Grimm's School for the Erratically Gifted: Chapter 19

“Yes,” Lady Tinbottom frowned. “I cannot say it surprises me. Lord Dashington was always very…open, with his boudoir.”

“He hid it from everyone,” Edmund continued, sipping his tea, “by killing anyone he had slept with.”

“How shocking,” Lady Tinbottom closed her fan. “I hope this hasn’t reached the papers yet?”

“No,” Edmund set down his tea. “You are the first person we’ve told.”

“We?”

“Me and the Raven Ressurectionist.”

Lady Tinbottom’s smile froze for a moment before loosening enough to accept a sip of tea. “Am I to take it, that she had something to do with this…unfortunate death?”

“Lord Dashington tried to stop her,” Edmund nodded. “He was terrified she would figure out who was spreading Syphilis, and he’d never get another lover. He killed Professor Babbages, the Bursar of Grimm’s, and tried to make sure they suffered financial ruin. In the end, he tried to kill me.”

“You?”

“I was there at the time,” Edmund shrugged. “A target of opportunity.”

“My!”

Lady Tinbottom set down her tea and resumed fanning herself. Edmund waited patiently while she relished in euphoric delight. Edmund could sympathize. He had felt similarly when he had first tasted the marvelous food at the Teapot Soirees. Now, Lady Tinbottom was filling herself on the cuisine of intrigue.

Finally, she heaved a satisfied sigh. “Well then,” her fan snapped closed. “I will have to write a very concerned letter to the Mayor about —”

“Lady Tinbottom,” Edmund drew a deep breath, “I’m afraid things have gotten much too dramatic for that.”

Lady Tinbottom was, Edmund had to admit, a special breed of gentry. As has been stated before, the upper-class have a practiced ability to not see what is not possible; and something that couldn’t be solved with a concerned letter simply wasn’t possible. That is to say, anyone other than Lady Tinbottom might have simply changed the subject to the weather, offered more tea, or suffered a sudden and temporary deafness. Instead, she pursed her lips and carefully set down her tea.

“Indeed?”

“The rabble in the streets, the Downstreeters, I’m afraid they don’t pay much attention to the Mayor, nor to the Teapots. I gather they think they are the guiding force behind Mothburn.”

“Preposterous!”

“I am quite aware. Nevertheless, I happened to overhear one of them…quite by accident, you understand…openly question the value of the Monarchy.”

“How absurd!” Lady Tinbottom’s fan snapped open like a gunshot.

“I’m afraid they are quite set on their own sort of…revolution.”

It was as if he had cast a magic spell. The veneer of polite and vague interest shattered from Lady Tinbottom’s face, aghast and indistinct rage taking its place. “That is unacceptable. We are quite unprepared for any revolution, especially one started by the lower-classes. They quite simply must be stopped!”

“I agree,” Edmund took a small sip of his tea. “I think someone should sit down with the new Headmaster of Grimm’s, the Downstreeters, and the Resurrectionist Guild, and tell them all exactly what is expected of them.”

“Sit down with?” Lady Tinbottom faltered. “You mean…/invite?/”

“Quite,” Edmund demurred as artfully as any cat. “I’m afraid trying times call upon us in trying ways. In fact, without your influence, Mothburn may be changed irreparably into something…new.”

Lady Tinbottom’s eyes were like steel. “Well, we certainly cannot allow that to happen. I will attend a meeting with Headmaster Lynch. And please make sure that a representative of these Downstreeters is there as well, as I would dearly love to explain a few things to them.”

Edmund gave an appreciative nod.

---

Edmund relaxed his body as the two thick hands that gripped his shoulders hauled him back and forth like a sack of potatoes. It only took a few minutes for them to march from the walls of Grimm’s to the small assembled lean-to where Jolly Snagsby sat, sharpening a knife.

“Well, well, well,” Jolly grinned, struggling to hide a look of confusion as Edmund was dropped in front of him. “What have we —”

“I’ve come to invite you to a meeting,” Edmund interrupted.

“Oh, invite me?” Jolly collected himself. “You hear that, lads? Well, how kind of —”

“I’m in a hurry,” Edmund said. “I need an answer.”

Jolly’s eyes flashed red. Edmund had worried about this particular strategy, but in the end he didn’t have any better options. He knew he might get a beating for his trouble, but he wasn’t afraid of a bruising.

