Grimm's School for the Erratically Gifted: Chapter 11

Winter, as the great seasonal poet Kellay Borgrom wrote in her thirty-page poem On Winter, was famed for its ability to freeze things, including time.

Edmund was forced to concur with this sentiment. While he was perfectly aware of time passing between his mornings, his evenings, and every moment in-between; each moment felt much the same as the next. When he was at Grimm’s, his focus was on the Mothburn Graveyard and the shadowy Raven Ressurectionist who stalked between its headstones. When he waited among the stones for Leeta to arrive, he agonized over his recent school-work, hoping against hope it would meet her expectations and she would allow him to remain by her side. When he was with her, he was dumbstruck, able to do little more than return the strained pleasantries she offered.

So focused was Edmund on this continuous process that he almost missed the invitation to the Teapot Coterie’s Winter Soiree, to be held at Lord Dashington’s Mothburn Mansion.

While Edmund was loathe to miss the chance to speak with Leeta again, he had last seen her only the day before, and she had yet to arrive in the graveyard less than five days apart. She was likely not to be there for the evening in question, so he dressed himself in his finest outfit and hired a hansom cab to take him to Lord Dashington’s mansion.

The food was as heavenly as Edmund remembered it. Smaller portions, of course, as Lord Dashington was a Gentleman host and therefore virtuous in his restraint, but sizable just the same. Cold pheasant was sweet and sour on Edmund’s tongue, while light crunchy florets of green sprouts gave his pallet a juicy savor to soothe and blanket his mouth. Soft cheeses and creamy nuts filled the spaces between, while the drinks were bright and full of bubbles.

But, as the ancient chef-sage Gastremicus once wrote, “there is little more intoxicating than novelty.” As heavenly as the food was to Edmund’s palate, he did not lose himself again to the remarkable flavors. Instead, he found new pleasures to indulge in; specifically, the joy of being a Moulde.

Bringing the entirety of his training to bear, Edmund didn’t say a word for almost two hours. Instead, he drifted from small gathering to small gathering, noting who ate more than they drank and what was consumed when. He studied the tones and topics of conversation, carefully discerning the subtexts of his peers’ lives.

He met a whole new collection of Lords and Ladies from all over the world; even a princess from far off Russia, whose strange accent complimented the wine perfectly. He recognized a few members of the Teapot Coterie that he had met before, yet as skilled as Edmund was, he still found his eye inadvertently drawn to the shimmering shape of Lady Tinbottom. It was an easy thing to do; she was always smiling and laughing with her other guests as they chatted about the weather, absent friends, or galas from months ago.

When it came time for Edmund to join in the conversations,¹ he surprised even himself with his ingenious application of the charm, elocution, and etiquette lessons his cousins had supplied him with. Kolb and Wislydale’s tutoring flowed from Edmund’s memory like a river. He knew exactly what to say, how to say it, and when to say it. Who to say it to was a bit more flexible, but Edmund knew poetry, so he could read between the lines and follow the unspoken script.

“Lord Toffingbury has just last week invited me for an evening on his boat,” Lady Tinbottom remarked, drawing attention to an absent friend in a manner that suggests levity.

“How delightful! I have yet to have a more pleasant evening than sailing with old Toffy² and his wife.” Lord Dashington congratulated the converser while drawing attention to a close personal connection.

“It really was wonderful news about the trial,” Lady Tepitmarsh introduced an uncomfortable topic of conversation with a cover of relief or amusement. “I knew the judge would listen to reason. I trust Toffy is no worse for wear?”

“I saw him the other day on Hedgings Street,” Lady Willborn answered a request for an absent friend’s personal well-being with an anecdote, so as to prevent improper speculations as well as accusations of gossip. “He had quite the spring in his step.”

“I do so wish to meet him someday,” said Miss Pinfort.

The conversation halted in the manner of a plummeting corpse. In the still silence, Edmund took a sip of his champagne.

“I’m sure you shall,” Lord Dashington rested his hand on her shoulder, showing personal responsibility for the buffoon in a manner that suggests amusement rather than horror. “I cannot believe old Toffy could stand to miss meeting such a charming and forthright woman such as yourself.”

And just like that, they were back on track.

