Grimm's School for the Erratically Gifted: Chapter 13

When Fairly Carver opened his door, his face was already set into a harsh frown. “Bloody hell, it’s late, isn’t it.” His irritated face peered at Edmund. “Got nothing better to do than go around and ruin other people’s sleep, do you?”

“I need your help,” Edmund admitted. “Again.”

“Oh you do, do you?” Fairly yawned. “Going to try and blackmail me again, are you? Well, I don’t very well give a toss, do I. You can push off, can’t you. School’s closing next year, isn’t it. Word’s spread all over the school, hasn’t it. Not a damn thing they can do to me now, is there.”

It was true, Edmund’s previous blackmail material had outlived its usefulness; but Edmund was a Moulde, and he never started a conversation without some form of leverage.

“I know about you and Leeta,” he said.

Fairly blinked. “And I’m supposed to know who that is, am I?”

“The Raven Resurrectionist,” Edmund clarified. “I know everything that you and she are doing, with the bodies and the autopsies.”

“Oh, it’s a girl, is it?” Fairly cocked an eyebrow. “Huh. And she went and told you about us, did she. Didn’t even think to ask me if I thought it was a good idea, did she.”

“I worked out most of it by myself,” Edmund fibbed. “Grave-digging is against the law, and if I tell the police you won’t get kicked out of Grimm’s, you’ll be put in prison.”

Fairly grimaced. “Oh, think we aren’t lawful, do you? Helped put twelve murderers, thieves, and butchers behind bars, and all without a lick of credit, haven’t we. But that’s not lawful enough for mister high-and-mighty-Moulde, is it.”

Edmund was becoming far more adept at recognizing patterns, and as such felt the best thing to do was keep silent. Everything he was saying served only to inflame Fairly’s passions all the further.

Instead, he waited while Fairly breathed his frustration in short sharp snorts, glaring at Edmund from behind his door.

“Well, you going to tell me what you need then, are you?”

Edmund took a deep breath. “We need to steal Professor Babbages’ corpse.”

Fairly stared for a moment, and then burst out laughing. Edmund didn’t understand the joke, so he pressed onward. “His body is in Whiskfield’s lab right now. She couldn’t perform the autopsy, and I think I know why. We need to get Babbages’ body to Leeta, and then you both can perform an autopsy together.”

“We do, do we? You going to tell me why we’d do that, won’t you?”

“Because I’m certain that Babbages was killed by the Ripper.”

Fairly’s mouth gaped, and then closed shut with the resolve of an impassioned scientist. “Well? Going to tell me what on earth makes you think that, aren’t you?”

“The wound looked the same as the other victims’.”

Fairly snorted. “Looked the same, did it? Trusted your eyes and your memory, did you? Didn’t measure it, or compare coloring, or do any of the hundred things you have to do before being reasonably certain, did you?”

Edmund hadn’t done any of these things. In fact, the singular most defining characteristic of the Ripper — the butchering of the corpse — had been absent from Babbages’ demise. To have concluded the Ripper responsible for Babbages’ death was clearly little more than a desperate attempt for Edmund to justify his dragging the corpse across town to the one person who could provide some explanation for his death.

Of course, Edmund wasn’t going to admit that, least of all to himself. “I’m certain,” he said.

“And I suppose you think I should just trust you, don’t you,” Fairly shook his head. “Think that old Fairly’s fool enough to do whatever you tell him to, do you.”

“You can see the wound for yourself.” When it was clear this wasn’t incentive enough, Edmund decided to resort to bribery. “I’ll owe you a favor.” The offer had been quite effective in the past. It had secured the aid and loyalties of his family when he needed them most. The offer of a favor had become Edmund’s secret-weapon, a tool that could provide for him in times of distress.

Edmund could tell it was working. The confusion on Fairly’s face was clearly due to never suspecting Edmund would give such a generous offer. The shake of his head was in pure amazement at his own good fortune. The snickering and roll of the eyes were —

“Think a favor means anything to me, do you? Suppose I’m just another toff, do you.” Fairly stared Edmund full in the face, anger now seasoned with old pain. “You’re the only Heir to the Moulde Estate, aren’t you. You haven’t got a brother or a sister to your name, do you. I have seven older brothers and sisters, don’t I. You don’t know what it’s like to have your Duke and Duchess parents walk down the line, getting more and more dismissive and scornful until they reach the bottom of the stack, do you.”

