work of that —”

“— My hat? Here! Come back, you —!”

Edmund wandered for hours, dodging pedestrians, glancing this way and that, and familiarizing himself with the ways of Mothburn, until the sun had dipped low and the skies burned a deep cardinal.

The streets began to thin as men and women made their way home to whatever evening meals they had waiting for them. A few laborers finished unloading their carts, while shop-keeps put up their wooden shutters. Here and there, the dim light from taverns and pubs filtered through frosted windows.

Another two hours and the city was asleep. The sun had set and the lamp-lighters were out, bathing the tiny city in their comforting yellow glow. The light was brighter than the gas-lamps in Brackenburg, and it hurt Edmund’s eyes, unfiltered through soot-covered glass as it was. Only the odd singing drunk or tired businessman walking home betrayed any sign of life.

Before long, the streets were completely empty, save for Edmund standing still in the middle of the brick cobbles, staring at the full moon.

It was hauntingly familiar; what the sun had always looked like to him, but without a blanket of smog covering it.

The lights were dim, the sky was dark, and shadows loomed from every corner. A whispering breeze slid down the streets, peeking into alleys and slipping under doors, bringing the customary British fog from down off the distant moors, to blanket the town in its smothering gloom. Off in the distance, an owl hooted the doom of some nearby rodent.

Edmund was ready now. He found the tall towers of the school peaking over the rooftops, and began to walk towards them, dragging his luggage behind him.

“Oi, laddie!”

Edmund turned to see a lanky older boy sitting atop a rain-barrel, his ragged top-hat half covering one side of his face. He had the beginnings of a beard creeping down the side of his cheeks and a spray of fiery red hair peaking out to the side like feathers. With the slow and practiced air of experience, the boy struck a match on the stone wall behind him to light the thin cigarette he held in his lips.

“What’re ye draggin’, there?” he asked.

“Clothing,” Edmund answered. Why was this boy curious about his luggage?

“Looks heavy,” the boy inhaled deeply, shaking out the match and tossing it aside. “Need a hand?”

Ah. A street-laborer. Matron had spent many lunches complaining about them, explaining how their presence in South Dunkin was causing change for the worse. “No,” Edmund shook his head.

“Looks like ye do,” the boy smiled.

Edmund recognized that smile — he had seen it many times from his cousins. It was less a smile, and more a readying of the teeth.

“An’ then there’s the Mothburn Ripper,” the boy hopped off the barrel. “Ye heard o’ him? Just killed again, two days ago. S’not safe, wanderin’ wi’out an escort.”

“I’m quite fine, thank you,” Edmund said, his grip tightening on his luggage. He started to move away, when a lumbering shape rose in front of him. Another boy, twice the size of the first was blocking his way.

“Nay, laddie,” the first boy smirked wider, “I dinna think ye are.”

They had been surprisingly subtle for their bulky size. There were four boys now, at least fifteen or sixteen years old. Each was twice as wide and twice as tall as Edmund. They sneered as they advanced, crowding closer and snickering at their captured prey.

Edmund’s cousin Junapa’s lessons snapped to the forefront of his mind. Planning and forethought all well and good for keeping away from problems, but any good Moulde had to know how to get out of a situation someone else put them in.

If you’re trapped, Junapa said in his memory, moving her bishop to threaten his queen, someone has trapped you. If they set a trap, they have a plan. If you know their plan, you can know their weak-point.

Edmund’s eyes flickered around the circle, noting the gaps in their postures. The red-haired boy was saying something, probably skepticism at the luggage’s contents, or a threat of beating if he didn’t hand over all his money; something predictable, and therefore unimportant.

Far more important was the fact they hadn’t struck him yet — their goal was intimidation, not assault. It was a wise tactic; fear could always get you something for nothing, while assault risked a bruise at least.

Everyone fears a bruise, Junapa took his knight. Conquer this fear, and you will achieve what no one else is willing to.

