Grimm's School for the Erratically Gifted: Chapter 5

On the day in question, Edmund was sitting quietly in the Library, working through a curious contradiction in two separate editions of a book on Aqueous Vitaes in the brain, when a voice made of meringue and steel wool broke through the silence.

“Edrum!”

“Edmund,” he reminded Victrola as she bounded through the stacks towards him. “Edmund Moulde.”

“That’s what I said,” Victrola smiled with saccharine glee as she tossed her curly hair behind her ear. “I have wonderful news! I got a ten on my paper on Advanced Acrimony,” pride shone off her pale face. “She said it was inspired!”

“If you say so,” Edmund said. He had thought it a fairly obvious observation.

“So I’ve made a decision,” she tossed her hair again, “and it’s wonderful for you. I’ve decided that you are the smart friend after all, and I want you to do all of my papers and essays!”

“Oh,” Edmund was disappointed. He had hoped to be surprised. “I see.”

“I’m taking seven classes right now, so you’ll have a lot of work to do. There’s Professor Faulkan’s Intermediate Acidics, Professor Valkyr’s Unseen Physics, Catedratico Gonzali’s Advanced Foreign Algebra class…”

Edmund had just begun to write down the names, places, and times of all the classes Victrola was taking, when the library doors burst open like a breached dam. Victrola didn’t stop in her rambling, but Edmund paused just long enough to see Tunansia standing in the doorway. She strode across the library, finally coming to a furious halt in front of Edmund’s table.

“I hope I am not interrupting,” she hissed.¹

“Well, you are,” Victrola didn’t even pause for a breath. “And make sure that all your papers for Professor Valkyr have something to do with areo-locomotion, because that’s going to be my —”

Tunansia took a step forward. “I’m interrupting anyway.”

“Ex-cuse me?” Victrola turned, her eyes narrow and hands on hips. “I’m busy talking with my smart friend.”

“No,” Tunansia’s voice was silk and ice. “You are currently talking to me, and if you do not leave at once, you will soon wish you were not.”

Victrola blinked, and turned back to Edmund, her face shocked and hurt.

“Edmund, do you have your own nemesis?”

“She’s not my nemesis,” Edmund hoped he was right.

“I should hope not. I already have a nemesis.”

“You do?”

“Lady Parsimony of Thent. I did tell you. I simply won’t have my friends developing side-plots without me.”

With a final toss of her head, Victrola swept away out of the library. Neither Edmund nor Tunansia bothered to watch her leave.

“Hello, Tunansia,” Edmund said, carefully placing a thin ribbon to mark his place before closing his book.

Tunansia’s eyes were like coal, burning and black. With the steady calm of a glacier, she folded her arms and sneered down at him. “I suppose you think you’re special.”

“Yes,” Edmund said.

Tunansia’s eyes narrowed, and she took a deep breath.

“Have you met Professor Mangles?”

Edmund thought quickly. “Head of Impractical Chemistries? Yes.”

“Having any trouble with his class?”

“Not really.”

“You’re welcome.”

You’re welcome? It was true, most of what Professor Mangles discussed in his class were things Edmund already knew. At first, Edmund had thought the class was remedial, but the professor was liberal with his reading assignments, and Edmund had managed to learn a few facts that had filled in a few gaps.

In fact, the reason he already knew most of what the Professor was teaching was because of the time he had spent learning with Tunansia so many years ago. Time she had spared him because…

Edmund moved his book aside. “Are you calling in your favor?”

“Four years,” she hissed. “Four years I’ve spent at this school, prying open the cracks in their elitist facade, worming my way through their walls like ivy, and not so much as a nod. But you…/you/ show up…”

Tunansia bit down hard, the fury in her eyes not the least bit dimmed by her self-control.

Edmund cleared his throat. “What do you want me to do?”

“I…” Tunansia took another deep breath. “I need you to escort me to Lady Tinbottom’s Autumn Soiree.”²

Edmund cocked his head as Tunansia’s hand moved to her locket, as it did whenever she was nervous. No, not nervous…honest. “I’ve been trying to get invited to Lady Tinbottom’s for years. It’s the only place to be noticed. Only the important people get invited there; Lords and Ladies, Generals and Mayors…It’s vital that I go, I’ve been trying for my whole life at Grimm’s, and…I was just invited.”