Edmund had never met a “youngest son” before, and it was an unfortunate time for him to do so. He was in a hurry and didn’t have time to find the proper levers to pull. He opted instead for random guessing, chipping away at his options like a sculptor.

“You’re a Carver,” Edmund reminded him, as his natural Moulde-ness began to assert itself. “You have your family’s name to care for. If someone found out what you are doing…” He let the sentence hang like a thief from a gibbet.

“Oh aye?” Fairly snorted. “Think I give a toss about my family, do you? Them and their family name can go rot, can’t they.”

It was a sentiment that was perfectly alien to Edmund. He had met many people whose family names meant little to them, but only because they had found purchase in a superior one. To openly revile your family name while still wearing it felt…awkward.

“What about the rules?” Edmund asked, poking at Fairly the way a hungry man pokes at a clam.

“The rules ain’t worth a toss, are they.”

“It isn’t exactly doctor’s work, carving up dead bodies.”

“Well, that all depends on what you’re trying to learn, doesn’t it. Already learned how to patch up a deep knife wound, haven’t I. I could save anyone’s life if I get to them before they bleed to death from blade to the gut, couldn’t I.”

Edmund opened his mouth, reconsidered, closed it, and then held out his hand to Fairly. “Then you are a better doctor than me, and I need your help.”

Fairly stared at Edmund’s hand, then his own like an artist inspecting his brushes.

“Mebmum!”

Shocked at the sudden shout from the other end of the hall, Edmund turned to see Victrola bounding out of the darkness at him. She cocked her head at him when she drew near.

“What are you doing up?”

“What are you doing up?” Edmund asked.

“I’m sneaking back to my room after saying goodnight to Hubert after we vanquished the Porous Lizard of the Mushroom Grotto,” Victrola sniffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Now, what are you doing out of bed? You’re supposed to be the smart one who follows all the rules. And why are you holding your hand out like that?”

Edmund was about to reply when he remembered his manners. “This is —” he stopped. The door had closed, Fairly had vanished.

“This is what?” Victrola asked, glancing around. “Not the best time? Are you running from something or have to get somewhere fast but you can’t tell me about it so you make fumbled attempts to suggest we talk later while I misunderstand and keep you talking when you really should be running?”

“Yes.” Edmund said. “That’s exactly what this is.”

“I knew you were having your own adventure! I must say I’m very disappointed.” Then she gave a sigh. “Well, I suppose as long as the class work keeps getting finished, it’s okay if you have one adventure all your own. Just make sure you don’t get in trouble for it, or I shall have to find a new smart friend.”

Edmund watched as Victrola hopped away into the darkness of Grimm’s. When he turned back, Fairly’s door was open again.

“Girlfriend, is it?”

“No.” Something churned in his stomach at the suggestion. “We should get going.”

“Aye,” Fairly’s smirk glinted in the dim light before he reached out to grip Edmund’s re-offered hand. “We should, shouldn’t we. Got to get dressed, don’t I.” His door slammed with similar finality, and Edmund was left in the darkened hallway to wait.

He didn’t have to wait long; Fairly pulled open his door after only a few moments and brushed past Edmund towards Professor Whiskfield’s lab. Edmund had to pick up his feet to keep up with Fairly’s bracing stride.

The poet in Edmund appreciated the walk back through Grimm’s. The last time he had walked with Fairly, they had been leaving the kitchens, with Fairly leading the way to Whiskfield’s lab, and Edmund with a body on his back. Because of that night, Edmund found himself knocking on Fairly’s door weeks later so he could find Leeta.

Tonight, Edmund had knocked on Fairly’s door, and now they were walking towards the lab to fetch a cadaver and bring it through the kitchens to the graveyard and give it to Leeta.

The symmetry was appealing.

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There is nothing more frustrating than a simple obstacle that cannot be overcome after far worse obstacles have been surpassed.

Edmund knew this, because the journey from Grimm’s to the graveyard had been a difficult journey. Carrying Babbages’ body between them, Edmund and Fairly had struggled to remain in the shadows, hiding from the few night-patrolmen and the bands of street-urchins who really ruled the streets at night. Nevertheless, they had managed, and now stood in front of the gate to the Carver Mausoleum.

“Well, going to open it, are you?”

Edmund stared at the locked gate. “Leeta has your key,” he said. When he had realized the gate was locked, his hand had fished into his pocket for his bent-key.

