The Battle of Harmingsdown: Chapter 5

At first, Edmund was not certain precisely why he volunteered to travel to Princebridge, but by the time he had finished arranging his travel itinerary, he had rationalized his behavior quite easily.

First of all was his curiosity. What was this new metal? How was it made? How exactly was it better than steel? Where had it been invented? Who had done so? Why had its existance not been known in the scientific community? If Edmund could find a piece of it, could he reverse engineer it, and make it even better? Could he, in fact, salvage his threatened plan?

In fact, a part of Edmund felt a quiet pride. Whomever had invented Chrome had lucked into the ready-prepared setup that Edmund had originally created for himself. Without his efforts, the rumors of superior-steel would have remained just that. The intractable tradition of the military would have carried on, rationing would have eventually been implemented, and the war would have continued. After all, everything was going according to plan. The only error Edmund had made was in assuming he was the only person who saw opportunity in war.

Second of all was his need to protect his family. If the Military was going to need this new metal, the Mouldes needed to be the ones who provided it. The Moulde Factory was ready to churn out large quantities of steel, but it could just as easily be refit to smelt Chrome. Princebridge was a poor place to smelt metal, and a joint business venture between the Moudles and the inventor of Chrome could mean Edmund’s efforts were not a waste. Or, if the inventor had already purchased a factory for smelting the Chrome, Edmund could buy it and acquire the Chrome that way. Or even simply leasing the formula would be enough to ensure the Mouldes remained the exclusive metallurgical providers for the Military for the entire war.

Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, was a sense of caution: Edmund had not heard of Chrome before Major Schtillhart.

At Grimm’s he had found a select group he called the Dilettante Trust: a collection of casual leisure-class gentlemen and ladies who spent their days fighting the dreadful boredom with obsessive devotion to a single subject. It might be the local weather or a particular breed of flower, but their attention to detail and passion for note-taking rivaled that of most noted scientists at the time. They shared their projects with each other via letter and periodic casual get-together, all with the unspoken agreement that, while no one was particularly interested in their peers’ hobbies, they would provide a polite audience for each other lest they ever wonder if they were wasting their time.

As a result of this, plus a mixture of ignorant curiosity and good-fortune, the Dilettante Trust was often on the perpetual cusp of significant scientific discovery; and in insulting deference to the fact, they never realized it. They were far more concerned with what their efforts meant for the weekend’s hunting or the season’s flower-show, than single-handedly reshaping the entire world’s understanding of pathology, botany, or astrology.

Edmund was concerned about these things. He saw their letters for what they were: insight into the future of science and technology. Their casual musings had helped catapult him into discoveries that would someday change the world; and yet he had heard nothing of a metal that was greater than steel. Or rather, he knew of several, such as aluminum, but they were far too rare and complicated to use to provide any sort of balm to the country’s steel shortages.

If Chrome existed, the inventors of this marvelous metal were geniuses as well, perhaps beyond even Edmund’s ability.

Chrome.

If there was any metal capable of the rumors’ miraculous claims, Edmund was ready to believe it was called Chrome. The poet in him was impressed.

The Moulde in him was judicious. For the full two day ride to Princebridge, Edmund’s mind was occupied with plans and plots that floated in and out of his thoughts as he refined each one until he was satisfied. He was not going to let any serendipitous invention ruin his plans. The Moulde Family’s future was too important.

As far as finding the Chrome, Edmund needn’t have worried. Princebridge was a small city, barely large enough to support what local industry there was, and Schtillhart was correct; “Forthmore’s Fabrications” was a well known local business devoted to providing precisely crafted tools to the local shops. Edmund had barely needed to say hello before the kindly citizens of Princebridge pointed him to the small factory on the southern side of the city.

The town’s buildings had been built not with stone, but with fired clay bricks hauled up from the muddy banks of the nearby river that drained into the ocean. The fired clay was dark and brackish, giving every building a shadowy foreboding look. The windows were full of pewter came, and the fragments of glass were almost outmatched by the patterned framing. All in all, it was a fitting atmosphere, and Edmund nodded appreciatively to himself as they made their way towards Forthmore’s Fabrications.

Edmund studied the building he stepped out of the carriage after Ung. The business was based in a two-story tall warehouse, three small streets and a left turn off the main thoroughfare of Princebridge. The sign was dusty and there was little activity. This was not surprising in itself, as the hour was quite late for a social call, but in defiance of all his training and social education, Edmund was not currently concerned with etiquette; he had a schedule to keep.

He waited patiently while Ung knocked on the door with a fist the same size and weight of a cannonball. They only had to wait a moment before the door opened to reveal the calm face of a thin swarthy man in a vest. With the detached air of one who has been doing the same job for his entire life, the man smiled a welcome. “Yes?” he asked, in a voice drawn from the darkest pits of resignation.

“My name is Lieutenant Edmund Mauve.” Edmund stood proudly, his polished shoulder pips flashing in the dim light. “I have come to speak to the proprietor.”