“Congratulations.”

“Because I know you.”

It took a moment for Wislydale’s lessons on etiquette and proper introductory technique to surface in Edmund’s memory. “You were invited because they want you to bring me?”

“Lady Tinbottom can’t invite you without being introduced, so she cordially requested that I invite anyone that I’d like, especially that young Heir to the Moulde Fortune that she’s heard so much about.”

Edmund’s heart leapt. At last! He had been at Grimm’s for a month, and finally someone besides Victrola was recognizing his importance! He’d never even heard of the Tinbottoms before; he was known by people he didn’t know!

“Why does she want to speak to me?” he asked, not because he couldn’t think of any reasons, but because he wanted to know which ones.

“Why else?” Tunansia huffed. “She wants her gang to get a look at you; the Teapot Coterie. Its a very select group of influential people, and they always keep an eye on young up-and-comers. All I know is you can get me in.”

The gears in Edmund’s brain clicked into place. “She invited you because she hadn’t been introduced to me, so she couldn’t invite me. Who introduced you?”

A flash of pain crossed Tunansia’s eyes as her hand flew again to her locket. “My mother,” she said, barely audible in the gloom. “She has…expectations.”

Edmund stared for a moment, watching her fingers, and then nodded.

“I would love to come,” he said. “You don’t have to call in a favor for —”

“Oh no!” Tunansia’s eyes flashed, her hand dropping to the table. “I’m damn well calling in a favor. You are coming with me. I’m not your date, I’m not your chaperon, you are my plus one! I had to call in a favor to get you to come, understand?”

Edmund nodded, and Tunansia exhaled again.

“Right. Fine. Good.” She tossed a strand of hair behind her ear. “The Soiree is in two weeks, six in the evening, at Lady Tinbottom’s Villa in Northsouthington. We’ll need to take the train to get there, so be ready by four…and dress yourself up. This isn’t some stupid little family function, this is important.”

---

It took Edmund several days to purchase a proper outfit from in town, and half of that time had been spent with Tunansia shaking her head and demanding he change into something else. Edmund couldn’t tell a difference at all between the seven different suits she made him try on. She could, however, as she found something in the eighth suit that the other seven didn’t have.³ Edmund found it incredibly uncomfortable; pinching at his underarms, tickling the backs of his knees, and squeezing in odd and un-gentlemanly places.

Tunansia was dressed in one of the most stunning dresses he had ever seen. It reminded him of the ensemble she had worn during the party he had arranged at Moulde Hall, when her goal had been to bedazzle and seduce the stern and cold-hearted Patron Vandegaar into giving her a modicum of attention.

Lady Tinbottom’s villa was built as most villas were at the time; less as a place to live, and more as a place to present ones-self like a piece at a museum or a centerpiece of a well-laid table. The building was full of bedrooms that no one would ever sleep in, dining rooms that would never be eaten in, and sitting rooms where no one would dare sit, lest their bottoms forever tarnish the silver and golden upholstery.⁴ It was a place to see and be seen, where the upper-class gathered to pose themselves like subjects in a painting; A collaborative artistic endeavor that no one would ever see, save the only people worthy of appreciating such art: themselves.

The attending servant shouted their names into the ballroom as Edmund stepped through the door and immediately stepped back again. The smell was…it was…

Well, he didn’t have the word for it, really. If it had been sound, he would have said it was deafening. If it was light, he would have said blinding. He might have said choking or suffocating, if the smells had been foul ones, but they weren’t. They were…

They were…

A sharp jab in Edmund’s side knocked him out of his stupor. Tunansia’s eyes were narrowed in frustration. “You’re a Moulde!”

The reprimand pushed a lever somewhere in his mind. Edmund snapped his mouth closed, a detached mask of bemused disinterest falling into place like a curtain.