Jolly’s anger abated only slightly. “And why would —”

“Because this can’t go on forever,” Edmund interrupted again.

Like a snake, Jolly’s hand lashed out, striking Edmund hard on the cheek. Edmund turned his head with the blow. It stung, exactly as much as Edmund expected an open palmed strike to the left cheek to sting.

“Ye’ll kindly let me finish my sentences,” Jolly hissed, teeth tight.

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” Edmund said.

Jolly blinked. “Ye’re…what?”

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” Edmund repeated. “That’s why you hit me, yes? Retribution?”

It was a calculated ploy; Edmund had become familiar with the effect his simple descriptions of another’s actions could have.

“What meeting?” Jolly asked after an uncomfortable pause.

“To discuss terms for surrender and apology.”

“We’ll ne’er apologize nor surrender!” Jolly shouted to general agreement from his gang.

“Then you’ll want to tell them that,” Edmund agreed. “But before long someone is going to have to surrender, and apologize, so it might as well happen now before people get seriously hurt.” He shook his head. “Jolly, you’re ten times smarter than I gave you credit for, and that caused me more trouble than I bargained for. If you sit down in a room with the others, I know for a fact you’ll be able to work out a deal that gets you everything you need.”

“Everything we want.” Jolly leaned forward, teeth grit tightly.

“That’s not up to me,” Edmund shrugged.

Jolly stared at Edmund for a moment longer before he leaned back, his eyes thoughtful.

---

“With everyone?” Headmaster Lynch frowned as he stroked his chin. “What would be the point of that?”

“To discuss surrender,” Edmund pointed at the appropriate line on the page. “The letter was explicit.”

“But we have no need to surrender! They have yet to harm a single facet of Education’s grand design!”

“Haven’t they?” Edmund prodded gently.

“No!” The Headmaster spread his hands wide. “Look around you, boy! Grimm’s churns onward like a finely oiled machine. Every aspect of education is covered, explored, catered to with a precision and care found nowhere else in the world!”

“Surely, there is one aspect of learning that is being overlooked?”

“Oh?” The Headmaster cocked an eyebrow. “And what could that possibly be?”

“The lecture,” Edmund noted. “A time when the wise and learned can stand before the ignorant and uneducated, and convey the truths so long bereft from their lives.”

“Ah.” Headmaster Lynch gave a sharp nod. “Ah! Very well! Bring these unlearned and unwashed masses to me, and I will educate them on the vast and vital importance of theory!”

Edmund gave a gentle smile in response.

---

The Peace Talks, as they came to be known after the minutes were released and printed in the Mothburn newspapers, were held in a quiet backroom of the Town Hall. The Mayor was delighted to allow the building to become the location for such a monumental moment in Mothburn History. He was unaware, of course, how drastic a change in history this moment would cause.

In the future, noted scholars would agree that the Peace Talks started the Middling Revolution in the Éire Isle, and indirectly influenced the Scottish Independence Vote of 1892. There are even historians who believe the riots in South Dunkin would never have happened had the minutes of the Peace Talks not been reprinted and shared across Britannia. Indeed, the Willhelmian Era of British History would have ended quite differently, had an agreement not been reached around that small pine table in the Mothburn Town Hall.

As for Edmund, he wasn’t thinking about the Scots, or the laboring class, or even South Dunkin. He was thinking about Mothburn, Grimm’s, and whether or not he had brought enough ink.

The representatives filed in, slowly, and sat down while eyeing each other discerningly. There was no lack of mistrust in the room, and there were far more ways the talks could go wrong then they could go right. Of course, Edmund would have other chances if this one went badly, but none of them could be as perfect of an opportunity as this. This was…

This was it.

Edmund unscrewed the cap from his pen and poised it gently over a clean notebook. He took a deep breath. No one noticed.

“Well,” Lady Tinbottom spread her fan. “I suppose I shall begin.”

Edmund’s pen began to move.

“I think it is wonderful that all of you agreed to meet like this, to try and resolve this unpleasant little situation Mothburn finds itself in.”

“Cut me sideways,” Jolly gaped. “Are ye plannin’ on talkin’ like that the whole meetin’?”

“If you insist on speaking in that horrible mongrel dialect,” Lady Tinbottom narrowed her eyes, “then I shall do everything in my power to maintain a respectable verbal difference between us.”

