Grimm's School for the Erratically Gifted: Chapter 6

Edmund’s remaining silent, however, did not mean that he understood. Tunansia’s behavior confused him greatly and occupied much of his mind as they walked back to Grimm’s from the train station. They parted without a word at the entry, Edmund continuing towards Altmore house, Tunansia towards her own room at the other end of the school.

When her footsteps finally faded, taking her melancholy airs with her, Edmund was able to focus on one fact that now swam about his head.

Edmund had won!

It was almost disappointing. As far as Edmund had been concerned, he had expected the salvation of the family to take him into his late teens, perhaps early twenties at the outside. If nothing else, he had thought he would have needed to put some effort into it. Instead, he had merely accepted an invitation, and in return they had accepted him into the highest ranks of society.

The more he reflected, the more ashamed he was that he missed the obvious; how could it have happened any other way? After all, he was Edmund Moulde.

He hadn’t need to rebuild the Moulde fortune, or reestablish his family’s honor in the eyes of the British gentry: All he had needed to do was be himself. His mere presence at the soiree had been enough to repair the damage done by generations of Mouldes. Honestly, he couldn’t understand why so many Mouldes had failed at saving the family. It had been so simple.

Of course Tunansia was upset. Matron had adopted him in the hopes that he could save the reputation of the Moulde Family and pull it from the depths of disparagement to the apex of admiration. With his natural charm, intelligence, and — it must be humbly said — a little good fortune, he had managed to do so in a single evening. His place as heir to the Moulde Estate was established, and his crafty relatives foiled. His cousins had failed to usurp him. The family was safe. He had won.

So delighted was Edmund in himself that he completely missed the gnawing doubt at the back of his mind that urged his attention. Instead, his delirious delight entrenched itself at the forefront, dominating his thoughts all the way to his room, to his chair, and to his lighting a small candle on his desk.

So complete was his preoccupation that he was halfway through a letter to Junapa before he realized he was writing.

So thorough was his focus that it wasn’t for seven more minutes that he realized he wasn’t alone in his room.

Later, he admonished himself for turning to look. He should have remained calm and carried on until he knew exactly who was trying to breathe quietly and why they wished to remain hidden, but the intoxicating sensations of victory and wine were still in his blood, so instead he turned to stare the interloper in the eye.

The shadow lunged out of its hiding place in the corner, shoving Edmund aside as it ran for the door. Edmund reached out to grab at the flailing assailant, but it was no use: he was too small and the figure too strong. He was tossed aside like a doll, his hand grasping at thin air.

For a moment, Edmund’s fancies clamored at his brain. Who was this strange figure? Was it the stalking shadow of the streets? The vengeful ghost of the graveyard? The Ripper of Mothburn? Was Edmund about to die?

Edmund landed on the floor with a gasp, and his door slammed shut. The room spun for a moment before Edmund forced it back into place, and picked himself up off the stone floor.

He tore open the door but the figure was gone, the sound of foot-steps already vanishing down the distant stairs. He was too late.

Edmund closed the door again, his reasonable brain finally asserting its rightful dominion over his fancies. He was still whole, so not the Ripper, then. Nor was it the ghost, as Edmund had never heard of a sprit that could toss a living person to the ground. Who had it been, and why had they been in his room?

There were few reasons available, and Edmund found the most likely almost immediately. His family really was becoming oppressive. Sending people to escort him or exchanging letters was one thing, but outright spying? That was really the limit. He was heir, after all. He would gladly have written letters to any of his cousins who wanted to hear how or what he was doing at Grimm’s. Well, most of his cousins. At least a few of them. If they had asked, he could have carefully chosen what to tell them and how, and they would have been perfectly content.

Well, no, they would have sent spies to find out what he wasn’t telling them, but they could at least have done the courtesy of letting him not tell them first.

Edmund returned to his desk and opened his desk drawers. Sure enough, the stacks of notebooks and papers he had written were in disarray, shoved about by the spy in their desperate attempt to find out his secrets.

That might have been the end of it, had Edmund not — after finishing his letter to Junapa — reached into his letter-drawer for a slim stick of sealing-wax.

He brought the stick to the candle, and paused. There, on his desk next to the small candlestick, lay a tiny drop of dried wax.

