Grimm's School for the Erratically Gifted: Chapter 8

Edmund’s day was ruined.

This is a turn of phrase often bandied about without due concern to its proper meaning. Indeed, the optimist might say that Edmund’s day was freed from routine, and therefore he was — for perhaps the first time since arriving at Grimm’s — able to act as he wished, rather than was required.

Indeed, many have made the argument that, had Edmund’s day not been “ruined,” he would never have made the discoveries which led to the Great British Empire being what it is today.¹

For his own part, Edmund did not allow himself to think too far about the ramifications of his spoiled schedule. What was done was done, and he couldn’t go back and fix it now.

Thankfully, a new occupation for his mind soon provided itself when he lay eyes once more on Tunansia’s chest.

She had given him a gift without the key to opening it. It was galling to think that Tunansia could be so thoughtful and thoughtless at the exact same time, but there it was.

Was he thinking to much like a student? Had he become too used to the idea that the answer was somewhere out there, in books or in teacher’s heads, when the solution could very well be right in front of him?

He needed to think like a Moulde. He needed to return to Tunansia’s room and break inside, search the entire room from top to bottom, and perhaps even ask pointed and vaguely threatening questions of her friend…

No. Edmund folded his arms. He needed to stop thinking like a Moulde, and start thinking like Edmund Moulde.

He knelt down to the chest. It was thick, heavy, and strong. The lock rattled when he shook the lid, and the rivets were smooth and solid. The sides and top were mostly clean, while the bottom was covered with dents and scrapes from being dragged along the floor. The back was clean as the front, and the hinges were nicked and polished from regular opening and closing.

Edmund closed his eyes. Fool of a Moulde! It really was absurdly simple: Tunansia hadn’t given him a key because there wasn’t one.

Standing up from his interrogative crouch, Edmund picked up his small letter-opener from his desk. Moving around to the chest’s back, Edmund began to work the thin blade between the hinges, working at the long pins that bound the lid to the bottom.

The pins were smooth, and the work was easy. Within minutes Edmund had opened the lid, now only connected to the chest by the lock.

Inside the chest were stacks of opened letters.

It certainly looked like letters from romantic lovers and suitors, but Tunansia would have to have had more than twenty lovers to accumulate so much correspondence.

He pulled the letter free from its cramped confinement and studied it carefully. The seal was of an expensive feel and color, but there was no mark in the wax. It appeared as if the writer of the letter had simply pressed the wax down with a finger or perhaps the end of a thin stick.

Bemused at the oddity of it, Edmund opened the letter and began to read.

Half-way down the fourth page, he sat down on the trunk.

When he reached the end of the tract, he flipped back to the beginning and read again. Then he stared at the date at the top of the first page, and then read the whole thing a third time.

It was a scientific treatise, no longer than a short book chapter, on Lord Johaan Dolten’s experimental evidence on the existence of atoms. Edmund had read about atoms before; they were the theoretical building blocks of the universe, invented back in the times of ancient Greece.

It is important to explain that Edmund’s entire scientific education had come exclusively from three locations up to this point: the books donated to the Orphanage, the ancient library of Moulde Hall, and the library of Grimm’s. All three of these had one thing in common; a devotion to science that could at best be described as antique.

As such, it was Edmund’s understanding that nothing truly became “science” until it was at least twenty years old.

Edmund stared at the date of the letter again. This scientific study was from three years ago.

There it was, in black and white. A whole new scientific theory had been developed by this Lord Dolten, printed, and distributed in less than three years. And Tunansia’s roommate had said it was old. How young could science be, in fact? Two years? One year? One month?

Edmund turned to the trunk. How many letters were there? How many discoveries, how old, and how new?

This was what he needed! New science that he hadn’t thought of before! Other people’s experiments that could stimulate his own thinking! Facts and theories and musings of all the different branches of art, history, science, and more!

Think what kind of revolutionary discoveries could be made, fueled with such ingredients!

Why had Tunansia left them all behind?

For Edmund, of course! She obviously had realized they would be of more value to him than to her, and gifted them to him while she left to…to do whatever she was going to do. After all, she couldn’t have decided such treasures were useless for her future endeavors! Absurd! If Edmund had been the laughing type, he certainly would have, at the idea.