It was reflex, born of instinct and forgetfulness. When he found nothing but empty space, the sound of the snapping bent-key echoed in his memory, next to the soft clatter of a useless silver pin tossed over his shoulder.

“Don’t have all bloody night, do I,” Fairly muttered.

Edmund had thwarted adults three times his age, beguiled heads of the most powerful families in Brackenburg, and had learned enough to be considered an expert in at least thirty-seven separate disciplines of science; but in this instant, he was as helpless as he had ever been, all for want of a piece of bent metal.

He turned around and leaned against the gate, the metal lock rattling in its housing. “We’ll have to wait for her to come back.”

“We’ll have to wait, will we?” Fairly pulled a sneer across his face. “Got your Babbages here, didn’t I? Don’t need to hang around to catch my death, do I. I’m going back to my room to get some sleep again, aren’t I.”

It is here that Edmund became suddenly grateful for his diverse and widespread education, as he was not only educated in science, engineering, and mathematics, but also in the arts and literatures. He was grateful because it was largely through his poetic and lyrical education that gave him a strong understanding of context.

Context is paramount to the art of the poet, as it allows the exact same word, phrase, or choice of imagery to convey vastly different pieces of information. For example, an errant cough in a quiet sitting room is little more than background, texture to an otherwise placid tableau. In a crowded theatre, on the other hand, a cough is a direct offense, an assault on proper and forthright gentlemen and ladies everywhere.

In a graveyard, when no one else is around and a friend of yours is missing, a cough is an alarum more distressing than a foghorn.

“Here, wait up, won’t you!”

Edmund was not interested in obeying Fairly’s interrogative exclamation and instead devoted his efforts to running through the graveyard’s headstones and statuary as he desperately sought the source of the weak cough.

Moments later, he reached the limp body of Leeta, propped against a headstone. Her face was beaten, her arms and legs bruised and abrased. Her leather outfit was torn and crumpled, her plague-mask crushed from a well placed boot. Her breathing was strong, if labored, and when Edmund knelt down next to her, she opened one puffy eye.

“She’s conscious,” Edmund said as Fairly caught up, panting. “She’s been beaten.”

“Can bloody see that, can’t I.” Fairly rested an arm on Leeta’s hand, his voice soft. “Going to have to stand, aren’t you.”

“There’s a sarcophagus in the tomb,” Edmund tugged at Leeta’s arm, as she pulled back in pain. “We can lay her down there.”

“Bloody know my own family’s tomb, don’t I,” Fairly snapped, gently helping Leeta to stand. “Use my shoulder, won’t you.”

Edmund ran ahead, only to turn back and ask Leeta for the key. After taking it from her weak grasp, he returned to the mausoleum and opened the way.

Context is not only useful for divining the location of beaten friends; it also changes entire rooms. When Edmund had first seen Leeta’s lab, it had been full of wonders and marvels. Now, all Edmund saw was clutter that stood in the way of treating Leeta’s wounds.

Working quickly, he stacked, moved, organized, and shoved everything he could out of the way, cleaning a space for Leeta. By the time Edmund had cleared the sarcophagus of papers and equipment, Fairly had helped Leeta down the stairs and onto the thick marble slab. Leeta was barely able to keep herself upright; her head hung low, her eyes tight.

“Bastard,’ she muttered, as Fairly began to inspect her wounds.

“Don’t even know me yet, do you,” he smirked.

“Not you, Snagsby. He came with —” Leeta began before she saw Fairly’s face. She groaned and lay back on the slab. “Not the best first impression, is it?”

“You’re alive, aren’t you,” Fairly shrugged. “Better than most people I meet, isn’t it.”

Edmund watched as Fairly began to inspect his patient. His smooth fingers began to trace her limbs and side, gently brushing the dark spots on her skin where color was already starting to pool. “You’ve never met before?”

“Of course not,” Leeta said, lifting her head before Fairly gently pushed it down again. “Well, once.”

“Last year, I came to the graveyard to dig up a body, didn’t I. She pops up from behind a headstone and clobbers me over the head, doesn’t she.”

“We struck our deal after he woke up,” Leeta said. “He handed me the key then and there.”

“Still had your mask on, didn’t you,” Fairly looked into one of Leeta’s eyes, then the other, before carefully feeling around her bruised face. “Hmm. Got to wash these cuts, don’t I,” he muttered. “Got any water, do you?”