Edmund was not the most tidy of children, but he was the most attentive. While he may have left what looked like a mess, he never forgot where everything was, and so it should come as no shock to know that Edmund was positive that he had not left a single drop of wax on his desk.

Someone else had.

The drop told the story clearer than any book. The spy had entered Edmund’s room, searched his desk, procured a stick of sealing-wax from his drawer, and melted it. The drop was too small to be of any use, so it must have been dripped by accident.

Why melt a bit of sealing wax? Had the spy written and sealed a letter? Edmund stared at the stick of sealing-wax in his hand. It was noticeably shorter than it had been before.

Not just one letter, then, but many? Or had the spy merely stolen the wax to use later? If nothing else, it was more evidence of an antagonist. Someone was certainly trying to sabotage his education.

In the end, it didn’t matter. They were too late. Edmund had saved the Moulde Family.

But he still needed to learn, didn’t he? He couldn’t leave Grimm’s early, and a scientific revolution was still in his future. Perhaps he should protect his efforts and lock away his diaries and papers?

Maybe not scientific…a revolution in poetry. He could do that. An application of meter and verse that re-defined what poetry could do…what it could be…

The texture of the desk was smooth under his fingers. Images of gold and silver swam in his mind. The taste of lake-fish still lingered on his tongue.

With a start, Edmund forced his eyes open. His brain was a dense fog, so overfull of thoughts there was no room for more. He turned the notebook to a clean page, and crawled into bed. He was too tired; he couldn’t find answers now. He would write it all out in his sleep and study it tomorrow morning.

The last thought that swam through his mind was this: What use was there in stealing a blob of sealing wax?

As future events will show; if he had thought to write that question down, or not been so tired that he wouldn’t remember asking it, a great of pain and conflict could have been avoided, though great papers would have to be written to decide if that was a good thing or not.

Instead, with that final thought doomed to be forgotten, Edmund positioned his pen over his clean notebook, fell asleep, and dreamed of figs.

For those who have been waiting with anticipation, it must be said that while The Revelation might easily have occurred to Edmund in his sleep, the notes he found waiting for him the following morning held nothing of such import. In fact, all he had written were repetitions of the same thoughts, connections, and conclusions he had while awake. In sleep, he had done little more than confirm everything he already thought.

Being still young, he did not recognize this as the warning sign that it was.

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Over the course of the next two weeks, Edmund’s limited free time was spent adjusting his schedule to account for his sudden triumph. He still had expectations to fulfill, but his school work was simple enough and avoiding scandal was simplicity itself.

As for the Teapot Coterie, well, he wrote Junapa a letter every week; he could easily write another and send it along to Lady Tinbottom, keeping his new friends abreast of his successes along with any local gossip.

Edmund’s focus now needed to be on his Discovery.

He had so many options! Every aspect of British society was ripe for revolution, it was simply a matter of choosing. Would he follow in the footsteps of the great Patron Plinkerton and discover a new method of manufacturing? Or find new an better cooking techniques that would redefine cuisine for generations? A new way of looking at “oat coature¹” that would have dressmakers and haberdashers scrambling to catch up? Or perhaps something simple, like a faster train or better horse-carriage?

It would be grand, whatever it was. That was, in fact, the only necessity.

Edmund continued with his daily routine for six solid days, studying and learning as best as the taciturn atmosphere of Grimm’s would allow. As for the Spy, Edmund was unconcerned. Let them try; he would protect his genius behind locks and hidden compartments, the same as any Moulde would. He would scribble half-truths and misleading codes that would tie up any spies for months. He could control what they knew about him, and thus they would become one of his tools. There was no stopping him, he was Edmund Moulde.

It is a clear indication of Edmund’s un-Moulde-like self-awareness that this sense of megalomania lasted for only two weeks.

These two weeks have been fought over for decades among historians and sociologists. Enter any back-alley speak-easy and utter the words ’the two weeks between Edmund’s first Teapot Soiree and The Revelation,’ and note the speed with which the first beer-stein is thrown.

There is no telling for certain what might have happened had Edmund not wasted time with his self-important sense of invincibility, and had his Revelation two weeks earlier; but as Edmund himself was fond of saying later in life, “hindsight is easier than foresight.”