Well-cultured and particularly morose fans of the pennies dreadful will recognize the name Miss Pinfort, and her sudden arrival in Edmund’s life should be no surprise to those with a flair for the dramatic, ironic, or narratively inevitable.

Edmund knew nothing of Miss Pinfort at the time, however; she had not yet received the notoriety she was given due to the role she was about to play in Edmund’s life. When he had been introduced to the woman earlier in the evening, he had shot a look to Lady Tinbottom, carefully arching his eyebrow to suggest interest and ignorance without implying confusion or distress.

“Miss Pinfort is Lord Dashington’s guest of honor,” Lady Tinbottom had opened her fan in a manner to suggest unspoken back-story. “We always find his guests most amusing. It pleases him to find the most…unusual and unique people to bring along.”

With the subtext firmly established, Edmund had turned his attention to Lord Dashington’s consort. She was young and beautiful, dressed in a gown of modern style, likely expensive enough that no-one would discuss how much. Her jewelry had been well chosen, and her color had been applied with exquisite skill. All in all, she was wonderful to look at.

As for her behavior…Miss Pinfort was an anomaly. Everyone else in the room was following the rules and guides of etiquette like a script. Miss Pinfort was flaunting these rules, and not in any acceptably eccentric manner. Rather, she behaved as though she had never been taught proper etiquette at all.

After sorting through every possibility in his head, Edmund was confident that “Miss Pinfort” wasn’t upper-class at all. She was some parlor maid, or maybe even a merchant’s daughter that Dashington had dolled up as a lark.

Most amusing, Lady Tinbottom had said. Perhaps it was a kindness, turning a young girl into a peeress for an evening.³

Edmund scorned the thought as soon as it entered his head. It was a cruelty. The girl would return home, never again to taste the fruits of peerage again.⁴

“Master Moulde?”

“Forgive me, my thoughts were elsewhere.”

“Lord Havingham was just asking if you are a sailing man?”

“I am not,” Edmund admitted. “I am a student, at the moment.”

“Yes,” Lord Brocklehurst coughed, “A fine example of a Moulde, I’m sure. Doing us all proud.”

“Speaking of,” Lady Tepitmarsh flashed a hopeful smile, “What is the latest news from Mothburn? I’m sure you must have heard something of interest recently?”

Edmund opened his mouth and then closed it. In fact, he hadn’t heard anything of note that had not already been bandied about like a shared bottle of wine. Everyone had already drunk deeply from the same well of gossip, and Edmund could think of nothing to offer.

“Yes, perhaps about the Ripper?” Lady Willborn twittered most elegantly. “I dare-say, I was quite frightened, stepping out of the carriage. Imagine if the beast came after one of us!”

“Quite absurd,” Lord Dashington waved a hand before returning to his stately pose. “Such things never happen to the landed gentry.”

Edmund opened his mouth again and closed it again. He could feel the eyes on him, burning into his mind. They expected amusement from him. They demanded gossip and tall-tales. They wanted relief from their dull and stagnant doldrums, and they thought Edmund could help them. His friends.

“Well,” Miss Pinfort broke in, quite rudely, “I hear that the Raven Ressurectionist and the Ripper are one in the same! I’ll bet you its trying to increase its stock with all these killings.”

There was a pause. Then: “‘Stock?’” Lady Willborn leaned forward slightly.

“I believe it is a collective term for a merchant’s wares, is that right?” Edmund interjected with the definition to facilitate clear understanding and communal awareness, without implying an embarrassing lack of common knowledge.

“Yes, that’s right,” Miss Pinfort grinned impishly. “It’s what I’d do, if I made a living selling the dead.”

A communal shifting of heads was, to Edmund, a burst of shocked laughter at such a gouache suggestion. Make a living! Indeed!

Once the shifting had subsided, Lord Dashington sighed. “Quite a scourge on society, this, as you called it my dear, ‘raven ressurectionist.’ Once you take to digging up the past, there’s no end to it.”

“I spoke with the Raven Ressurectionist just two days ago.”

The silence that followed Edmund’s comment was not the barely suppressed amusement at his gaucheness, but rather filled with surprise and fascination.

“Really?” Lady Tinbottom’s mouth was half-covered by her fan.