Edmund studied each boy carefully. Any moment the red-haired boy would say “or else,” or something equally mundane, and one of the other boys would —

Right on cue, a boy on his left raised a fist and smacked it hard into his palm; the universal threat of lumbering thugs everywhere.

The sound of flesh hitting flesh was like a starter pistol. Edmund felt his legs coil and release as hard as they could, sending him barreling through the slim gap between the boys where once there had been a thick arm.

He felt the wind of a snatching hand barely miss his scalp as he ducked and twisted his body through the thick limbs. His luggage bag tore from his hand as it caught on the two stout bodies at his sides, dropping to the ground where it tripped up a third boy who had jumped after him.

In a split second, everything had become complicated. His assailants had gone from focusing on one thing — a single smaller target — to a dropped bag, a stumbled comrade, and a running quarry.

This moment of confusion was all Edmund needed. He ran as fast as he could, tearing his way back up the street. From the measure of his attackers’ expressions, it would take them a moment to collect their thoughts and commence the chase. The question was; how long?

Not long at all, as it turned out. Edmund had barely taken two steps before shouts of anger chased him down the street. Edmund’s limbs pumping hard as he ran from the loud thunder of heavy footfalls behind him.

Where was he running? A faint voice in his head pondered this as the rest of his mind focused on the physical leverage and rotational forces needed to keep his body moving. The school was likely too far away, and these street-toughs knew the lay of the city better than he did. Where could he hide that they didn’t know about?

When he heard the faint squeak of a startled rat nearby, his body reacted before his mind did. There was nothing better at hiding than a rat.

Slipping between the shadows, Edmund threw himself into a tiny alley next to a run-down tavern, chasing after the faint sound of scrabbling rat claws. Turning the corner to the rear of the tavern, he ducked through piled barrels and garbage until he found a large crack in the wall, barely big enough for his body. Squeezing himself inside, he breathed as gently as he could just before he heard the lumbering footsteps of the five older boys crashed around the corner.

“Where’d ’e go, Jolly?” one of the thugs muttered. There was the sound of a stomach being punched, followed by a groan. The voice of the red-haired boy hissed in the darkness.

“That’s Snagsby, ye damned oaf! Ne’er say me first name when we’re about, aye?”

“But…Ain’t we Jolly’s Gang?” asked another voice.

“Stuff it!” Jolly Snagsby spat. “We’re the Wayward Downstreeters now, I told ye once! Do I need to tell ye ag’in?”

Silence accompanied what must have been a submissive shake of the head. The alley chilled as Edmund felt Jolly focus his attention back on his hidden quarry. After a moment, Jolly exhaled.

“Well, well…the wee Jessie’s a slippery one, aye? Nay matter, ’e left ‘is bag for us, and that’s enough for now. Though if we see ‘im again, ’e’s going to have a right sorry time of it. Ye hear that, Scunner?” His voice called out into the alleyway. “Thank ye for yer donation to the Wayward Downstreeters! Remember the name, as I’ll remember ye when I’m wearing yer clothing!”

Edmund breathed as quietly as he could as he heard the feet begin to walk off down the street. “Think they’ll fit?” the first voice asked, followed by another punch and groan. He waited until the sounds of argument vanished completely into the night.

The clothing probably would fit; Edmund only owned one outfit that fit him well, the others all hand-downs from countless Mouldes of varying shape and size.

Edmund pulled himself from the crack and looked around. He was safe for the moment, and that was a victory in itself, but he had lost his bag. All he had with him now was what he wore: his one outfit that fit, a pencil and notebook in his pocket, a small emergency letter-kit, his bent-key tucked safely away in one secret pocket in his vest, and a little money in the other in spite of Ung’s protests that a true gentleman never carried money.

Perhaps most important, he still had his ever-wound watch. Edmund gripped the large metal disk, feeling the carved casing and the reassuring weight in his palm. It was seven past ten, well past the time he should have arrived at Grimm’s.