“Enough with the pleasantries,” Headmaster Lynch cleared his throat. “We are all here because we are the pinnacle of our chosen social strata. Upper-class, lower-class, purveyor of Education, and…” he paused as he glanced at Leeta. “Other. Let us speak plainly, as if we are not equals in social status, at least we are equals among our chosen worlds.”

“Aye? Alright then,” Jolly pointed a finger squarely at the Headmaster’s nose. “By my measure, ye lot have no money, no food, and no support. We’ve got the high ground, an’ no mistake. Be ye willin’ to surrender?”

Headmaster Lynch smiled, “We occupy a high-ground that can never be taken from us. We are Professors, Scientists, Scholars…and some of us are regrettably Students. The very natural order demands our presence, and there is none among you who strong enough to topple that ancient throne.”

Edmund scratched away, his pen flying across the page. He was fairly confident he had enough ink, but he wasn’t positive. If only there was some way to reduce the amount of ink used for each word…In the orient, specifically China, each word was a unique and ornate symbol. Perhaps if Edmund did the same, but with simpler design? Let’s see, what would “Surrender” look like?

“I suppose I shall extend my hand first,” Lady Tinbottom bowed her head in humble supplication. “We of the Teapot Coterie, along with countless other landed-gentry of…less respectable claim, have decided to wholly support Grimm’s School for the Erratically Gifted.”

Jolly clicked his teeth. “Aye? Ye mean to say ye toffs have stuck together? I may die from the shock.”

Lady Tinbottom squirmed ever so slightly in her seat. “Well, I would hardly call the professors of Grimm’s part of the upper-classes…”

“As well you shouldn’t,” Headmaster Lynch sniffed, leaning back in his chair. “We are above such petty and paltry matters as status and politics. Why, if any of my professors were to accept land or title, I’d discharge them on the spot!”

“So why are you supporting them?” Leeta interjected to withering glares from around the table.

Lady Tinbottom recovered first with a brilliant smile and wave of her fan. “Why, it’s so interesting. The strange and marvelous inventions that come out of that building are quite diverting. And then there’s the prestige of having gone to such an old and respected institution. No, I’m afraid that Grimm’s simply cannot close. It is an institution of unparalleled pedigree.”

With the snap of her fan, she took a breath. “That said, there is the unpleasant business regarding your bursar. I’m afraid the lack of such an important position, coupled with this nasty little siege, had shaken the confidence of some of the less dedicated peers of Britannia. Why just the other day I was speaking with the Duke and Duchess of Millborne, and they were wondering if their young Cenesbrough could afford the risk of attending Grimm’s, what with these…demonstrations. I assured them that we, the Teapot Coterie, would take a far more dedicated interest in the school.”

“Oh,” Headmaster Lynch’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “Will you?”

“We would be delighted to supply a new bursar to your faculty — I believe the Baron Geeg of Restinfork has expressed an interest; he is certainly eager for a new hobby — and ensure that no professors or students pass through those gates unless they meet our exacting specifications.”

The Headmaster’s mouth opened and closed before he forced through strained lips; “Which would be?”

“Well, the right sort, of course,” Lady Tinbottom’s smile was as generous as could be. “Proper students of well-born families. We all know some of the more…humble families have their children admitted every once in a while, and there are at least seven professors whose families we don’t even recognize! That will have to change, for a start. And while some students from other countries are perfectly acceptable, others come from frightfully foreign places —”

Like an ancient god rising from a slumbering volcano, Headmaster Lynch stood up from his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles burned white. “You dare!” His deep voice shook the room, an effect that would have been impressive had anyone at the table done more than look on in bemusement. “You presume to demand such insulting concessions from us? When Grimm’s holds the upper hand? When the noose tightens ever tighter around your necks?”

Leeta, Jolly, and Lady Tinbottom all exchanged glances. Edmund turned the page.

What about symbolic placement? Who said letters had to be written left to right? Perhaps it would be faster to use the eight cardinal directions to represent the long and short vowel sounds connecting dipthongs? Let’s see…‘Fool’ would start with ‘f,’ and then an ’l’ right above it. ‘Tucker’ stars with an ‘T’, then a ‘k’ to the lower-left, followed by an ‘r’ to the right…

It was Jolly who spoke up first. “What in hell are ye talkin’ about? Ye’ve been trapped behind yer walls for a week now. I ken for a fact ye have only enough food for another three days, and then where will ye be?”