Leeta gestured to the corner where Edmund was already fetching the large wooden bucket. “Collected using Leeta’s variation on the Bettermen process,” he explained as he set it down next to Fairly.

“Dew, is it?” Fairly snorted as he grabbed a rag from atop a nearby coffin. “Well, that’ll have to do, won’t it. This may sting, mightn’t it.”

Edmund’s mind clicked into gear. It might sting! He had gone to all the trouble of creating a pain-scale, and now would be the perfect time for a real-world medical trial. Once he connected a specific pain to a specific wound, entire medical diagnoses could be made based purely on what hurt and how much. Doctors could be a thing of the past, as injured or sick people could simply open a book, find their listed pain, and diagnose themselves.

Edmund pulled out his notebook and a pen. With Fairly currently focused on Leeta’s torso and arms, Edmund studied Leeta’s lower extremities, all while dimly aware of the conversation that was occurring over his head.

“Telling random boys about our operation, are you? Think things could just be a bit harder on you, do you?”

“He found me, and he’s harmless enough. He never speaks to anyone, and no one ever notices him…besides, I’m leaving soon. It didn’t matter who knew.”

After studying each wound and bruise with a careful eye, Edmund made his selection and extended a single finger.

“How does this feel?” Edmund asked, gently pushing.

“Bloody hurts,” Leeta hissed through clenched teeth.

“Yes, but —” Edmund paused. How could he properly assess the amount of pain she was feeling? He had created his scale, but it had been based entirely on his subjective experience. He thought quickly. “On a scale from one to ten, how painful?”

“One to ten? What are you bloody on about?”

“One being barely there, ten being the worst pain you’ve ever experienced.”

Leeta stared at Edmund for a moment with her good eye, before slowly opening her cracked lips. “No, this is nothing like the worst pain I’ve ever had.”

Edmund immediately recognized the flaw in his scale. Numbers were objective, but they were still measuring a subjective experience. Perhaps another subjective measure would be better? He began to write.

“Leaving, are you?” Fairly resumed. “Going to tell me, were you?”

“I just did,” Leeta winced as Fairly pressed the rag to the sharp gash on her arm. “The Ripper is making things difficult. People are paying more attention. Better to pick up and move on.”

“Not thinking of me, were you.”

“No, I wasn’t. Might be a bit of a surprise for you, but when my whole life is spent hiding from people who want to hurt me and drag me back to…well, the education of a rich toff wasn’t foremost on my mind.”

“Does this hurt?” Edmund pulled.

“Yes!” Leeta yelped.

“Not bloody helping, are you!” Fairly snapped at Edmund as he carefully started to bandage Leeta’s shoulder.

“That pain,” Edmund said, posing his pen to write, “what would you sacrifice to make the pain stop?”

“What?”

“Money? A limb? Use of the lab?”

“Nothing,” Leeta hissed. “I’m not giving up anything. I’ve felt pain before, plenty of times, and it never lasts.” She lay back, her breathing easier. “At least, not as long as what I got in return.”

Edmund frowned. Again, that was not helpful. Perhaps he could coach her into using the scale he had created? He only hoped she was as much of a poet as he was.

“Think I’m just a fop, do you,” Fairly’s voice was quiet. “All I’ve done for you, all I’ve given you from the school, and I’m still just another toff, am I.”

“From where I work, everyone in that building is.” Leeta sucked in her breath. “You call it a school, I call it a vault. A bank for the rich to horde their discoveries.”

“I haven’t been hording, have I!” Fairly snapped. “Given you hundreds of papers, haven’t I. And you’ve been doing something with them, have you? Not just stashing them in all these coffins, are you?”

“No! I’ve been giving them back to the people, where they belong! I designed the machine Johnstone built for his shop, and I helped fix the thresher out at the Livingbird’s farm. The sewers use magnets now, thanks to me, and all of Widdlins Street has good solid boots because of that cheap hardening process I got last month. What have you been doing, then? Laughing about Productionist theories¹ with your mates over brandy?”

“What does this feel like?” Edmund poked. “Is it sharp? Burning? Dull and diffuse?”

“Feels like I’ve been kicked,” Leeta moaned.

There, Edmund scribbled in his book. Now he was getting somewhere. It wasn’t particularly far, granted — there were at least seven different types of been-kicked pain he had discovered so far — but he could improve on it.