“Did you, old chap?” Lord Havingham leaned forward, his smile full of delightful interest. “By Jove. Did you really? The Raven Resurrectionist?”

“Yes.” Edmund took a breath. He felt a small amount of shame — he had promised Leeta, after all — but high-society and the Teapot Coterie would not be forgiving if he did not provide them with their demanded entertainment. “In fact, I found the company…quite interesting.”

Edmund could feel the air draw closer to him, like he had taken a giant breath and drawn the very room towards his lungs. It was a fundamental truth of the universe that Edmund now experienced; a suggestion of amusement will draw the wealthy after you like moths to a flame.

The power their attention gave him! Once before he held a room of powerful people in his clutches, and he had ended the evening with an arranged marriage, a tamed family, and the respect of three heads of the Founding Families.

“Do tell us, dear boy,” Lord Dashington broke through his thoughts. “Who is this chap? What sort of a vagabond is he?”

“And was he quite evil and vicious? Morally bankrupt and horrifically vile?” Miss Pinfort’s eyes glinted. “He must be, mustn’t he? to break the law so thoroughly?

Edmund balked at the suggestion. While he was fully aware Leeta was operating outside the bounds of acceptable behavior, he had not known the process of grave-robbing was illegal. He couldn’t let his good friends of the Teapot Coterie believe such horrible things about Leeta, could he? Surely he could convince them to accept her as they accepted any other laborer from the streets.⁵

“No,” Edmund said. “No, she isn’t.”

“She?” The room drew closer.

“How appalling, what? Just another sign of society’s steady decline. I say, a woman digging up bodies?”

“Please, Lord Havingham, do not repeat such horrible things in my presence.”

“Terribly sorry, old thing, but I say, I’m not half right, am I? I mean, it’s all well and good for young ruffians to run about doing mischief and all that, but when the fairer sex gets involved…”

“Is she the Ripper?” Lady Willborn gasped, her fan conveying her fascination in lieu of her tone. “My goodness, just think of it…”

“Come now, Master Moulde has not yet finished telling us about the Raven,” Lady Tinbottom silenced the room with a wave of her fan. “Please, continue.”

Edmund studied the faces that stared so intently at him. There were so many things he could tell them, but each was fraught with danger. He thought for a moment before saying perhaps the most dangerous thing he could say: “I found her charming.”

The room fell still.

It must be reiterated that, by definition, there are more restrictions on proper behavior than improper. This goes double for language, which — ever since the Enlightenment — proscribes specific definitions to separate words. Much like behavior, to use a word improperly is to defy its purpose, and betray a profound ignorance of moral rectitude.

All of this is to say, had Edmund been inaccurate in his assessment of his company or imprecise in his tone and inflection, calling the digger-up of graves and seller of cadavers “charming” might have caused a catastrophic scandal from which the Moulde Family would never have recovered from.

“I say,” Lord Havingham cleared his throat in the silence.

“Really,” Lady Tinbottom stammered in an attempt to normalize a potentially scandalous opinion, “I always thought that Mr. Rutledge was quite…charming, in his way…and he owns a department store.”

“Charm can come from the most unexpected places, it is true,” Lord Dashington supported his host’s efforts. “Really, it’s the school’s fault, I feel.”

“The school?” Miss Pinfort blinked owlishly.

“Buying corpses,” Lord Brocklehurst sniffed. “Quite unacceptable.”

“I hadn’t thought they had the money for such expenses,” Lord Dashington tapped his chin with his finger in thought.

“Why study corpses?” Lady Tepitmarsh twittered. “I suppose I can understand working with sick people, if you’re a medical student. Dreadfully common, of course, but inescapable. One could practice their potions and prescriptions on them, I suppose. But what use is a corpse anyway? Surely one can’t make them better, can one?”

Could one? It was not the first time Edmund wondered.

“It’s this new way of doing things,” Lady Willborn sighed. “They even have a name for it, now; the ‘Economy.’ Buying and selling anything at all. Absolutely dreadful. Where will it all end?”

“We can see where it ends,” Lady Tepitmarsh snapped. “Encouraging trade like that, without any sense of propriety…it leads to killing people and digging up corpses to sell to schools.”