Edmund scanned the room. The only light came from candles, arranged throughout the room in an array of candlesticks. Some were thick and silver, others thin and brass. One was carved like a knight on his charger, the candle held straight up in his hand like his lance. This one was a jester, balancing five candles on his hands, nose, back, and foot. That one was…

Edmund looked again. That would hurt. A moment later the stoic mask was back on his face. It was hard to maintain a proper facade in such bedazzling environs, but he had been trained for this. His cousins had spent weeks tutoring him on proper facial control.

The walls were draped with red and gold cloth, covering tall marble columns and ornate statues. Golden Frescoes peeked out between silk tapestries, and every inch of the polished granite floor was covered with curving tables, chairs, lamps, pillows, and rugs.

The furniture was covered by men and women of all shapes and sizes. Men dressed in deep red gowns, women covered in shear golden mesh, Masks covered with feathers, precious stones, porcelain, and perfume. Everywhere Edmund looked he saw color; shining reds, searing yellow, burning green, lavish blue, and purple of every hue and depth.

The scent was shifting back and forth in the dim light, drifting about his head like a cobweb caught in his hair.

The center of the room was dominated by a giant table, easily as large as the table in Moulde Hall’s dining hall. It was covered from edge to edge with bowls, baskets, trays, and carafes of every color size and shape. As he drew nearer he realized the overpowering aroma was coming from the table.

Edmund had never seen such…such…

“What is this?” Edmund asked, his awe subverting his natural caution.

“This,” a tall servant bent down, his face placid and lifeless, “is Lady Tinbottom’s feast.”

“No, this.” Edmund pointed.

“That, young Master, is the roast goose, garnished with parsley and butter cream.”

Edmund had never seen cooked goose before. He stepped closer.

“And this?”

“That is a brass carafe of Brandy-rum punch.”

Edmund pointed again.

“Broccoli florets toasted with butter and dates.”

Again.

“Mashed potatoes seasoned with meat gravy. Duck-liver Pate. Creamed Goat-Cheese with caramel onion crust. Rhubarb Jelly. Larded oysters. Mint Roasted lamb, Bottled peas. Sweet pie. Fricasseed chicken. Mutton. Venison. Pomegranates. Yams. Pudding. Beef Olives.”

Edmund let his hand drop. At the orphanage, Mrs. Mapleberry only ever offered porridge to her children. At Moulde Hall, Edmund had survived on bland soup and dried bread. The kitchens at Grimm’s offered nothing but gruel. Of course he had heard of cooked meat and vegetables. He knew about fresh fruit, cheese, and mushrooms.

Edmund had never smelled them. Edmund had never seen them. Edmund had never tasted them.

With a quivering hand, he reached out towards the table.

The faint sour tang of lemon juice that tickled the tongue as his teeth carved through the tender white flesh of a tiny slab of chicken. The juicy smell of yam and cinnamon that crushed against his teeth, somehow soft and firm at the same time. The sweet rush of blood to his face as he ground the orange slice between his molars, sending lances of sweet lightning through his jaw. Thin white flakes of rolling ocean scraped off fish-bone, barely there at all. The sound of the snap as his sharp teeth broke through the hard crust of a fresh roll of bread, opening itself up into soft pillows of buttery warmth. Sour dates wrapped in golden leaves and covered with caramel. rich and buttery dark meat falling off thick turkey bones. Rings of onion layered with strong cheese stuffed with herbs. Spreads that were rich and creamy yellow, thick and sour green, or chunky and sweet red. Pillows of rice seasoned with the flavor of rolling grassy hills. Red sauces rich with the smell of burning blood.

Each bite was so powerful it demanded complete and undivided attention. Every smell so appealing it urged Edmund to find more space in his gullet. His world spun as a thousand new flavors dashed down his throat, each barely faded from his tongue before another rushed to take its place, crowding out every thought in gastronomic bliss. The floor wobbled uneasily under his feet as he wandered alongside the table, his fingers grabbing at each new morsel.

If the other guests found his behavior odd or scandalous, Edmund saw no sign. Periodically, one would drew near, made sounds at him, and move away again. Conversation, his flavor-addled brain supplied; they were speaking to him, and he imagined he was responding, but he had no sense of who they were or what they were talking about. Everything flowed in and around him like ocean waves.