Edmund focused on the letter’s signature. Johaan Dolten. He had heard of the Doltens; a prominent family…one of their children married a Scower, if he remembered correctly. They were quite privileged and dutiful peers of the realm. He’d never heard of a Johaan Dolten, though…

Where did the Mouldes and the Scowers stand, these days? Could he risk irritating, or even angering a fellow Founding Family with an errant letter, if it could get him access to more recent scientific discoveries? Looking for appropriate examples and guidelines, he poured through his notebooks, old letters from Junapa, and in the end the letter he wrote was a relatively safe one:

Dear Johaan Dolten,
I recently came into possession of your paper on the Theory of Atoms. I am quite fascinated by it. Would you be so kind as to inform me of any similar papers you write in the future?
Master Edmund Moulde

Sealing the letter with care, Edmund leapt off of his chair and ran to place the letter in the out-going letterbox, wondering exactly what he would receive for his efforts.

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What he received was a torrent.

They came from everywhere. The bright streets of Germany, the shadows of France, the foundries of Spain, the hilltops of Sweden…as innocuous and unassuming as letters about the weather. After one week of letters, Edmund shoved Tunansia’s trunk under his own bed, and completely forgot about it. Why bother, when they were likely outdated within a year?

The discovery of what Edmund came to refer to as the Dilettante Trust² changed everything for him. What had been obligation became delight. Edmund eagerly awaited every delivery of the post, and spent hours hiding in his room or in a dark corner of the library, pouring over new and fascinating pieces of scientific discovery. Even the very foundations of science were occasionally questioned.

His notebooks became filled with countless discoveries, logical arguments, and dissertations from every corner of the scientific spectrum. His brain spun with innovations and discoveries that Edmund had never considered,³ and all from the minds of the overlooked aristocracy.

Those who find this origin of scientific discovery peculiar, if not absurd, would do well to remember: science at the time was, as it always had been, a purview of a specific kind of upper-class.

The temperament of the lower-classes at the time did not allow for innovation or invention. After all, when success relies on predictability, improvement is always more risk than reward. A broken axle or fallow earth led to starvation and death. Tradition was survival. Predictability was virtue.

However, when one was born into wealth and prosperity the status quo became even more precious. For the upper-class, starvation and death are minor fears compared to the specters of uncertainty and embarrassment. Innovation is all well and good, but if such discoveries led to a society overturned? What if one found oneself on the bottom, among new and unfamiliar people? What if they were different?

There are, therefore, three common qualities to every scientific genius of the past century: great personal wealth, often inherited along with a title and peerage; A tenuous grasp of sanity; and a distinct lack of self-preservation.⁴ In a word: eccentric.

This is all to say, of the hundreds of scientific papers that passed over Edmund’s desk, a good three-quarters were complete dross.

Enthusiastic Lords gushed enthusiastically over their experiments with wearing different hats on different days, and the effect on the weather. Amused Ladies described the particular shade of purple their terrace violets bore this year as compared to last year, or to the violets on the veranda, or to the shade their dear departed mother swore was so more vibrant years ago, and the possible causes thereof. Earls shared their designs of complicated machines performing simple tasks in indirect and convoluted ways. Duchesses sent careful drawings of their hounds’ vacant expressions, and the mistakenly self-evident implications for next week’s garden party. As many letters again were no more than replies to other tracts and papers, offering odd suggestions or shallowly supportive platitudes, followed by tortured excuses to talk about their own projects.

The remaining quarter, however, made the sorting through the chaff worth all the effort. Without the heraldic efforts of Lord Grothram, Edmund might never have discovered the principles that allowed him to later formulate the Laws of Inheritance. Without Lady Porpinjay’s study of her garden compost, he might never have discovered his theory of Thermodynamic decay.

And yes, while many scholars are loathe to admit it, without the Earl of Alberforth’s fascination with copper thread, Edmund might never have been able to make use of what he discovered in the coal mines beneath Haggered Hill just before his marriage.

Edmund, however, was bound to linear time as we all are, and thus was unaware of the discoveries that lay in his future. At the time, he simply enjoyed learning. It was against the rules — students were not allowed to receive help, or give it themselves — but the rewards were well worth the risk.