What had at first seemed like overcautious advice was clearly insightful: Mothburn was not a safe place to wander at night.

Next time, he would come prepared.

---

Before its redesign in 1887, the entry to Grimm’s School for the Erratically Gifted was an over-sized Lychgate, at least four times as tall as Edmund. Over the gate, what was obviously the school motto had been carved into the stonework: Demonstrum Illis Omnes.

Some time ago, someone had obviously decided that the metal bars of the gate were not secure enough, and attached now ancient oaken planks behind them to cover the gaps, bending the nails around the bars like grasping claws. The walls themselves had been eroded by time and weather, so much so that a determined besieger could have scaled them without too much trouble.

Edmund approached the gate and knocked on the wood, careful to avoid the rusty nails. The ancient boards rattled against the iron in the quiet air of the evening, echoing louder than Edmund thought reasonable.

After a few minutes, he knocked again, as hard as he could.

He was about to knock a third time when his eye caught the glint of something small and metal on the closest wall. Stepping closer, he could see it was a small fabric square surrounded by a metal frame cut into the stone wall. A pull-string hung next to it.

With the complete absence of either better options or obvious consequences, Edmund pulled the string. A small bell tinkled behind the wall in the evening air. A few seconds later, a fuzzy voice floated out from the square.

“Yes?” The voice coughed. “Who is it?”

Fascinating! It had to be a speaking tube, cut and fitted into the stone wall and then covered with cloth. He couldn’t hear anyone speaking on the other side of the wall, so the speaker must have been quite far away. Perhaps inside the main building? How did they manage to make the voice so clear from so far away?

The tube must have gone through the ground or the wall, as a tube hanging in air could be easily broken. Was there some kind of auditory booster attached to the tube? He had read that sound could travel faster through liquid; perhaps the tube had been filled with water? What would prevent the water from spilling out? Some kind of membrane perhaps, like a drum, at both ends. If the seal was tight, and the tube completely full, could the membrane at one end send the voice through the tube without losing much volume? If he could find some tubing and silk, he could —

“Anyone there?”

“Edmund Moulde,” he said, snapping out of this thoughts. “I’m expected.”

A shattering cough erupted from the cloth square, a faint trace of dust floating out from the wall. “By who?”

Edmund balked. “Your school,” he said at last. He hoped an introductory card was not necessary, as all of his cards were now in Jolly Snagsby’s possession.

“S’not MY school,” the voice hacked. “Wouldn’t own the damn thing for tuppence. Though t’aint as if my hands don’t half take care of everything that needs the taking care of. You a student?”

“Yes,” Edmund leaned closer to the square. “Who are you?”

“Ha!” The cough came again. “You ain’t a student…you the new help? Come to give old Basil a hand, eh? It’s about time.”

“I am a Student.”

“Ahhhh,” the voice somehow managed to convey a solidly tapped nose, “just as you like, me boy. Come on in, and I’ll show you around.”

There was a clicking sound as the large gates slowly swung open. In the dim light, Edmund could see a straight gravel path lined with leafless trees that led off towards the main building.

Squaring his shoulders, Edmund stepped inside.

He pulled up short when he almost ran into a nose. It was broad and pointed like a spade with small tufts of hair like wilted grass that stuck out from the nostrils. The nose was attached to a spindly and wrinkly old face with ears that looked more like large teapot handles. Two beady eyes wrinkled at Edmund from behind thick smoky spectacles. Bushy white eyebrows covered a bald and wrinkled brow, and a chin-less jaw worked furiously as Edmund stared.

“Basil Tombswell,” the jaw coughed finally as a rough wrinkled hand shot out from the darkness. Edmund shook it; it felt like dried wood.

“Edmund Moulde,” Edmund said. The jaw smiled at him, and the hand joined its partner behind a thin curve-less body. For a moment, neither of them moved or spoke.