“My, my, my!”

The voice cut through his haze. Edmund looked up, his eyes blurring. A shape of pure gold swept across the room towards him. Details asserted themselves as she drew near; a gold dress covered in purple and silver, billowing out from the waist. Her hair was pulled up and over a thin hairpiece of brass that rose up into a Grecian column. She was elegance and refinement personified.

“This,” Tunansia’s voice demurred, “is Master Edmund Moulde.” Where had Tunansia come from? Had she been there the whole time?

The word flicked its lever deep in Edmund’s brain again. With herculean effort, Edmund pulled Wislydale’s lessons on savoir-faire up from his memory, seasoned with Kolb’s tutoring on charm and conversation.

“Chr’md,” he struggled to speak through the haze of repast. The memory of Kolb and Wislydale frowned in dissatisfaction. Was that the best he could do? Their reproach was drowned in a swallow of cordial. He’d show them what he could do…

“Well!” the woman held out a hand to Edmund. “You are most welcome, dear sir, to my home. I do hope you have a wonderful time. I have heard so much about you!”

“And I, you,” Edmund carefully took her hand thumb raised, as she was the host; pinkie closed, as she was wearing gloves, and bringing it no less than three finger widths from the lips while no more than six.

“I do hope you are enjoying the feast. Have you tried the mango chutney vol-au-vent?”

Edmund had not. It was a sharp and tangy spark of flavor, surrounded by clouds of sweet butter and flaky cream. With enormous effort he did not lick his lips.

“I hope you don’t think me forward, but you simply must come and meet a few friends of mine. They are simply dying to meet you.”

Edmund’s tongue fought to articulate agreement past the flavors that still curled and swayed in his mouth as he hobbled after her, dimly aware of the other shapes surrounding him, each holding glass flutes full of effervescent gold.

---

When Edmund returned to some semblance of awareness, he found himself reclining on a long chaise longue, surrounded by soft pillows and bright sparkling sequins. He was in a room, smaller but every inch as gilded and glamoured as the ballroom. He seemed to be alone…

“Can I get you anything more?”

Edmund blinked as the tall golden chair across from him shifted, and he recognized the shape of Lady Tinbottom.

“No,” Edmund said. His stomach heaved in ecstatic pain. He had never felt so good in his life. every muscle in his body was crying out with bacchanalian joy. Every drop of his blood and biles were occupied coating his stomach, leaving only his phlegm to float through his body, keeping him on a cloud of serensified contentment.

Lady Tinbottom sat like an angel, one hand gently resting in her lap, the other hand holding a fan that she waved through the air like a dancer, wafting the distant sounds of high-society about their heads.

She had given him this. Her house, her food, even the perfumed air all swirled about him in a cloud of beneficent bliss. It was because of her that Edmund was in such rapture. He needed to thank her.

He tried to clear his throat, to rid his throat of any offending phlem, but to his horror, he…he eructated instead.

Panic flooded Edmund’s mind. In the blink of an eye, his inebriety vanished, leaving him no shield from the horror of his behavior.

What had he done? Shame, the likes of which he had never felt before, surged in his veins. He looked at Lady Tinbottom, noting her eyebrows raised in surprise, her parted lips…

Edmund had forsaken everything he had been taught, been driven mad by food like a glutton. Edmund knew how a Moulde was supposed to behave, and he had succumbed to sensation like an animal, and brought disgrace to the name of Moulde.

His name. His family. His history. All of it disgraced, possibly forever, because of a little boy and his loose diaphragm.

There was only one thing to do.

Clearing his throat properly, he lowered his hand from his mouth and took a deep breath. “Please,” he said, his tongue crafting each word with the care of a penitent priest at prayer, “forgive me, Lady Tinbottom.”

“Of course!” Lady Tinbottom smiled wide. “I am afraid my husband travels to the most exotic places, and I am subject to the strangest cultures, so I find it a wonderful compliment to know you ate so exuberantly. Please, think no more of it.”

The shame lifted like a cloud being chased away by the sun, and his heart soared. Flying on the wings of pardon, Edmund’s elation returned stronger than before. She had excused him, saving him from eternal shame. Divinity personified!