It was even worth sharing his own revelations. Though no one ever expressed the expectation — they were far more interested in their own personal projects — Edmund wrote his own tracts on small observations, scientific experiments, and the like. He was an upper-class scientist-poet, after all, and if this is what such people did, he would not behave otherwise.

Where once before answering his post had been an exercise in boring drudgery, now Edmund eagerly awaited the weekly post with unbridled anticipation.

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For two months, Edmund’s new routine was filled with letters, experiments, and a steady diet of the more interesting lines of thought from the Professors of Grimm’s.

Then, one day, along with the singular black letter from Junapa and the multitude of white letters from the Dilletante Trust, a single cream-colored letter arrived in the post. The faintest waft of perfume met Edmund’s nose as he picked it up to study the flowing and looping hand that had written his name.

The seal was of blue wax, and bore the mark of the Northsouthington Tinbottoms.

Dear Master Moulde,
_I find myself in need of an escort in Mothburn today, the __th, at noon. I hope your gracious self will find their schedule free enough to grace me with your company. I will arrive by carriage at the Trawling Street Park.
I hope this letter finds you well and healthy,
Lady Tinbottom

His worries were forgotten at the honor of being informed that Lady Tinbottom required something that he could provide, while also having a desire to spend time with Edmund, with the subtextual understanding that Edmund would only be there for the purpose of providing Lady Tinbottom a service.⁵

He glanced at his ever-wound watch. He had less than an hour to select his outfit and cross Mothburn to Trawling Street. He settled on a white dress-coat and black tie, perfect for casual situations where a certain amount of propriety is to be maintained. He didn’t want to look out of place as he walked beside Lady Tinbottom, her graceful smile rivaling the noonday sun in brilliance.

And brilliant she was. She was dressed in a gold and silver dress, her hair covered with an ornate wig of immaculate design. Her lace-glove hands held a thin willow parasol to shade her skin from the midday sun. She was everything Edmund had ever admired about the upper-classes. She was poise, and grace, and unadulterated class.

The Trawling Street Park paled in comparison. Edmund was confident that had he gone for a walk himself without Lady Tinbottom’s company, he would have found a great many things of beauty. It was a fertile source of material for any number of poems or chemical experiments he cared to imagine. He resolved to come back later, some day, to make a formal study.

“Master Edmund?”

“Yes?”

“I asked if you are enjoying this pleasant weather?”

“I find it pleasant,” Edmund agreed. Weather was one of the few topics Edmund felt comfortable enough to address in discussion — a feeling confirmed when he saw Lady Tinbottom’s wonderful smile widen.

“Now, Master Edmund, you simply mustn’t let me dominate the conversation. I’m certain you have heard something interesting or amusing recently. Some little morsel of news from behind Grimm’s stone walls?”

What news was there? His efforts at apprehending a spy, of course, but dealing with such lowlifes was far from an acceptable subject of conversation for one such as Lady Tinbottom. As for other news…

“Tunansia left,” Edmund said, after a moment’s thought.

“Who?”

“Miss Charter,” Edmund reminded her. “The girl who you invited to your soiree so she could introduce me.”

“Oh, that quite reminds me, I am holding another soiree next month. I do so hope you will be able to attend?”

“Of course,” Edmund’s heart swelled.

“How delightful. I’m so pleased that you are willing to grace us with your charming company.”

Edmund nodded, and Lady Tinbottom nodded in return. Their social obligations thus fulfilled, they were free to return to the subject Edmund had broached: “Really?” Lady Tinbottom’s hand moved to her mouth. “She left, did she? How interesting. I do hope she found a good man to leave for?”

“She told me she was heading to Cliffside to work with a friend of a professor.”

“Ah.” Lady Tinbottom nodded.

It is here that great care must be taken, as there is a stark peril that any written discussion of upper-class must become subjected to. The fientive verb “to nod” embodies all matter of movement of the head which results in the tilting of the skull.

What is communicated by said nod cannot be so conclusively encompassed. Anything from enthusiastic support, to an agreement to think further, to reluctant acquaintance to a point poorly argued, to even a simple acknowledgment that words had been spoken without any promise that they will be further considered.

Edmund was not a natural when it came to these physical languages, but the time spent in tutelage had born fruit; now Edmund was skilled enough to translate most every nod, shrug, wave, and shake of the head he saw.