“She’s not the Ripper,” Edmund repeated.

“Ah, yes?” Lord Havingham cleared his throat. “Quite. May I ask, old boy, how you know she isn’t?”

“She didn’t tell me she was.”

“Well,” Lord Havingham beamed in victory, “isn’t that exactly what the Ripper wouldn’t say?”

Miss Pinfort perked up. “If I were carving up random street-folk, I know I certainly wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“My dear,” Lady Tepitmarsh extended a condescending hand and spoke in a perfectly patronizing tone, “I beg you to avoid continuing to discuss what you would do if you were a Ripper. It’s quite distasteful.”

“Oh, of course,” Miss Pinfort’s face burned bright red. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to —”

“Let us speak no more about it,” Lady Tinbottom as a last resort, changed the subject. “Lord Brocklehurst, I believe you just returned from Italy?”

---

Edmund took a deep breath. The Soiree was over.

He had left Lord Dashington’s Mansion along with the other Teapots, filling the snowy air with gratitudes and platitudes. One by one, each Lord and Lady piled into their waiting carriages and vanished into the night.

Edmund didn’t have a carriage. He would have to find a hansom cab, but before he did, he took a moment to stare up at the night sky. Mothburn was the first place he had ever seen the stars, and now they were falling in flakes about his face; perfect crystals of shining white glittering in the gas-light from the windows.

How had it gone so wrong?

He had been so careful. He had recognized their fascination, played on their curiosity, and was even correct that they were more interested in maintaining Edmund’s status among the group than chiding him for calling a low-born laborer “charming.” It had all happened exactly as he had expected.

But somehow the rest of the evening had been a travesty. Of course, no one of the Teapot Coterie had dared suggest it had been anything other than magnificent, but Edmund could read the hidden mutterings, the subtle subtexts, and the darting glances. Perhaps most germane, he had noted how no one had spoken to him after he mentioned Leeta. In the span of a sentence he had gone from the focus of the room to an uncomfortable embarrassment.

“Master Edmund?”

Edmund turned to see Lord Dashington stepping out from his Mansion, a trail of servants divesting him of his dress and into his evening-gown, before slipping a large coat over his shoulders and vanishing back inside just as he reached Edmund’s side.

“Enjoying the night air, I hope? I find it restful, after a long and fruitful soiree, to come and relax a moment outside, before I…relax for a while inside.”

He gave Edmund a broad wink. Edmund didn’t know why, but he nodded just the same.

For a moment they shared the air together before Lord Dashington turned to him, his face drawn.

“Please forgive me, Master Moulde, but I’m afraid I am compelled to give you the benefit of the wisdom of my long life. I, above all others, appreciate eccentricities, but you are young yet and simply must learn to strike a balance.”

“I agree,” Edmund nodded again. After a pause, in which he carefully weighed the risks and benefits of admitting ignorance, he said: “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“What am I talking about?” Lord Dashington let out a deep booming laugh. “Why, I’m talking about being polite!”

Edmund was amazed. Had he been rude during the soiree?

Dashington continued: “As a rich person, being eccentric is a valuable skill, but the instant you start to affect others with it…well, you might upset The Way Things Are. Have you ever been to the theatre?” Edmund nodded, but Lord Dashington didn’t wait for an answer. “No doubt you have seen plays where the actors speak to the audience, but can you imagine a play where they actually expected an answer? Or changed costumes on stage? Why, it would be absurd; against everything that the theatre stands for!”

“You mean the Raven Resurrectionist?” Edmund was starting to catch up.

“Acquaintancing yourself with the lower classes is perfectly acceptable, as long as you are careful,” Lord Dashington nodded. “I myself have befriended…well, you saw Miss Pinfort, of course. Improper? Perhaps. Gauche? A bit. But no one would dare challenge me for it, because I am polite. My eccentricities harm no one but myself. A scandal becomes a…peculiarity.”

“My friendship with the Raven Ressurectionist is harmless,” Edmund said.

“Ah, but is it?” Dashington raised a finger, his smirk glinting in the starlight. “…She…is a grave-digger, isn’t she? And in accordance with the law, grave-digging is a criminal act. Do you really think it isn’t dangerous for a Moulde to befriend a criminal?”