The sound of the distant ball rose and fell as the sitting-room door opened and a collection of elegant men and women entered. They were talking and laughing together, each holding a glass of champagne.

With the grace of a dancer, or perhaps a priest, Lady Tinbottom stood from her seat as they entered, giving a slight curtsy before turning back. “Master Edmund, may I introduce Lady Tepitmarsh, of Effingdale Hall?”

“Charmed,” a round old woman with a broad nose, sniffed. Edmund took her hand exerting no more pressure than that required to maintain grip of a quail’s egg.

“This is Lady Willborn, from Clapsburgh.”

“Delighted to meet you,” the thin woman beamed with beatific grace.

“You of course know Lord Brocklehurst.”

If the medical illustration of a sanguine man had come to life, it could not have looked more like. He snapped a hand out from his side to grip. “Our families are well connected,” the man smiled. “Some five generations past, I think?”

Edmund’s brain supplied the details through its gastronomic haze. A Brocklehurst had married a minor Moulde decades ago, and that had been that: they were connected for the rest of history. Little had come of it as the Brocklehursts were a family of quiet and humble status, at once condescendingly praised and dismissively ignored.

“This is, of course, Lord Havingham the fourth, Count of Upper Doorchester.”

“Jolly good to see you, my dear boy. Topping party, what?”

“And this is Lord Dashington, of the Cliffside Dashingtons.”

The tall man was dressed in resplendent purple, his coat and tails hanging on him like an infatuated lover. One hand caressed a thin cane, as black as his hair. His skin was a beautiful tanned brown, as smooth as silk.

“Master Edmund Moulde,” his voice was deep as an overgrown jungle, full of mysterious hidden treasures and expansive vistas. “It is an honor to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Edmund’s tongue moved on its own. His hand did as well, shaking the offered hand three times, spanning a degree equal that of a relaxed elbow. Was he doing anything himself? Or had his body had taken over, leaving him to bask in the sensations of high society? “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

“I promise you,” Lord Dashington smiled, his perfect teeth shining in the candle-light, “at least half of it is lies. I imagine a great many fanciful tales are told about you, as well?”

“Mostly by me,” Kolb’s charming reply jumped into Edmund’s mouth.

Lord Dashington’s laugh was loud and booming, the perfect harmony to Lady Tinbottom’s bright tinkling bell of a giggle. The others joined in, completing the symphony of Edmund’s acceptance into their group.

Edmund looked down at his own hand. Someone had given him a flute of his own. This was a dream. That was it. An amazing marvelous dream. Edmund hoped to never wake up.

“How are things in Brackenburg, may I ask?” Lord Dashington took a sip from his flute. “It has been far too long since I last visited.”

“Dark,” Edmund said, sipping gently at the pale-gold liquid. It was an elegant mixture of ice and flame, cold on the lips but it burned as it flowed down his throat. A smooth silky sweetness settled in his stomach like a gossamer web. “I’ve never been to Cliffside,” he said drawing attention to the conversationer’s preferred domicile. “What’s it like?”

“Bright,” his teeth glinted. “Gas-lamps everywhere, ticking valves and steam engines on every street corner. It truly is the city of the new generation. I dare say it surpasses even Brackenburg with its industry. My family has done quite well for itself there; merchant-banking, you know.”

“I hear,” Lady Tepitmarsh’s voice dropped low, “the Institute of Gentlemen Explorers has relocated their headquarters there. Is that true?”

Edmund looked down at the new plate of food that had appeared in his other hand. A soft caress of buttered biscuit blossomed over his tongue while he nodded in appreciation of the Lady’s contribution to the conversation, no fewer than twice, no more than four times.

“It is,” Lord Dashington gave a similarly thoughtful nod. “More ships come through Cliffside than any other city in the Empire. Expeditions are easier to mount and the spoils easier to study…or sell, as the case may be. It is a clear opportunity, for the enterprising mind.”

“It is.” Edmund said before drawing a connection from the previous comment to a place of familiarity: “My cousin Kolb goes on Expeditions all the time.”