It is generally agreed that Edmund arrived at The Revelation through his own efforts, requiring no help or prodding from his peers, as the few surviving pages of Edmund’s diaries suggest this.²

An alternate theory, based exclusively on the verbose diary entry of Victrola Skiffins dated twelve days after the Teapot Winter Soiree, is that it was Victrola who inadvertently prompted The Revelation while visiting Edmund in the Library.

“Edmum!”

“Edmund.”

“That’s what I said,” Victrola huffed. “I only got a nine out of ten on my Fabricated Ethics essay.”

“Oh,” Edmund shrugged. He had suspected Professor Eidel wasn’t ready to accept the more advanced theories he had floated in the essay’s closing, but he had been too delighted in himself to care. “A shame.”

“You’re right, it’s a shame,” Victrola’s tone was layered with disappointment. “I had expected more from you, really. Do you not understand how important it is that I receive top marks at Grimm’s? If I’m going to be an important person, I need to have the best scores from the best school in the Empire, and that’s Grimm’s. You’re not going to be responsible for me not having a good record, are you?”

“No.” He was positive the responsibility would not be his.

“Good,” Victrola’s smug smile returned. “I knew you wouldn’t, because we’re best friends, and best friends don’t do that to each other.”

“I was wondering,” a nasty kind of curiosity was tickling Edmund’s mind. “You wouldn’t happen to have any free time next week, would you? Only I have quite a lot of work to do, and —”

“Oh, no,” she interrupted, “I couldn’t possibly have the time to do your work for you. Besides, you’re the smart one, you’d be so much better at it than me.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Don’t think I’m not pulling my weight, though. I’m sure I’m much better at having adventures than you, so when I tell you all about them, it’ll be like you’re having them through me! See? You do my homework, I have your adventures. It just makes sense. I’ll come by to pick up my essays next week. Don’t forget to sign my name, this time. I had to scribble out your name last time, and Professor Valkyr stared at it for far too long. I have to go now; a group of the older students are sneaking out tonight, and they’ve asked me to come with them. They think I don’t know anything about the secret cult they’re building, but I’m going to stop them. Or join them, if its a good cult. I don’t know yet.”

Edmund stared at Victrola’s back as she skipped away through the library. Cults. As if that was anything important. It was probably good she had something to focus her attention on, otherwise she’d be bothering Edmund every day.

He turned back to his book on imaginary finances. It took a moment for Edmund to realize he had skipped three whole paragraphs, and it hadn’t mattered, because he knew what they would have to say.

Edmund closed the book, took a deep breath, and had The Revelation.

The Revelation was this: after months of careful study and work, holding fast to his routine, finishing both his and Victrola’s schoolwork, and doing everything he could to ensure his eventual Discovery would be suitably impressive, he was simply not learning anything.

Or rather, while he was discovering new ideas and formulating plans, inventions, and the like; none of this was a result of his being a student in the most prestigious school in the country. The classes he was taking were relaxing, not engaging. His professors were amusing, not interesting. The facts he was exposed to were salient, but not new.

Everything he read he had read before. Everything he was told, he had thought of before. Half the time, when a professor demanded he read a specific book, Edmund had either already read the book or knew enough about the subject to reach a conclusion five chapters before the book did. Half the time, the book would be missing from the library, but it rarely made any difference.

Was this all his five years at Grimm’s going to be? He had saved his family by joining the Teapots, and now all he had to do was redefine an aspect of British life with a singular discovery. He had hoped his education would be useful on that point, but was Grimm’s failing him? Was he wasting his time?

The Revelation is important in Edmund’s life for several reasons, only one of which is immediately germane: Edmund felt trapped.

He couldn’t leave Grimm’s; that would be a horrific scandal and threaten everything he had already achieved with the Teapots. But what option did he have? The books in the library were all ancient. The teachers were all hidebound. He was trapped in a cage of stone walls and upper-class expectation, forcing him to read the same books, recite the same lessons, and stifle his own personal education.

What else could he do besides resolve himself to ineffectual boredom?