“Ah,” the Headmaster released the table to spread his arms in profound exposition. “But we have science! The expansion of Professor Linkletter’s Unusual Botanies Laboratory has already begun. He has discovered some fascinating properties of pea-plants that should supply us with all we need to survive your piddling little siege for generations, if need be.”

“How fascinating,” Lady Tinbottom leaned forward. “And while I am most impressed with your ingenuity, that certainly doesn’t sound like anything approaching ’the upper hand.’”

“Aye,” Jolly sneered. “Seems to me yer nay more than a cornered rat, squeakin’ and scratchin’.”

“Do not tempt me,” Headmaster Lynch’s finger pointed like a spear from god. “If our hand is forced, we will break our most sacred of vows. We will break the locks on our vaults of ancient and modern knowledge gathered through the centuries, and we will…/apply/¹ it! Death-rays from Ancient Greece, war-machines of Babylon, exotic war practices of the darkest orient; Even the more recent inventions by our most eccentric professors! You cannot stop us, not all three of you put together. We have more tricks up our sleeves than any street-magician you care to name. We could bury this town in an avalanche of steam and brass; it is only by our beneficent largess that Mothburn is still standing! We could destroy the world if we chose, or save it with technologies beyond understanding!”

Here, the Headmaster choked for a moment on a bit of manic phlegm that flecked his lips, before breathing deeply and descending back into his professorial brand of sanity. “But we do not, because we are wise as well as learned. We’ve existed for centuries, and it will take more than the fears of a few rich dilettantes and a few poor street-urchins to destroy us. Why, in any sensible world, we would rule Mothburn. As Cliffside is the city of commerce, so Mothburn would be a city of science!”

“Oi!” Jolly Snagsby kicked his feet off the table and jabbed his finger in the direction of the smiling professor. “We rule Mothburn! All this fancy talk o’ metal and steam, well, how’d you do any o’ that without strong arms and legs to do all the mucky work ye won’t touch with yer lily-white hands?”

“Professor Fitzgibbous has been doing marvelous work with automation these past —”

“Oh aye? And does this clever-clogs — or any o’ ye — know what happens to the muck from yer chamberpots? How the sewers runs under the city, and where to unstop the grimeballs? Do ye know where yer wine comes from? Yer clean water and fresh soap? We do. We knows Old Hams the butcher, and Granny Haggida the seamstress. We knows all o’ it, and if the Downstreeters decide to tip the streets one way or the other, if we decide we dinna want any more Grimm’s, then there’s nay more Grimm’s!”

“Now there is no need for that,” Lady Tinbottom held up a hand. “I’m certain we can come to an arrangement that benefits everyone. Perhaps some form of…” she winced, struggling to overcome her inborn sense of propriety, “trade schooling?”

“Pah!” the Headmaster spat. “Grimm’s is not in the habit of disseminating such low-born hedge-gossip. We teach theory! We free the mind to higher planes of understanding. We force a transcendence from such menial practicalities! Never mention such heresy in my presence again.” He paused a moment. “At best we could teach a clerkship.”

“Clerkship? Jolly sneered. “Ye’r a fool! Ye want to pluck me off the street and doll me up like a tart? Teach me numbers ’n letters? Aye, and teach me how to speak, too? How to be proper like yer fine selves? An’ after I has an education, I’ll come back to the street to be an educated vagabond, aye? Or perhaps ye’d rather I set up a shop, or a lab, or spend me days doffing me hat at Lords and Ladies, aye? An the street will ha lost another bright young lad until the street’s full of nothing but stupid useless thugs and brutes, ready to be conned by yer fancy words and bright shiny buttons. Well ye can think again, ye scunners; I ain’t letting ye kill off me mates because ye think they don’t deserve someone smart on their side. If ye want to sit tight and cozy in yer granite tower, then keep yer thrice-damned education behind locked doors! I don’t want to see a speck o’ it on my streets!”

“Yes,” The Headmaster slammed his hand on the table. “Yes, that’s precisely correct! That’s exactly what we want! After receiving proper remuneration, we will return to our studies and our teachings with all due speed, ensuring not a single one is seen by any layman.”

“Now let’s not be hasty,” Lady Tinbottom spoke quickly. “Let us not forget how important progress is to Britannia. We need your sciences and educations and the like, just…administered properly. Surely some of your discoveries must leak out to the engineers and merchants who provide us with amusements and comforts.”