“Ah!” Lord Brocklehurst shook his head, “The famous Gallivanting Popomus. I wonder what the other Founding Families think about that?”

Edmund swallowed as the sharp tang of soft cheese spreading through his mouth. “They don’t like it. I think it would be interesting.”

He didn’t miss the look that passed between the five Lords and Ladies, but he did not comment on it.

“So, Master Moulde,” Lord Brocklehurst adjusted his monocle “How are you finding the city of Mothburn?”

“Please do tell us,” Lady Tinbottom sapped her fan closed, “we are so curious, how are things in the city?”

Edmund blinked. “I don’t know. Most of my time is spent indoors,” he said with surprising candor.^{5 , 6}

“Of course,” Lady Tinbottom laughed. “Only I know you must hear something. We are so far away here in Northsouthington, and so little news comes our way. You simply must tell us something.”

“Well,” Edmund frowned in thought, wracking his memory for anything of note, “I heard Mr. Rutluge has put price tags on his stock.”

“How fascinating!” Lady Tinbottom clapped her hands. “Why, just last week I was telling Lady Cranbury that I hope more of these new department stores make this marvelous change.”

“I say, did you know,” Lord Havingham raised a finger in thought, “that some Shopkeepers make rich people pay more than poor people for the dashed same outfit?”

Until that moment Edmund would have said it made sense — the rich had more money, so of course they should pay more — but hearing Lord Havingham say it, he knew for a fact that clothing was clothing, no matter who was buying it. In that moment he couldn’t think of anything less fair.

“And Grimm’s?” Lord Dashington cocked his hairy head. “How do you find the school?”

“I find it interesting.”

“Really?” Lady Tepitmarsh cocked an eyebrow. “I dare say we all assumed a genius of your stature would find it rather boring.”

“Tiresome,” nodded Lord Brocklehurst.

“Remedial,” supplied Lady Willborn.

“But I’m not a genius yet,” Edmund protested.

“Of course you are!” Lord Dashington struck his cane against the floor with a resounding rap. “The pedigree of Grimm’s is well known far and wide. You wouldn’t have been allowed to attend Grimm’s at all, if you weren’t a genius.”

“Even outside of that,” Lady Tinbottom closed her fan, “and I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you are quite young to be attending Grimm’s, are you not? I had thought they only took children at age fourteen. Thirteen at the absolute earliest.”

“To be accepted so young,” Lord Brocklehurst’s smile held a hint of pride, “you must be a genius, mustn’t you?”

“By Jove, of course he is!” Lord Havingham burst out with a belly laugh. “Watch yourselves, my lads and ladies, this fine boy has a bright and wondrous future ahead of him, mark my words, what?”

“Well, of course. It’s in his blood, after all, isn’t it?” Lord Dashington pivoted, displaying an exquisite profile. “I do believe it was a Moulde who changed industry for the Britannic Empire some generations ago…the Plunkerton Engine, was it?”

“Plinkerton,” Edmund corrected.

“That’s the ticket,” Lord Havingham nodded. “Such a genius, that one.”

“Ah, but you were an orphan, weren’t you?” Lady Tepitmarsh leaned forward.

Instantly, all eyes were on Edmund, a tense hush settling over the ornamented sitting room.

“Yes,” Edmund admitted.

When it became clear there would be no sudden revelations or surprise relatives bursting in, the room returned to its relaxed state.

“I say,” Lord Brocklehurst heaved a sigh, staring at his half-empty glass with regret, “those Plinkerton engines really did change everything, didn’t they? Now they’re sadly out of date, of course, but isn’t that always the way of things?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is,” Lady Tinbottom clasped her hands. “You see, Master Edmund, we are a very forward-thinking lot. We’re not set on maintaining the mores and traditions of the olden years. We are far more interested in new things.”

“It does get rather boring,” Lady Tepitmarsh sniffed, “when everything is so familiar.”

“I say,” Lady Willborn leaned forward, “I don’t suppose you could ’tip us a nod,’ could you?”

“About what?” Edmund asked, eager to help any way he could.