“Didn’t mean to offend, did I,” Fairly said, after a pause.

“What are you doing?” Leeta asked, her voice softer. “With all the bodies I give you? Study them for what?”

Fairly took a deep breath. “The Carvers are rich, aren’t they. Barely got a name and reputation, and they expected all their children to improve it, didn’t they. Mother even got a book about proper progeny, and my brothers and sisters all followed it to the letter, didn’t they: first child goes to soirees, second goes to school, third marries for money, fourth goes to the Church, and…and by the time they got to me…everything had been done, hadn’t it. Nothing for me to do except sit around and do nothing, unless I ruined what all my siblings had done, was there. Only I wasn’t going to let them decide I was worthless for me, was I.”

Edmund crossed out the line he had just written. Fairly’s emotional revelation was making it very difficult to do science.

“So I gave it up, didn’t I. I was going to get an education, and then I was going to use it to keep the poor and the worthless alive, wasn’t I. That’d show them, wouldn’t it. I was going to take their money, learn how to be a doctor, and spend the rest of my days healing the poor, living with the lower-classes, and proving to them that the name doesn’t mean nothing compared to what you do with it, wasn’t I.” He paused, and then laughed. “Thought you were just digging up bodies to sell, didn’t I. You’ve discovered more than I have, haven’t you? Tell me what drove you to this, won’t you?”

“Secrets,” she muttered after a long pause. “Before I came to Mothburn, I had to run away from…well, while I was hiding, I found out…you have to find secrets from the shadows, when no one is looking at you. Secrets are everywhere, and no one’s trying to bring them to light. Oh, spies and politicals, sure, and even some of the papers, but no one wants to look very hard. Not when the secrets might lead to…” She sighed. “That’s my code. Whether gold, bodies, or secrets; nothing is going to stay buried. I’m going to see to that.”

“Does this still hurt?” Edmund asked.

“Yes!”

“What sound is the pain making?”

“Bloody hell, you’re a right pain in the arse, aren’t you!”

Edmund looked up from his notebook. “I’m developing a theory of pain that I think —”

“I don’t bloody care, do I!” Fairly picked Edmund up and shoved him towards the stairs. “Going to bloody leave us alone for two minutes while I finish patching her up, won’t you!”

Edmund had just reached the bottom step when he remembered his whole purpose in bringing Fairly to the mausoleum. “Babbages’ body is still outside, and it needs autopsying —”

“Out!”

Edmund looked to Leeta. Surely she would understand how important it was to —

Edmund looked back at Fairly. He looked back at Leeta.

In his years since the orphanage, Edmund had gotten much better at understanding the looks people gave each other. He had always recognized expressions; he could chart the movement of facial muscles and could list no less than fifty separate expressions, but he had always had trouble reading what was behind the looks.

He saw the look Leeta was giving Fairly. He saw the look Fairly was giving Leeta.

He turned, and he left.

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Edmund’s upper torso hurt as he slipped through the streets of Mothburn to the secret passageway back into Grimm’s. Ducking between shadows and hiding in alleyways had become reflexive for him. He didn’t need to think before slipping behind a crate and waiting for three minutes, long enough for a staggering drunk to pass him by, before sliding back out and continuing on his way.

He was so practiced, in fact, that he could focus all of his attention on the pain in his chest.

Having read all the latest books on cardiovascular medicine, Edmund knew no less than twenty-five separate diseases and conditions that could cause the heart to throb in agony. After developing his meter of pain, he was confident he could even improve the list, correctly ascribing different levels and types of pain to different causes.

But no, he hadn’t been allowed to finish his studying of Leeta. Fairly decided that it was more important that he run his fingers up and down Leeta’s…

Edmund climbed up a stack of barrels and clamored over the short roof of a closed butcher-shop. He waited, huddled next to the chimney for a moment before sliding down the other side.

He wasn’t jealous, he knew that. He didn’t want to change places with Fairly — he was Edmund Moulde. He didn’t even want Leeta to look at him the way she looked at Fairly. He didn’t want her to look at anyone like that.

Why should she? Edmund would never look at anyone like that. He didn’t know how.

Had he wanted to learn how? Did he think she could have showed him?

It is a well documented fact — in severe cases of young love and, conversely, young heartbreak — that the only cure is extended hours indulging in elegant melancholy, preferably paired with the writing and reciting of emotive poetry. Less has been written, however, on what on this occasion turned out to be an equally effective balm to Edmund’s pain: sudden and foul murder.