Only once before had he ever felt so distraught over a fundamental flaw in the universe; when he had learned that the Moulde Family was, in fact, poor.³ School was where students were supposed to learn, but Edmund wasn’t learning much of anything. Was he not a student or was Grimm’s not a school?

His first admittedly flawed instinct was to write a letter to Matron, demanding an explanation. He didn’t, of course, as she had made her expectations for Edmund abundantly clear; when it came to life as a Moulde, he had to work it out for himself.

Junapa would likely be able to provide some assistance, but admitting failure or flaw to her was dangerous if not outright foolish. Even if she condescended to give him the answers he needed, her letter would not arrive for at least a week.

No, there was only one person who could provide Edmund with timely, knowledgeable, and efficient help. Tunansia was experienced with Grimm’s, at least moderately intelligent, and hopefully willing to provide Edmund with help in exchange for…well, she had been open to future favors in the past, perhaps she would accept the opportunity again.

Those of a particular awareness or familiarity with Edmund’s life will correctly assume she did not, though not for the reasons many might assume.

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In spite of his depressed attitude, Edmund had learned many things at Grimm’s, not the least of which was how to learn. Teachers and lessons were everywhere if you knew how to find them, and the little lessons throughout Edmund’s life were nothing if not frequent.

For example: When he knocked on Tunansia’s door,⁴ he learned that ignorance and carelessness could be every bit as dangerous in small doses as they were in large ones.

“Who are you?”

Edmund looked up into the aggressive eyes of the blonde-haired girl Edmund had seen in the auditorium with Tunansia months ago. What was her name? Had he ever learned it?

A flood of possibilities assaulted Edmund’s mind, the first of which was that he should lie about who he was and why he was there, and thereby divert the girl’s attention from Edmund’s mistake to some phantasm’s made-up answer.

But any excuse he gave would doubtless be tested…and what could he say that would withstand scrutiny, apart from the truth? Edmund needed answers.

“My name is Edmund Moulde. I thought this was Tunansia’s room?”

“It was,” the girl sniffed, tossing her hair dismissively. “It’s mine now. I got it first.”

Edmund blinked. First? “Didn’t Tunansia get it first?”

The girl’s eyes rolled like dice. “Someone always got it before someone else. That’s not the point. The point is it’s mine now that she’s gone.”

Gone? “Do you know where she went?”

“She left days ago,” the girl heaved a put-upon sigh. “Took all her things and vanished. No one has any idea where or why. Such disrespect, but then again, what could you expect, really. She was a Charter, you know. One of the newer families. Do you know, she actually got accepted into Grimm’s on her merits? Can you imagine!”

“Yes.”

“Well, all I can say is we Huddles don’t get accepted because of our skills. We are accepted because we are Huddles. You said you were a Moulde?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, you know exactly what I mean, of course.”

“The Charters are part of the Moulde Family,” Edmund said, feeling a familial need to defend Tunansia from this oligarchic insult.

“Yes,” the girl looked wary, “but quite distantly, if you know your Heraldry. Why are you here?”

“I’ve come to collect something she left behind.” He knew it was true the moment he thought it. If Tunansia had left Grimm’s, she would have left something for him; a note perhaps, or some clue he could use. She might not have even realized she left it, but Edmund was a Moulde, and he knew he could find it.

As fortune would have it, he didn’t need to look. “Oh, she meant you?” the girl huffed. “Fine.”

Stepping away from the door, she retreated into the room. A sudden scraping sound soon followed, and in seconds a large chest was shoved through the door, banging Edmund on his shins.

“Here you are,” she grumbled. “I’m sure I don’t know why she kept all those letters. I’m sure a lady knows better than to pry into any correspondence about any love-affairs, but if you must be so gauche, you can have them. Take them away!”

Edmund hauled the trunk through the doorway before the door could be slammed in his face. Love-affairs? Edmund was skeptical; Tunansia had never seemed particularly interested in anyone.^{5 , 6 , 7}

The implications tormented Edmund’s thoughts as he dragged the heavy chest back to his room.

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Edmund’s muscles were aching from the strain when he finally reached his room, but he did not pause nor rest to recuperate; the chance that his answers lay waiting inside the large chest spurred him onward.