“Your great world-altering revelation.” Lord Dashington struck a thoughtful pose, all elegance and poise. “Will industry be remade again? Or perhaps Finance? Agriculture? Art and music? The arts do get overlooked with this sort of thing, don’t they?”

Edmund had to admit they did.

“Well?”

The surrounding peerage leaned in, their eyes and ears hungry for Edmund to speak.

“I haven’t decided,” he said, falling back on a half truth.

“Of course,” Lady Tinbottom smiled grandly as she sat back on her seat. “You are quite young yet. I’m sure you will figure it out in no time at all.” With the calm grace of the consummate hostess, she took in the room with a faint swelling in her chest; a clear sign of her intent to speak on a subject of great import.

“I hope you don’t find me forward, Master Moulde,” she began with a spreading of her arms like a descending angel from on high, “but I can tell that all of us are quite taken with you.”

“Thank you,” Edmund answered as his heart soared ever higher.

“In fact, I think I speak for all of us when I say we should like to see you again. You see, we are part of a small group of like-minded Lords and Ladies, who hold balls and soirees for each other.”

“The Teapot Coterie,” Edmund nodded. “Yes, I have heard of you.”

“Of course you have,” Lady Tinbottom sighed with joy. “Such natural social awareness is only one of the reasons I invited you.”

“I’m afraid I must beg your pardon again.” Edmund swallowed, struggling to stop himself from speaking further. He wanted this woman to like him, to say nothing of the fellow gentry around her, and correcting a host about anything was a great social risk. He didn’t need to correct her, after all; it wouldn’t be lying, not really.

Something knight-shaped in his heart crossed its arms in defiance and kept his lips moving. “I am here at my cousin’s request, not she at mine. She called in a favor to get me to come.”

“Really? You owed her?” Lord Brocklehurst gaped.

Lady Tinbottom cleared her throat, gently regaining control of the conversation. “Well, however it happened, we are delighted you are here now, and we would be honored to have you as a member of our little group. Sharing in the gossip. Being our friends.”

Edmund’s heart had stopped.

“Of course, we wouldn’t expect you to host any parties until you were finished with your schooling, could you imagine? But other than that…” she opened the fan again, letting it brush against the curve of her cheek. Her eyes were so kind, her smile so clean…

Edmund knew about friends, he had read about them. They were family you chose; connected not by blood, but by bond.

“I’m flattered.”

“Oh, we knew you would accept,” Lady Tinbottom snapped her fan closed. “I do hope you keep us abreast of any news that goes on in Mothburn or Grimm’s while you are there.”

“Spying?” Edmund asked.

“My goodness no!” Her laugh was light. “We wouldn’t dream of anything so crude. We simply share little tid-bits with each other, anything interesting, so we can support each other in times of need.”

“As friends do.”

“As friends do.”

Edmund’s cousins simply demanded favors in return for their own; they hadn’t bothered calling each other friends. This was so much nicer.

“It would be my pleasure.”

---

Edmund checked his ever-wound watch. It was almost ten. The train rattled on, speeding back towards Mothburn.

The remainder of the evening had been perfectly charming. Edmund had met several other Lords and Ladies, even an Earl. They had all been so gracious, so nice.

The memory of food and wine danced in his mind, along with the smiles of his peers. His peers.

Edmund pulled out his small notebook and pencil, and began to write.

Dear Diary,
I am delighted to say that my first foray into high-society outside my family has gone quite well. The Teapot Coterie is obviously a group of high repute and reputation.
They already think me a genius, without having graduated from Grimm’s. Perhaps the Teapot Coterie can see further than the Founding Families, to not need proof of a Diploma.
They are eager for the world to change, as am I. Their influence will no doubt provide a great asset in the times to come
I only hope that nothing spoils for me what is obviously a grand and possibly unique opportunity to take my rightful place among High Society.
I have never had friends before.

Edmund startled at a sudden sharp laugh from Tunansia. He looked up to see her hand pressed against her forehead, her mouth twisted in a sneer.

“I understand,” she gasped. “I understand, now, what she was trying to teach me.”

“Who?” Edmund asked.

“Matron.” Tunansia shook her head in amazement. “I didn’t even realize they were lessons, but now I understand.”