It had bothered Edmund a bit, but the more he thought about it the less it mattered. She certainly hadn’t seemed like a criminal should seem…

Lord Dashington laughed. “Oh my dear boy, for all your impressive pedigree, you are still young. Why, just think of what would happen if the lower-classes thought they could subvert the law?”

“What about Lord Toffingbury?” Edmund asked. He was scandal-free thanks to a judge’s discretion, after all.

“An entirely different matter, my boy. The law isn’t for people like us, dear me, no.”

“Because we’re rich?”

“The issue isn’t that they’re poor, the issue is that they’re useful. Consider thieves, murderers, and vandals…they do harm, yes, they frighten people, and threaten the functioning of society; but these are perfectly acceptable crimes. They give the police something to do, and seeing such people apprehended soothes the lower-classes and convinces them that we live in a safe and orderly society.”

“I thought we did live in a safe and orderly society.”

“Of course we do, but with the lower-classes, you have to show them. Reassure them. Put on a bit of a morality play now and then. The lower classes are simply not suited to just accepting the truth of things without evidence.”

Edmund thought about this for a moment. What a self-evidently horrible way to live!

“Now as for being useful…well, being useful is all well and good — vital, in fact, for a healthy city — but to be useful and unlawful? Well, that’s simply not done. Could you imagine a smuggler operating a respectable trade? Why, someone might patronize the business. People might come to want it. Then think what might happen if the police then arrested the smuggler? Would people applaud and turn out in droves to watch the hanging, as they do with thieves and murderers? No, dear boy, the Law simply isn’t equipped for dealing with criminals that might be useful.”

Dashington heaved a great sigh. “I’m afraid it would be a terrible scandal. One that I’m not certain the Teapot Coterie would be interested in weathering.” He gave a quick smile. “Just a word of caution, old chap.”

“What can I do?” Edmund asked as Lord Dashington walked back to the doors where the coy face of Lady Pinfort peeked out.

“You are a genius, aren’t you?” Lord Dashington called back with a wave. “I’m certain you will think of something.”

---

Lord Dashington’s words echoed in Edmund’s ears long after the doors had closed behind the tall elegant man, nearly catching his coat-tails. They stuck with him during the cab ride back to Grimm’s, and all the way back to his room.

They stuck with him until the next morning and he read the notes he had written to himself in the night.

What he had written in his slumber was a chess move.

He stared for a moment in confusion. The chess game he was playing with Junapa by mail was progressing as he had planned, but this move…it was nonsense. It would have ruined his entire late-game strategy, and opened him wide for retaliation from Junapa’s king-side rook.

Why had he thought of this move? It had something to do with the Teapots, he knew,⁶ but what?

He blinked. Was the move representing the Teapots?

At first he didn’t believe it. The Teapot Coterie had been nothing but polite and helpful to Edmund. Through them, he had saved the Moulde Family. What danger could they possibly represent? They were delighted with him. They weren’t even asking anything in return, really, just…

In Edmund’s mind, the memory of Junapa’s eyebrow rose like an ascending guillotine blade.

Ah.

Edmund’s heart sank into his stomach, the weight of his family settling back into its comfortable spot on his shoulders, heavier than any corpse could have been.

He had been a fool.

---

“You’re awfully quiet,” Leeta muttered.

“I’m sorry?” Edmund looked up from the frozen earth.

“Don’t be,” her smile was audible from behind her leather mask. “I was enjoying it.”

For all the silence from Edmund’s mouth, his mind was a discordant symphony of thoughts, emotions, and recriminations.

The pain wasn’t from his being used. Edmund was used to such things. It was why he had been adopted in the first place, after all; he hadn’t become a Moulde because it was the natural metamorphosis of an orphan to a member of Society.

No, what hurt Edmund the most, in the pit of his stomach, was the stark reminder of his own naivete. Somehow, in the swirling maelstrom of fine food and wine, he had lied to himself. He believed in a foolish dream, that the Teapot Coterie was family.

They were not. He had only one family; it was a very exclusive one, and they had expectations.