“Such as?”

“Well…like the telegraph. A marvelous little invention. Letters used to take weeks to answer, and now they take hours.”

Edmund turned the page. The problem was, there were just too many words, and not many simple symbols. He understood why the Chinese developed such intricate designs for their written language. What about syllables? There were far fewer of those, and they could be combined to make different words. This squiggle could be a ’th’, this angle an ‘ou’…

Lady Tinbottom continued. “Of course the little people mustn’t have their heads filled with useless nonsense, but we can handle it.”

“That sounded like another insult,” Jolly spat.

“Oh do calm down,” Lady Tinbottom’s fan fluttered in the air. “What use is chemistry to your little gang? Or history? No, the education you need is taught to you on the streets, where it’s supposed to be taught. But if you insist on being petulant, I think it’s important to mention; we may not know about the sewers, but we know about mayors, officers of the law, and judges. A few choice words in the ears of a few of our friends could make things very difficult for everyone.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. Edmund could feel the change in the air as the table realized exactly how mutual their strengths were. He could almost hear their thoughts. He had done something similar to his family when he was eight, forcing them to see how powerful they were if they worked together. Of course, this time there would be a twist, but at the moment it was exactly the same.

“I…suppose…” Headmaster Lynch said at last, stroking his chin, “it would befit a benevolent ruler to lead with a soft hand. Since we are going to keep the fruits of our labor secret anyway, there is no need for us to take over Mothburn. As long as we are left alone.”

“Yes, things really have been acceptable until recently. I am sure we all would rather keep things on an even keel, rather than upset the boat unnecessarily.”

“Aye,” Jolly nodded slowly. “We have more important things to do than teach ye all a lesson ye already know.”

“Well, then it’s agreed.” Lady Tinbottom’s fan snapped closed. “Everything can go back to normal, and for our part, we will continue to rule quietly and beneficently from the shadows, while allowing you both to think that you are really in charge.”

“Aye,” Jolly grimaced. “I suppose we can do the same.”

“As will we,” Headmaster Lynch nodded. “Once we receive that apology for the whole mess.”

“Aye,” Jolly slapped the table. “I demand one as well, and we’ll nay give one!”

“Yes,” Lady Tinbottom sighed with regret. “I’m afraid this is our position as well.”

“Then who will apologize?”

For a moment, the table was silent. Then, everyone turned to Leeta.

She met their gazes for a moment. Then; “Oh, you think so, do you?”

“Really,” Lady Tinbottom smiled as she calmly explained, “it is all your fault, when you think about it. If you hadn’t gotten ideas above your station, started prying into things…and the whole sewing-machine debacle was really too far. Why, Lord Fetterwood, who owns several textile factories, was quite distraught.”

“Well doesn’t that make it all worthwhile. No wonder she doesn’t want someone like me educated. I could use chemistry and history in the streets. Just think of all the secrets I could find.”

“You make it sound so oppressive,” Lady Tinbottom sighed. “People need to know their place, my dear. Imagine, living life never being sure that you were where you were supposed to be? Terrified, knowing that the only thing that keeps you safe and secure is luck? Why, a clock that doesn’t keep reliable time is hardly a clock at all. People need to know that when they wake up in the morning, there is a place for them in the great machine that is Britannia. It makes them important. Why, dear Jolly, here; if his little gang were to vanish, why, what would the police do with themselves? How would the lower classes know that they are safe and protected from the criminal element, if there isn’t one? Quite impossible. The entire Empire would collapse!”

“You’re not one of the upper-class,” the Headmaster shrugged, “and certainly not one of our students. You really should behave like a proper street-urchin.”

Leeta sneered. “I’m no Downstreeter.”

“Oh, aye,” Jolly sneered back.² “Ye don’t like that title, do ye? A title hundreds have worn wi’ pride? I’ll call ye a fittin’ title, I’ll call ye what ye are; a traitor to everything the street’s given ye.”

“The street didn’t give me anything. I had to take it.”

“Aye? An who left it there for ye? Ye show up five years ago — aye, don’t think I don’t know about ye — an think ye know the street? Ye never heard o’ Saucy Peter, have ye? Or Killer Bim? Johnny Jack? The Upstreet Brigade? There’a been decades o’ people like me before ye showed up, an the Downstreeters would have nothing if not for them. An now ye show up an say yer better than them? An who are ye to say that?”