For example, the nod Lady Tinbottom gave ended faster than it began, as though her head were heavy with unspoken thought on the subject. Her mouth joined in, pursing ever so slightly, conveying a concern for future conflict. To say it was a nod with a lot to say for itself might confuse the issue; suffice it to say that the nod said as much to Edmund as any other nod. As such, he was not surprised when Lady Tinbottom continued: “That is a shame.”

Edmund was appreciative of Tunansia’s scheme. It was a subtle thread: Edmund had owed Tunansia a favor, which meant she had done him a favor. That meant she could possibly be useful to anyone who saw themselves on Edmund’s level. That she was now gone could mean complications.

“I’m sure she had her reasons,” Edmund replied. He didn’t know what they were, but he was sure she had them.

“Oh, I don’t mean to cast a pall over our constitutional,” her fresh smile returned to her face in seconds. “I simply mean that things are changing everywhere, and not necessarily for the better. I’m afraid the whole Teapot Coterie is feeling very concerned.”

Edmund felt his blood chill at the remark. Things were as bad as that?

“I hope none of my actions have been a source of perturbation?” he asked, humbly acknowledging for possible mistakes while permitting the listener to disabuse him of the notion with careful complements.

“Oh of course not!” Lady Tinbottom smiled and spread her fan again like a peacock’s tail. “You have been quite the perfect gentleman. We have simply heard some terrible rumors about the goings on in Mothburn.”

Edmund sorted through his own knowledge on the subject and found himself woefully ignorant. “Please go on,” he pried, “and I will gladly provide my own views on the rumors’ validity.”

“Oh, you are most generous,” Lady Tinbottom’s fan arced through the air like a dove’s wing. “I dare say the most shocking and terrifying rumor on my mind at the moment, was conveyed to me by dear Lord Havingham just the other day. He says he has heard there have been sightings of…dare I say it…/revolution/.”

Edmund cocked his head. He had thought himself well informed — Junapa’s letters had kept him very well abreast of the goings on outside of Grimm’s — but he hadn’t heard anything about any revolution. “Do you think the mayor is in danger?” Edmund asked.

“Oh, not a political revolution, my goodness no. I mean an industrial revolution. Why, I’ve even heard that the textile factory on the south end of town has begun experimenting with machines run via electricity. From batteries. Of course, such things are supposedly commonplace in Cliffside, but here in the north? Quite unacceptable. Before long, why, there could be hissing steam engines on every street corner!” Her fan snapped shut as she heaved an abused sigh. “The Teapot Coterie is very forward thinking, you understand. We are very progressive in our view of the world, and truly care about changing the world…but it really must be proper change, mustn’t it? Things mustn’t change for the worse, after all.”

“Certainly not,” Edmund followed Lady Tinbottom’s easy gait as she led him down the dirt path past a growing patch of meadowsweet.

“It’s rather like preparing for a party,” Lady Tinbottom continued. “Why, a servant who set the table before dusting, or who opened the wine before lighting the ovens…you’d sack them before the second course, wouldn’t you? Even upending society — as important and healthy as such things can be — must be done with proper care and control, or else the wrong sort of person might end up benefiting. You understand, of course.”

Edmund did, as a matter of fact, have intimate knowledge of how a sudden shift in the wind could ruin the plans of important people, but he had never thought of how a technological invention could be such a shift. He knew he wouldn’t be that sort of genius; They could be dangerous.

“Change is all well and good, after all, as long as it’s the right sort of change, done in the right way. So, when you come up with your magnum opus,” Lady Tinbottom shifted her pose, “please let us know, won’t you? That way, we can help you make sure your discovery is used properly.”

“Of course I will.” To do otherwise would clearly be irresponsible.

Her smile was more lovely than the flowers that lined the path. “I’m so pleased.”

There was a pause long enough to signal a change of topic.

“Have you heard the news about Lord Toffingbury?” Lady Tinbottom asked, her tone conveying her concern. “A dreadful affair, indeed.”

“Indeed,” Edmund nodded after he sorted through the files of his memory to find the applicable facts. “I wonder if there will be a trial.”

“Oh no. No judge would ever put a Toffingbury on the dock. The scandal would be far too unthinkable. The Toffingburys are a fine upstanding family. Why do we have courts at all but to insure that the fine upstanding families of Britannia are protected?”