Edmund was about to slip from his hiding-place between two box-crates in the alley behind an old tavern, when an equally stealthy and shadowy figure darted through an alleyway almost in front of his nose.

Edmund, for his part, was so wrapped up in his own pains that he almost decided to let this figure alone; but for all his youthful sentimentality, his curiosity had blossomed much earlier and had spent the intervening years tempering in his soul. It was only a moment before Edmund was able to shake himself free from his melancholia and focus instead on this new subject.

With the care and focus of a hunter, Edmund leaned out from his hiding-place in time to see the figure dark down a quiet street, long cloak billowing behind it and hood up to cover its face.

Such indicative clothing was all Edmund needed; as a toque blanche marked a chef, or a leather apron a butcher, so was this cloak proper uniform for a stalker of the night. The shadow was the Mothburn Ripper. It didn’t matter that the figure was less darting from shadow to shadow and more hobbling like a pantomime clown. The streets at midnight were no place for clowns, they were the place for murderers.

Eager anticipation building in his chest, Edmund left his hiding place and followed the unobtrusive figure up and down the backstreets of Mothburn.

The figure was clearly looking for something. It paused at every alley, poking its head behind the crates and nooks that dotted the streets. If it was the Ripper, Edmund decided, it was one without a clear motivation or ambition.

Before long, however, the figure drew up short at the entry to a small alleyway not ten city blocks from the Town Hall. Instantly, its furtive and timid nature vanished, replaced with purpose and focus as it entered the alley.

This was it. In mere moments, Edmund would hear the tell-tale sounds of a shriek cut off by the sudden application of a black leather glove.²

Seconds passed and there was no sound. Curious as to what could be taking so long, Edmund poked his head around the corner. The figure was bent over something on the ground. A body, by the look of things.

Edmund knew he was supposed to gasp, or faint, or run, or do any number of proper behaviors when witnessing a crime, but as there was no one else around, he decided to remain silent and watch. That the Ripper had killed someone so silently and so quickly demanded further observation.

Edmund watched as the Ripper knelt down and began to inspect the body like a botanist might inspect a suddenly spied rare mushroom. As the inspection continued, Edmund began to recognize the cautious movements of a person ignorant. The Ripper was seeing this body for the first time.

Edmund considered: Perhaps the Ripper had been looking around so furtively because it hadn’t known where the body was? Had it simply stumbled on a serendipitous corpse? Was this the first time that had happened?

Were there two monsters stalking Mothburn at night?

The hooded figure reached into the depths of its cloak and withdrew a thick packet of black cloth. After unrolling the cloth on the ground, the figure began lifting the corpse’s limbs and squeezing the muscles. Metal tools appeared and vanished again as measurements were taken, locks of hair were cut, and strange solutions were applied to various parts of the body.

Edmund watched with interest until the figure pulled out a metal scalpel that glinted in the dim light of the alley. Measurement was all well and good, but carving into the body did not suit Edmund, so he stopped the Ripper the only way he knew how.

“Excuse me.”

It was a shame Edmund felt well into his twenties that he spoke before realizing that startling someone while standing between them and the only exit to the alley where they were committing a crime was perhaps not the wisest course of action.

The figure leapt up and launched themselves at Edmund with a frightening burst of energy, metal blade swinging in the darkness. Edmund just managed to duck out of the way as the figure pushed past him and into the shadows of the street.

Edmund considered chasing after for only a second before remembering that running towards a scalpel-wielding criminal was a decidedly foolish way to behave. Besides, there was something far more interesting to pay attention to.

Edmund moved to the body, careful not to touch anything lest incrimination and judicial activism follow. The body was young, pleasantly dressed if not richly so, and covered in the gentle film of dirt that covered all bodies found dead in an alley. Her mouth and eyes were both open in a death-mask of shock. A steadily growing pool of blood leaked from her back.

Edmund stared. He recognized her.

And it is here that the historically adept need no further explanation, as they recognized the name Lady Pinfort as soon as it was mentioned. For it was her, the eccentrically elevated guest of Lord Dashington, who lay dead in the alley. It was her who was given the notoriety as the final victim of the Mothburn Ripper.

It is only thanks to creative insight of dedicated scholars and historians that we now know that her post-mortum autopsy was performed not by the same Ripper, but by Edmund and the Raven Resurrectionist.

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