How had he not seen it? The self-satisfied smiles, the smug superior sentiments; the Teapot Coterie was not high society — not like the Founding Families. They were pretenders. Aspirants. Hopefuls. They thought high society was gossip and parties. They put all their stock in propriety and image. Edmund had been an amusement for them, much as Miss Pinfort had been. With no more than an acceptance letter into Grimm’s, they had accepted Edmund as a genius and would continue to do so as long as he avoided scandal.

The Founding Families were not so lenient.

The crushing weight of expectation was familiar on his shoulders, as heavy as it lay. He had not saved his family yet, and as Heir to the Moulde Family, he had a duty to not only return respect and glory to the name, but to uphold the promise such a name bestowed; a promise of great purpose and dignity.

“You seem sad,” Leeta’s voice drifted from the deepening hole.

Sad!

If Edmund were capable of blushing, he would have at the suggestion. A mere three letters devoted to encompassing the profound ache and hollow emptiness that pervaded his chest. He was anguished. Dejected, depressed, heavyhearted, lamentable, miserable, and morose. He was sickened. Woebegone. Wretched. Grieving. Grave. The words swirled around his head like vultures, each with their own bitter and foul flavors, resonances, undertones, and connotations. Sad! He was ashamed he even knew the word.

“I’m not,” was all he said. It wasn’t Leeta’s fault, after all. She wasn’t to know his proclivities and sensitivities.

“Mmm…” Edmund had never heard a clearer shrug in someone’s voice. “Fine then.”

Edmund looked to the left of the stone where Leeta was digging. There, a cloth-wrapped corpse sat where Leeta had rested it against a tree while she worked. She had carried it on her back all the way from the gate. Its face was covered, and he couldn’t discern a single feature.

“What are you writing?” Leeta paused to lean on her shovel.

Edmund glanced up before looking down at his notebook. The page was covered with words.

“Poetry,” he said with uncharacteristic self-consciousness.

“Huh,” Leeta snorted. “Things are that bad, eh?”

While writing poetry was indeed one of the many ways Edmund had learned to examine and manage his emotions, he couldn’t shake the idea that Leeta was laughing at him.

“It’s not funny,” he snapped. “It is bad. Things couldn’t be worse.” He had done so many things wrong.

“Sure they could,” Leeta laughed.

“I broke my promise,” he blurted out. “To you. I promised I’d never tell anyone about you, and I did. I’m sorry.”

Leeta tensed. “Who did you tell?”

“The Teapot Coterie,” Edmund mumbled.

“Really?” Leeta turned to Edmund, her head cocked. “You talked with the fops? How’d they let you in?”

“I’m a Moulde.”

“Ah, so you said.” She turned back to the hole, gripping her spade in a manner that Edmund figured was hardly conducive to easy shoveling. “You tell them my name?”

“No,” Edmund answered after thinking back over the evening. “Just that I had met you and…you weren’t a bad person.”

“Ha!” Leeta shook her head and adjusted her grip before continuing to dig. “Fooled you that well, have I?”

Edmund stared at her back as the dirt continued to fly. Desperate to quiet the melancholy surging in his gut, he pressed further. “Why do you do it? Dig up dead bodies?”

“Got my reasons.”

“You know it’s against the law?” Edmund asked.

“I been locked up six times for it.”

Edmund opened and closed his mouth again. While he had been fortunate enough to never be arrested, much less convicted, Edmund was a Moulde, and that meant he had a firm understanding of all the ins and outs of the criminal system. One of its institutional pillars was prison and its efficacy as a deterrent. Ideally, once you had been locked up, you wouldn’t commit crimes again. Edmund had never been presented with the idea that it might not work the first time, much less six.

“Isn’t what you’re doing wrong?” He hadn’t meant to make it a question, but several certainties were starting to slip away from him.

“Lots of things are against the law,” Leeta sniffed. “Doesn’t mean they’re wrong. Come to that, a lot of things are wrong that aren’t against the law.”

Edmund had read several Law books that commented on this strange world-view, and debunked the particulars with long-winded and complicated logical syllogisms. At the same time, standing on the damp earth watching Leeta dig up a buried body made Logic seem insufficient.

“They want you to stop.” It was an uncomfortable thing for him to say. “They say selling dead bodies is improper.”

“Ha! You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. The toffs, the police, the Downstreeters…No one wants me to do what I’m doing, ‘cept me.”