Perhaps the chest contained all of Tunansia’s notes and references after so many years at Grimm’s? The girl in Tunansia’s room had hinted that Tunansia had filled it with letters; perhaps they were of a similar kind to the correspondence Edmund shared with Junapa? A treasure trove of upper-class intrigue could be inside, ready for the taking!

Edmund knelt down to inspect the chest. It was sealed with a shiny brass lock of tantalizingly modern design. Edmund pressed his ear to the wooden lid and slipped the bent-key into the lock. Sure enough, he could feel the double-lever block-tumbler resting above the normal lock. A gentle prod was all it took to hear the faint shifting of springs and plates inside the lid, ready to snap back into place if he pushed too hard or too —

What was that sound?

Ever so gently, Edmund pushed again, and again, gently poking the metal cross-pieces and levers, listening to the faint whine of a coiled spring. Was that another block-tumbler? Why? One was all that any lock needed to keep the lessor lock-pickers from breaking in. What use was a second? It was in a different location too, further up and poised over —

Edmund froze. With the care of a surgeon, he extracted his bent-key and sat back on his heels. The picture of the lock clicked into place in his mind, the pins and latches falling into place.

An automatic detecting re-locker! How could he get past that?

He had been fascinated by the concept when he first came across it in one of several books on theoretical locksmithing back in Moulde Hall’s library. The book had been old, and the theory incomplete, but it had taught Edmund enough to know how one of these mechanisms would work, and to be curious if he could possibly pick the purportedly un-pickable lock.

It was his first practical confirmation of Edmund’s fears regarding how limited his education had been. The books at Moulde Hall ranged anywhere from ancient to merely antiquated, and while the classics rarely went out of style, application was entirely about style. If Edmund had known a functioning automatic detecting re-locker had been built, he would have found one and taken it apart to see how it worked.

No time like the present, he thought, as he slowly re-inserted the bent-key.

It was a brilliant design, he mused, as he gently worked his way through the lock. If a single tumbler was pushed too far, or a lever caught too soon, the tumbler would click into place, releasing the spring. The entire inner workings of the lock would snap back, re-fit themselves, and jam. The lock would be un-openable.

Then what? If the lock was jammed, how would the owner un-lock it? Was it worth risking never opening the door again, just to keep un-wanted people out?

No, there had to be a way to un-jam the lock after it had been unsuccessfully picked. Perhaps turning the key the other direction? That would be the simplest way. Or perhaps, a different key?

It would have to be simpler than the primary lock, or else it wouldn’t fit into the lid. It probably jammed the entire lock, rather than portions of it. Then, when it un-jammed, it would release the hold on the pins and then perhaps, if he was lucky, he could hold the pins open. It would be like letting the re-locker pick the lock on its own.

Taking a deep breath, Edmund pushed the bent-key against the wrong lever. with a snap, the tumbler clicked into place, and he felt the entire lock shift.

Too late, he heard the second snap. A spring popped free, and the bent-key twisted from Edmund’s hand as a sharp metal plate sheared down through the lock. With a pop and a ting, the bent-key flew out of the keyhole and ricocheted off his bedroom wall.

Picking it up from the ground, Edmund saw the ends of the key had been cut clean off. A heavy blade had snapped his tool in half. A quick inspection of the keyhole confirmed his fears; the blade was firmly in place, a shield against further attempts to pick the lock.

Edmund looked back at the torn and useless bent-key in his palm. He should have known better; Tunansia would never have let someone pick the lock on her discoveries so easily. The secrets inside her chest were sealed away forever, or at least until he figured out a way to cut through metal without destroying what lay inside.

Far worse was the fact that his key to the locks of the world was broken. Oh, he could make another one, probably a better one now that he knew more about keys, locks, and the manipulation of both, but there had been something…special about his own bent-key.

It had been his first real invention, born from necessity and a desire to escape an awful situation. If he had never made the bent-key, he wouldn’t have been able to leave his room that night, sneak outside, and have the discussion with Matron that marked his transition from Edmund the ex-orphan to Edmund Moulde, Heir to the fortune, history, and future of one of the Founding Families of Brackenburg. And now it was gone.

With not a little regret, Edmund slipped the broken bent-key into the drawer of his desk, and closed it with the care and reverence of sealing a tomb.

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