Edmund did not, but since he was a Moulde he did not let on to this fact. After a moment more of silence, Tunansia turned her red-rimmed eyes to Edmund.

“You’re a member of the Teapot Coterie, now.”

Edmund couldn’t tell if Tunansia had asked a question or made a statement, but he nodded just the same.

“Why?” Tunansia asked.

Edmund closed his notebook and set it aside. Wasn’t it obvious? They had treated him…well, like a Moulde should be treated. They hung on his every word, admittedly few as they were. He had never had such food before, such wonderful flavors. It was the most amazing night of his life. It was everything a Moulde deserved, and there it was, right in front of him. Of course he had joined them.

The train rattled on.

Or…had she meant to ask why they had asked him to join? That too seemed obvious. He had been a good student of his cousin’s Kolb and Wislydale. His wit and charm had been…He had behaved so…

A worry popped into his head that he could not believe had not been there before. “How did I behave?”

“Behave?” Tunansia cocked an eyebrow.

“Was I eating…like a gentleman?” he was having trouble putting his fear into words. At the time he had been lost in the ecstasy of food. He hadn’t spared a single thought to manners, propriety; even where his elbows were placed, much less his little finger. The shame he had felt at belching in front of Lady Tinbottom…if he had eaten like an animal…

Tunansia frowned. “It took you almost a minute to finish chewing and swallow every bite. You barely moved at all.”

The trees flashed past the window, rolling hills and grassy meadows forming a pale bucolic background.

“I’m never going to get a piece of the Moulde family name,” Tunansia broke the silence again, her voice unearthly calm. “I always knew that, even before you showed up. This is my last year at Grimm’s. I’ve spent five years of my life at that school, learning everything I could, all for my family.”

“The Mouldes?”

“My family. The Charters,” her hand moved to her locket. “My mother was very…precise about my future. At the end of next month, I will go back home to Whiffledown, and see my mother for the first time in five years.”

Edmund looked away from the window. Tunansia was staring out into the black night, her brow furrowed.

“I think,” she said, as her fingers rubbed her locket, “I think I may not go home just yet.”

“No?”

“Professor Niktree has expressed an…interest. He has a cousin in Cliffside who needs an assistant. She’s trying to find a new kind of metal, something stronger even than steel. He…he’s willing to write me a letter of introduction.”

Edmund blinked. This hesitant behavior was completely different than anything he had ever seen from Tunansia before.

“Who did you talk to at the party?” He asked.

“Everyone.” A faint smile flit across her face. “Everyone I had ever heard of. They were lovely, and charming, and kind. Some of them were just being polite, but Lady Schrobsbury, she…she saw me. Lord Toffingburg was impressed I could get you to come. He’ll remember me. I made connections.”

“Everything you hoped for?” he asked.

“I must…thank you, Edmund,” her voice was tight, “for coming. For helping me.”

Friends were family, tied not by blood but by bond. The thing was…

The thing was…Edmund wasn’t tied to the Mouldes by blood either.

“You helped me, a long time ago,” Edmund shrugged. “Besides, I was happy to do it.”

“Would you really have come anyway? If I hadn’t called in my favor?” she asked, turning from the window to look Edmund in the face.

“Of course I would have. That’s what family does for each other.”

Tunansia’s face crumpled. In an instant, her mouth froze in a wailing rictus, her eyes squeezed tightly together. With shaking fingers she pulled, and her locket broke free from around her neck with a sharp pop. Still shaking, she pushed her clenched fist hard against her forehead.

When her hand dropped, she was calm again, though Edmund could see the twitching muscles and tendons that locked her face in place. With the speed of a glacier, Tunansia reached up to the latch of the train window and twisted.

Instantly the roar of the passing vistas outside exploded into the cabin. Pulling back, Tunansia hurled the locket as hard as she could, sending the tiny brass disk into the night to be whipped away by the wind. She breathed heavily, sharp shuddering gasps, before her shaking hands pushed the window closed, latching it again.

Ever the perfect gentleman, Edmund didn’t pry. Instead, they sat the rest of the ride in complete silence.

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