“So you want an apology.” Leeta turned to the others. “All of you want an apology from me?”

“It would solve everything,” the Headmaster nodded, stroking his beard.

There was a pause as breaths were held. Edmund turned the page. These symbols could be simpler. Swishes and loops were faster than angles and crosses. The less he lifted the pen, the faster the word was written. Okay, so turn this cross into a loop, this dot to a double-back, or even an arrow…

“Fine.” Leeta said.

The room was silent.

“What is fine?” Edmund prompted. Please, Leeta, please prove me right about you…

“You’ve all made your points,” Leeta said, crossing her arms and nodding with her chin to her chest. “They’re good ones.”

“Of course they are,” Lady Tinbottom blinked, bemused at the ease of Leeta’s capitulation.

“But I don’t care.”

Lady Tinbottom’s smile vanished. “I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t care about any of you.” Leeta looked up. “You all have very good reasons for thinking what you think and feeling what you feel, and I don’t give a god damn wrinkled prune for any of it. You think I haven’t lived a hard life?” Leeta’s quiet voice held the room in its velvet grip. “I have done things that even you, Jolly, would cringe at. I’ve had things done to me that would haunt all of your nightmares. You all have your own little world in your heads, where you’re the benevolent monarchs who know what’s really going on. I can tell you, you haven’t a clue.”

She turned to Lady Tinbottom, whose fan hung limply in shock in her hand. “Is me making my own way destroying your world? Tough shit. My world is more important to me than yours, and I’m not going to risk my future, and the future of my children, just to make you comfortable.”

Her eyes flashed to Jolly’s. “I’m ruining your society? Well if one dedicated and hardworking girl can destroy it, then maybe it wasn’t a very good society to begin with!”

Headmaster Lynch’s smirk fled under the Leeta’s fiery glare. “And you, if you think I’m going to cower from the anger of an institution that hasn’t changed since Queen Eliza the first, than you haven’t been paying attention.”

Leeta uncrossed her arms and stood up. With the purposeful slowness of a judge pronouncing sentence, she leaned forward, resting her knuckles on the table. “Don’t you see what happened here? One person. One girl decided to do something no one else was willing to do, and it almost destroyed you. You started a war just to keep me down, and it didn’t work. And you know what? It might work the next time. And the next. Maybe years will go by before it doesn’t work again, but it’ll happen again. Someone will break through your taciturn facades, and when it happens again, it might not just be one person.”

Her voice dropped low. “The world outside is changing. You can’t stop it. My guess is, in less than five years there will be hundreds of professionals worthy of note in Mothburn. Maybe thousands. We’ll own our own homes. We’ll educate our children. We’ll buy our own food. We’ll clean our own dishes. Not laborers, not nobility, not upper- or lower-class, but middle-class.”

Leeta stood straight, her eyes flickering in the gas-light. “You have an opportunity, here and now, to learn how to deal with us before it’s too late. Sooner or later, the people who aren’t as lazy as you,” she gestured to Lady Tinbottom, “or resigned as you,” Jolly Snagsby, “or narrow-minded as you,” Headmaster Lynch, “are going to find out the only thing keeping them down is tradition. Then, one day, you’ll look around and see there aren’t nearly as many of you as you thought there were. You’ll find yourself in a sea of people like me, the world with have changed, and you won’t have changed with it!”

Leeta took a deep breath, and slowly returned to her seat. Folding her arms like a holy Knight of Labor, Leeta leveled a gaze at the room that could cut steel. “This isn’t a meeting to discuss ante bellum. This is a meeting to discuss your surrender to me.”

---

After that, the meeting ended quickly.

Productively, of course, at least as far as the people sitting around the table thought. They had all been trapped by circumstance. They knew the status quo couldn’t continue; war was bad for business, to say nothing of your health. Everyone had been eager to get back to the business they were good at, and leave the uncomfortable changes to people better suited to handle them. After Leeta had explained things in her naturally brusque manor, the demands and concessions were astonishingly mild.

What was perhaps most significant was the one agreement Edmund had suggested to each of them.³ They had all been certain it was their own idea, so when it was suggested that they return to the table four times a year, to secretly discuss the current state of Mothburn and make sure everything was running smoothly, they had all been delighted to agree.