“To catch criminals,” Edmund answered, in case she didn’t know. Fool Moulde. Of course she knew.

“Exactly,” Lady Tinbottom waved a lazy hand, “criminals, not people like us.”

This was a new idea to Edmund, and he was grateful to Lady Tinbottom for mentioning it: He had assumed that being a criminal and being upper-class were two independent qualities. After all, the Moulde Family had been considered criminals for years, and no one had dared suggest that they weren’t upper-class.

It made more sense to hear Lady Tinbottom say it: to be a criminal, you had to be lower-class. No one in the upper-classes were ever criminals, and therefore never needed to fear the indignity of a trail — of being scrutinized and interrogated, as if ones noble and forthright nature were not self-evident.

He was lucky she was around to tell him such things.

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A gnawing sense of unease gripped Edmund’s heart all the way back to Grimm’s. He had never realized what a terrible and horrible threat uncontrolled change could be.

When he entered his room, his eye lit upon Tunansia’s trunk of letters.

A new fear filled his chest, one that had been of no interest to Edmund while his genius had lay fallow: if the shadowy Spy tried once more to break into his room and read his notebooks, they would now get something for their efforts. If they tore out pages, they might steal something important. In the hands of someone less suited to the knowledge and power contained within, they could release unbridled and uncontrolled change.

For the safety of the country, the Moudle Family, and his own education, he needed to protect his inventions.

Had he the time, he could have developed an intricate lock that required precise movements and un-foolable levers that would never open unless someone knew the proper pressures and torques to turn the key.

Had he the materials, he could have constructed an elaborate machine that, if not handled properly, would unleash all manner of blades, soporifics, and bindings to trap the hapless spy and ensure they would never trouble Edmund again.

Had he the inclination, he could have studied the workings of the mind of a spy. He could have discerned how they thought, what they felt, and how they worked until he could place his notes in a perfect hiding place where no spy would even think to look. His notes would vanish into the aether, as secure as if they only existed in Edmund’s memory.

But Edmund was a Moulde, and that meant that for all the trappings, etiquette, and savoir-faire of the upper-classes, Edmund knew that sometimes creative elegance took a back seat to brutal efficiency.

Therefore, Edmund tied a string from his door-handle to his wrist while he slept.

It was this very string that pulled at his arm not two nights later; a tug that woke him from a shallow sleep. He cracked his eyes to stare at the shadowy figure as it crept into his room, heading straight for his desk.

He watched as the figure pawed at his drawers, struggling to open them as quietly as possible. He studied its shape and movements, learning everything he could before he made his move.

His time came when spy must have realized there was nothing of interest in Edmund’s desk, and had moved on to Tunansia’s chest.

Edmund quietly pulled the small vial of ether from under his pillow, applied a small amount to his handkerchief, and lunged.

It was an awkward lunge, recumbent being a poor position from which to launch an assault.⁶ The shadow twisted in Edmund’s clumsy grasp, and managed to free its arms enough to shove at Edmund’s face.

Twisting around as the shadow struggled to push him off, Edmund flailed with his handkerchief, managing by shear luck to clamp the fabric over his victim’s nose. When he felt the cartilage under his fingers, he began to count to twenty.

He barely made it to three when a strong elbow sent him sprawling. There was a tearing sound, and Edmund’s head crashed into the wall.

The other thoughts shaken from his head, Edmund reconsidered his plan through the blossoming pain: Ether was simply not effective for these situations. The theory was sound, but he needed to craft a better and more powerful narcotic. Using chlorinated lime instead of sulfuric acid, perhaps? He would need to experiment, once the ringing in his ears stopped.

When the pain had lessened, Edmund opened his eyes. The figure had gone.

Edmund looked down at the handkerchief in his hand. Had it gotten smaller?

He blinked, and looked closer. No, the handkerchief was in his other hand. What was this?

The tearing sound echoed in his mind. His flailing limbs and grasping hands replayed themselves in his memory as he grabbed…a sleeve?

Edmund picked himself off the floor, lit the small candle on his desk, and studied the scrap of cloth in his hand. He saw the hem, and the faint lacework woven into the cuff. He saw the small stain of red, where Mrs. Kippling’s soup had fallen out of his spoon. He felt the familiar feel of fabric he had worn many times before.

The shirt had been his, once.

Before it had been stolen.

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