The man had the definitive air of a servant about him, though he was neither clean nor stern enough for a butler or valet. A footman, perhaps? Or even a guard; the walls certainly needed help if they were intended to keep anyone out. After careful consideration of the situation, Edmund decided he had no better options than to rely on this strange man for help: “Which way to my room?” he asked.

Tombswell continued to smile. A stick-like finger slowly rose and thudded against the broad nose.

Another minute passed as Edmund stared at the grinning face.

“Can you show me the way?” Edmund tried again.

“Ah-ah” the man wagged a finger in delight.

Edmund wasn’t certain whether this man was simple or if there had been a profound misunderstanding. Was this some sort of prank?

“Are you a footman?” Edmund asked.

“Oh, very good,” Tombswell snickered as he patted his chest with a thick hand.

“My luggage has been lost. I need to acquire replacement clothing at once.”

“Oh, aye,” another tap of the nose.

“Are you, perhaps, hard of hearing?”

“Oh nay, I can hear exactly what you’re sayin’, aye?” Another tap.

Had he not been so tired, Edmund would have remained behind and talked with the strange servant for as long as it took to ascertain what strange miscommunication was occurring. He opted instead to simply walk away, towards the large inner keep of Grimm’s, in hopes of finding someone more helpful inside.

---

The path through the bailey was lined with a small row of leafless trees. The walls rose up around Edmund as he walked, stretching up and away as the hill did the same.

Edmund craned his neck up at the ramparts. What a stupid way to build a castle. Rather than build on top of a respectable Motte, the builders had cut deep into the rolling hillside and let the loam grade become the walls. From inside it looked quite impressive; the towers and fortifications rose some fifty to a hundred feet in the air. It felt like being inside a building with the roof torn away.

It all looked less impressive when you remembered the hills along the outside of the wall had not been cleared away. Indeed, Edmund guessed the battlements on the far side of the school were no more than a foot taller than the grass. Easier to build than proper walls, of course, but also rubbish to defend against any besieging army. A simple stepladder would give an army complete control over the walls.

Perhaps that was why it had been remade into a church, and then a school.

It certainly looked like a church; the front of the building was built like a cathedral, with a massive pointed roof framing the entryway. Large jutting wings stuck out like gnarled tree-roots from the central hub. He marveled at the rough stonework; the entire architecture of Grimm’s appeared to be nothing more than large rocks picked off the ground and stuck together with mortar.

There was no bell-pull next to the giant wooden doors, so Edmund hammered as hard as he could without hurting his hand. When no one responded, he tried the door. It was locked.

Not willing to be deterred, Edmund slipped his hand into his vest and pulled out the one other thing he had hidden in his pockets; his bent-key.

When he had been locked in his room as a young boy⁴ he had made a tool that could open locked doors without a key. It was simple and elegant design, and he had become quite deft with its use. So much so, that it was the work of less than a minute for Edmund to pop open the lock and slip into the main entryway of Grimm’s.

He closed the door behind him and waited for his eyes to adjust to the star- and moon-less gloom. Edmund had never been inside a real cathedral before, but he had seen many pictures of the insides of them, and this one was exceptionally large.

It was also exceptionally dark. The only light came from a few dribbly candles set in iron holders on the walls. There were several ragged rugs, a torn tapestry or two, and brass trim glittering faintly in the candlelight.

Edmund waited for a moment to see if his eyes would adjust to the darkness. They didn’t. This didn’t particularly bother him — he had been in darker places before — but it would make exploring hazardous to his shins, if nothing else.

There were several hallways leading away from the entry, but there were no clear indication which direction was which. With the lack of any better manner of choosing, Edmund picked a hallway at random, plucked a candle from a nearby surface, and began to walk.

As he walked, Edmund noted that every light in the school was either a candle, torch, or in rare occasions, an oil lamp. There were no gas-lights anywhere. Odd, since this was supposed to be a school of genius and invention, that they hadn’t updated their lights. Even Moulde Hall had gas-lamps and Matron was more resistant to change than anyone he’d ever seen.⁵ He had expected that a school dedicated to the betterment of young minds would stay current with modern technology.