Edmund, however, was thinking beyond the table. He was thinking about Brackenburg and his family. He thought about Kolb and his insistence that the world was one great stage-play that everyone was performing in. He thought about the Founding Families and the history that lay behind them like a giant stone dam holding back a flood.

Later in his room, Edmund re-read the transcript of the meeting. He was astonished and not a little grateful that the meeting had gone so well, he would have to edit very little before he let history take its course.

Scholars note that this is most likely the origin of the quote commonly attributed to Sir Edmund in his later years: “I do not care what is said in the meeting, as long as I can take the minutes.”⁴ There is great debate among scholars whether the context of this quote is commentary on a specific meeting or meetings as a whole.

“We can’t keep meeting like this.”

Edmund shook himself from his thoughts at the sound of Leeta’s voice. He turned to see the long black beak of Leeta’s uniform pushing out of the shadows into the dim moonlight. He waited patiently while Leeta approached, stuck her shovel in the ground, and sat down next to Edmund on a tombstone. Together, they looked out over the wide graveyard. It was a perfectly melancholy night, the faint mist that covered the ground of every reputable graveyard curling up like dandelions from the grass. Somewhere in the distance, a real raven croaked its indignation.

“You really are leaving, then?” Edmund asked.

“I have to,” Leeta nodded, pulling the leather beak off of her face. “It’s time for me to move on.”

A gentle breeze blew through the dried trees. Edmund looked up at the moon, a bright crescent, almost waned to nothing.

“Why?” Edmund asked. “After everything; the concessions, the laws…I thought with the agreement —”

“I can’t stay in one place for too long,” Leeta shrugged, brushing her shoulder against his. “It’s safer for me —” she paused, and shook her head. “It’s more than that. I don’t even know if they’re looking for me anymore. It’s been almost five years, after all. I don’t know, its a…a migratory thing, I guess. I get uncomfortable.”

Edmund nodded. He understood the feeling. It had been the same thing that had driven him to want to be adopted by Matron Moulde; a desire to get away from the same life he had lived for eight years.

But if there was one thing Edmund had come to understand, one thing he had to accept, it was that Leeta and Edmund weren’t as alike as he had wanted them to be.

“Who are you running from?” he asked.

“I think I’ll head over to Tweed,” Leeta shrugged again, sending a thrill down Edmund’s arm. “Or maybe Glowestcher. I hear there’s good opportunities there for one who knows how to use a shovel.”

“Resurrecting?” Edmund asked. “You aren’t going to give up your forensic science, are you?”

“Not me,” she grinned. “There’s police everywhere, and if they’re anything like Mothburn’s they’ll need a good kick up the bum now and then. Nothing stays buried when I’m around, remember?”

“I do.” Edmund nodded. “Have you thought about setting up in Lockshire?”

“Next to the Yard?” Leeta scoffed. “You must be joking! Only nobs and toffs ever join the Yard. Pfah! They’d nick me for trespassing, or mussing up the street before I knocked on their gate!”

“Maybe. Or maybe they could use a kick up the bum. Or maybe you could head to the Palace.”

“Oh, aye!” Leeta giggled. “Give the crown a bit of a hand? Become a spy for the King? Or spy on his majesty myself, maybe, and find all his little secret hidy-holes?”

Edmund shrugged, rubbing shoulders with Leeta. She giggled a little longer before falling into a thoughtful silence.

“Is Fairly going with you?” Edmund asked after an appropriately considerate length of pause.

“Maybe,” Leeta said, her legs swinging gently against the stone. “He still has his year to finish, but he might come after me. Or…I might not tell him where I’m going.”

Ah.

The howl of a distant wolf drifted overhead. Something leathery swooped over the hill and vanished into the inky night.

“Leeta,” Edmund said. “When we first met…you never answered my question. Why do you do this, if it gets you arrested?”

Leeta thought for a moment, and then pointed at a nearby grave. “You ever seen a dead body without the dignified white-sheet?”

“Yes, many,” Edmund said, thinking of the rows upon rows of skeletons that populated the caverns beneath Moulde Hall, and the far fresher corpse in the ice-house under Grimm’s.

Leeta smirked. “Sure. Of course you have. A regular corpse-sniffer, aren’t you. Could you tell one from another? Which were poor and which were rich? Could you tell which ones ate liver and kidneys, and which got by on bread and sour milk?”