“I don’t mind that you do it.”

“Well doesn’t that make it worthwhile.”

Edmund was about to answer when he recognized her tone as rhetorical. “Lord Dashington says the law has to stop you, because you’re useful.”

Leeta laughed, a brash and fulsome sound that grabbed the graveyard by the throat and sent the shadows scurrying for cover. “I’m useful? A Lord said that? I’d shake his hand if I didn’t spit in his face first.”

There was a pause as Edmund withdrew back into melancholy. His attempts at fighting the unpleasantness had so far proven ineffective.

It was Leeta who broke the silence next. “Well, well. You go to Grimm’s, you talk with Lords and fops…sounds like you’ve got the life.”

Edmund nodded slowly. It did sound like he had it all, didn’t it?

“I was supposed to save my family.”

“Save them from what?”

Edmund paused. How could he explain it to someone who had never lived the life of the upper-class? How could he describe the net of social and emotional manipulation that tied the many families of Britannia together? How could he show her how his very life was a cog in a giant and intricate machine?

“Themselves, mostly,” he said at last.

“Ha!” Leeta lifted her mask from her face, her smile glimmering in the moonlight. “Take it from me, no one will ever thank you for that.”

No, they never would have, but that had never been the point. “I was supposed to make them better. The Moulde Family isn’t as well thought of as the other Founding Families of Brackenburg; we’re seen as criminals and has-beens, mostly. I’m trying to make something respectable of my family.”

“Ah,” Leeta gave a slow nod. “Respectable.”

“It’s important!” Edmund had heard the derisive tone in Leeta’s voice. “Without respect, the Mouldes have nothing!”

Leeta stared at Edmund for a moment, something he had wished she would do ever since he had met her, but after only a few moments Edmund desperately wished she would look away.

Finally she did, replacing her mask and returning to her digging. “I’ve had nothing before,” she said. “What you have is not nothing.”

For a quarter hour, the only sound was the distant warble of the night-birds of Mothburn, and the steel spade cutting into the earth. Finally, Leeta heaved a sigh and waved her leather glove in Edmund’s direction.

“Well go on. How were you going to get respect for your family, then?”

Edmund shrugged. “I needed to be a genius.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“Or at least seem like one. If do something that only a genius could do, then they’d all think I was a genius.”

“Ah,” Leeta gave a slow nod. “And being a genius will save your family, eh?”

Edmund shook his head. He thought he had been perfectly clear. “No, it will save me.”

Leeta cocked her head. “Come again?”

“I did something big when I was young,” Edmund shifted his weight on the gravestone where he sat. “Very big. Bigger than any Moulde, or even a Founding Family member had done in years. And now…”

“Now they expect you to be a genius,” Leeta finished. “And if you aren’t, they’ll be disappointed.” She took a deep breath. “I know how dangerous disappointment can be.”

Edmund nodded. “I need to keep up appearances. I need to give the Founding Families what they expect, until I can figure out exactly how to fix everything and get the Moulde Family the respect they deserve.”

“Do they? Deserve it?”

Edmund balked, and fell back on a half-truth. “No one deserves it more.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “I thought the Teapots could help me,” he muttered. “It didn’t work.”

“It’ll never change,” Leeta grumbled. “None of the toffs nor the gutter-folk’ll ever change.”

The topic thus closed, Edmund searched for something else to say.

When he failed, he decided to simply sit and watch as Leeta dug deeper and deeper. It was up to her stomach, now.

He watched Leeta dig the hole for a full ten more minutes before he spoke again.

“Leeta, may I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Why are you digging a hole when you already have a body?”

Leeta glanced at the body where it lay next to the gravestone.

“That one? I’m putting it back.”

“Oh.”

Edmund watched for another two minutes.

“Leeta, why are you putting the body back?”

“I’ve finished with it, haven’t I?”

Edmund nodded to himself as the hole widened, and deepened, and darkened. Off in the distance, a night bird called its hunting cry.

“Leeta…”

Edmund shifted his weight. “Leeta, what exactly do you do with the bodies you dig up?”

Her jaw muscles twisted as she grinned behind her raven mask.

“I take them to my lab.”

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