He peeked through every door he passed as he walked, noting their size, shape, and location. Moulde Hall had been far more confusing and he was already memorizing little clues to suggest where he was. He had been lost once before in a new place — he wasn’t going to let it happen again.

Then, he found Grimm’s library.

His heart soared when he opened the doors; the library was shorter than Moulde Hall’s at only two stories tall, but it was much longer and deeper. Stacks upon stacks of thick red bookshelves stretched towards him like welcoming arms. The tallest stacks were only reachable by wheeled ladders that dotted the room like climbing vines on brick walls. Thick brown oak tables filled the floor, with an oil lamp resting on each.

Edmund wandered the shelves, studying the titles and filing them away in his memory for later. Most of the books were leather bound and pressed together so tightly on the shelves that Edmund couldn’t take one without pulling four or five books along with it. They covered an array of topics from dark and arcane maths to frighteningly lighthearted chemistries. The typeset of each book was quite small, and every picture he saw was well annotated and labeled. Some were even colored.

A pang of melancholy entered Edmund’s heart. The Library of Moulde Hall had been his own private sanctuary. It had been a place to sit, think, learn, and rest. It had Aoide, the automaton that both recited poetry and listened to his own. He had fallen asleep with his nose buried in a book’s spine on multiple occasions, and if there had been a kitchen or pantry nearby, he’d never leave.

In the face of such beloved memories, Grimm’s library was a paltry substitute.

It was better than nothing, however, and there were a goodly number of word-filled volumes that Edmund had never read before. In later weeks, he would find himself spending entire evenings reading, writing, and planning in its dark stone walls.

But that was later. At the moment, Edmund seized the opportunity provided by the tables. Sitting down in the closest chair, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his emergency letter kit.

The existence of such a protective may seem unusual to the lower classes, but Edmund had been a Moulde for almost four years. As such, he understood the importance of letters. More importantly, he understood the importance the Founding Families placed on letters.

Anyone could write a letter, much as anyone can recite a lesson or sing a song. Talent and skill could come from anywhere, and practice took care of the rest. What separated the dregs from the elite were primarily the trappings. The atmosphere. Place a virtuoso in a back alley in the Farrows district, and passersby would throw boots instead of roses.

Likewise, the lifeblood of upper-class correspondence was only partly the literary content. Paper feel, proper wax and seal selection, ink viscosity; the art of letter writing was, naturally, an art. And, like any true artist, no Founding Family member would be caught dead writing, reading, or even opening a letter that wasn’t properly constructed.

Thus, the emergency kit; it was no bigger than a snuff-box, but it held a tiny nib, three vials of different inks, two seals, a selection of waxes, and a small packet of carefully folded stationary that would ensure any letters Edmund wrote wouldn’t be thrown out. It was difficult to write with such small tools, but it was for emergencies, after all.

Which this very much was; his regular stationary, seals, inks, and waxes had all been lost along with his luggage. Without the emergency kit, Edmund would have been cut off from the Founding Families, unable to fulfill his scrivinal duties.

Dear Matron,…

To anyone else, the letter might have appeared trite, if not outright blunt. To Matron, or indeed any of the Founding Families, it was a full and detailed account of Edmund’s journey and safe arrival⁶ at Grimm’s.

Following the letter to Matron, he wrote one to each of the Founding Families, each one tailored to their respective tastes, interests, and taboos. He vacillated between writing to any other important people; it was important to engage in proper letter etiquette, but he did only have a limited number of pages.

In the end his limited resources, both literary and physical, decided for him: He was exhausted after his journey, and while he could have spent another hour searching for a bed to lie down in, Edmund knew a good thing when he had it.

Tomorrow he could find his room and send the letters he had just written, but tonight all he needed to do was stretch out on the table with pen in his hand as it rested on a blank page in his notebook.

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