“No.” Not at first, but given enough time, a set of scalpels, and measuring clamps, he was confident he’d be able to make a pretty good guess.

“Take it from me, there’s an easy trick to it. Anyone can do it, you know. All you have to do is look at how they’re buried. See, the rich ones have tombs and mausoleums. They have marble caskets above ground, with statues of angels and skulls. And when you break inside, the coffin is polished oak. They’re wrapped in silk and white linen, and dressed in clean clothing. They’re all buried with something, too. A watch. A hat. A cane. A fan. Something they loved in their life, you see, to carry with them and make them feel ‘comfortable.’”

The word was spat with such vehemence that Edmund was worried she’d fall off the headstone they were sitting on. Her pose was steady, however, and she barely paused to wipe her mouth with the back of her black-leather glove.

“The poor ones,” she continued, “have pine coffins. Dressed in rags, if anything. They might have a cap, but like as not they’re not even wrapped in cloth. Some don’t even have as much as a gravestone. I find those by accident, under another coffin or between two plots.”

“What you don’t do,” Leeta leveled her gaze at Edmund. “What you never do, is try to tell if they’re rich or poor once they’re on the cart. See, after I’ve stripped them of their clothing, their watches, and their gold teeth, I put them on my cart. And then, then, you can’t tell the bleeding difference between a one of them.”

Edmund nodded. It made perfect sense.

“Will I ever see you again?” Edmund finally asked.

“Don’t know. If I ever came back to Brackenburg, how would I find you?”

“You’d ask someone for directions to Moulde Hall,” Edmund shifted. “Actually, they probably won’t tell you. They’ll warn you off if you don’t look rich enough.”

“Huh,” Leeta grunted. “You really became important, didn’t you?”

“I think,” Edmund cocked his head, “I think I was always important. It’s just I didn’t believe it. Or rather, I believed I was important in the wrong way.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s like a lever,” he shrugged, brushing against Leeta’s arm. “The closer the fulcrum is, the harder it is to lift something heavy. If you want the lever to be strong you have to be further away.”

“Don’t get your hands dirty, you mean?”

“No, if the fulcrum is too far away, you lose the control you have when you’re closer. Its a balance, right? Get them dirty, just…you don’t have to show everyone how dirty they are. Like you with the bodies, how you dig down behind the gravestone so no one sees the upturned earth.”

“Right,” Leeta nodded.

“I think I was wrong about wanting to be seen,” he admitted. “I think I was wrong about how I need to be a genius.”

“You don’t?”

“No, I still need to be a genius, but in a different way. I used to think what mattered was if people thought I was a genius, but now I think it’s more important that I be a genius.”

“Take it from me, kid,” Leeta sniffed, “They need to think you’re strong or else they’ll push you around. If they don’t think you’re smart, they’ll try and trick you. Believe me, if you don’t make them think you’re hot stuff, they’ll treat you like shit.”

“They’ll try,” Edmund agreed. “And if they don’t get in my way, I’ll let them do what they like.”

Leeta turned and looked at Edmund for a moment before letting a wide grin spread across her face. “Yeah,” she nodded. “Not bad.”

“I’m sorry I pushed you around, before. I thought being Edmund Moulde meant something.”

“But it doesn’t?”

“Not yet.”

Edmund took a deep breath.

He had practiced. For days. He had written seven drafts, none of which were satisfactory. It was his eighth draft that had a portion of truth, buried under the clumsy weight of metaphor and simile. Edmund took three weeks to carve away the excess baggage, clearing out the nonsense to polish the gleaming jewel underneath.

He had written six more drafts, adjusting words, shifting meter and rhythm until he ran out of time. Now, after five days of rehearsal and a clear sense of inadequacy, he had come to the moment of truth.

“Leeta,” Edmund began. “I am glad we met again.”

Leeta turned to look at him, her dark eyes sucking the air from his lungs. He cleared his throat. He needed to finish.

“I have a question that has ached inside me for this past year.” He reached out towards her. “Would you do me the honor of holding my hand for a few moments?”

Leeta grinned. “What? You mad?”

“No,” Edmund lied. “Just…curious.”

“You’re a very silly boy.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

After a moment, Leeta pushed his hand away, leaned over, and kissed Edmund on the cheek. Somehow, it was a very poor consolation.

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