“Indeed?” the man cocked an eyebrow. “I’m afraid it is quite late. Our business is closed for the evening. If you have an order to place, we would be more than willing to accommodate tomorrow morning.”

The door began to close only to collide with Ung’s extended hand.

“I apologize for the lateness,” Edmund pressed on. “The train only arrived half an hour ago. My business is quite urgent; I am here on official business for Brigadier McNaymare, head of the Logistical Administrative Legion. May I please speak with the business’s owner?

“Official business, you say?” The man’s eyebrow raised slightly, a sign less of surprise than of interest. “For the military?”

Edmund nodded, and after a moment the man took a small step back, allowing Edmund to enter.

Inside the building was no brighter than outside; Edmund couldn’t see much more than the small entry room. The lamps were turned low, the hiss of the gas-lights as faint as a breeze through a distant forest. Shadows danced in every corner behind misted glass partitions. Two small settees and a chair lay off to one side, while a coat-rack and umbrella stand stood next to the door.

“Will you please fetch Mr. Forthmore?” Edmund repeated.

“That would be me,” the man gave a small nod. “At your service.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Edmund held out his hand to shake. Forthmore’s hand was cold, nearly as cold as the building itself. For all the talk of smelting and crafting a new metal, the building certainly didn’t feel like a churning beast of metallurgical industry.

“Please, have a seat,” Mr. Forthmore gestured to a settee as he sat in the chair.

Edmund sat down, his lanky form folding as comfortably as possible. The upholstery was soft, yet still uncomfortable. It was like sitting on an irritated sheep. Ung didn’t move from beside the door, his hands clasped behind his massive torso.

For a moment there was silence as Edmund studied Mr. Forthmore. Clean, tightly dressed, tired…very tired. His voice barely shifts in tone from one word to the next. He sounds outright bored. But clear eyed. Precision movements. He carries himself like Ung.

In his mind, a chessboard faded into existence. The pieces were set, the sides chosen, and Edmund had the first move.

“Is this really a factory?” Edmund began, advancing his pawn. “Forgive me for asking, but I had expected to see more machinery.”

“A bit of a hobbyist?” Forthmore chuckled without a speck of humor, “This is only our front offices. Any private machinery is in the back, under lock and key. Yes, I can see by your expression you find this odd. I am afraid we here at Forthmore’s are devoted Mercantilists. There are a great many people who would like to learn about our methods, and it is our duty to our customers to prevent them.”

Edmund had heard of Mercantilism, though he had not had the time to study it carefuly; it was a response to the poor and downtrodden inventing labor unions. The Union Theory of Labor stated, in brief, that complaining was safer when surrounded by thick-armed men weilding heavy wrenches and hammers.

In turn, the wealthy industrialists realized that what was good for the goose was good for the butcher, so they crafted themselves into a loose political and philosophical ideology called Mercantilism. Their own Mercantile Theory of Labor stated, in brief, that strikes, riots, and demonstrations were target-rich environments.

Edmund frowned thoughtfully, considering his strategy before speaking. “Why would anyone want to learn your methods?” he asked, moving another pawn into position.

“Forthmore’s can provide the highest quality product at the lowest cost through most efficient methods.” Forthmore’s flat tone contrasted with his pridefully swelling chest. “It is how we are able to surpass our competition. If anyone was to learn how we do it, they would do it themselves.”

“Surely not more efficiently than you already do?” Edmund asked.

“No,” Forthmore admitted, “nor more cheaply. If anyone were to steal our secrets, they would still be five years behind us in methodology and research.”

So you don’t just want money, you want to dominate. “Five years? Is that how long you’ve been in operation?”

“We…moved here from Corsetschire three years ago,” Mr. Forthmore’s smile was tight. “Princebridge is a much better fit for us. But enough about our business, Lieutenant Mauve. Please, what can I do for you and our brave soldiers?”

Edmund shifted on the settee, bringing his knight into play. “I am here to investigate rumors that have spread about a new metal that has been invented.” Edmund began. “The British Army is interested in learning more.”

“Ah,” Mr. Forthmore smiled, his tone as stable as before. “Yes, Chrome is one of our finest and most recent inventions. I am delighted to say it was concieved under this very roof, just upstairs in our laboratory.”

In Edmund’s mind, Mr. Forthmore moved a bishop onto an easily threatened square. It seemed an easy target, which made Edmund cautious. Nevertheless, his curiosity was piqued. “You have a laboratory here? I should like to see that.”

“I am afraid the proprietors are still hard at work. They are both…night-owls, if you will permit. I have never known either of them to have more than four hours of sleep.”

Thump.

Edmund did not glance at the ceiling. It is a well known physiological reflex that when an unusual or unexpected sound occurs, instinct demands we turn our heads towards it, regardless of how many walls, ceilings, or miles separate us. It was a habit Edmund had never understood; no amount of staring at the wooden ceiling would make the origin of the noise any clearer.

Mr. Forthmore was not as sensible. He gave the ceiling a quick glance, and then cleared his throat. “Can I get you a brandy? Dry gin? Scotch and water?”

“No, thank you,” Edmund had only tried scotch once in his life, during his time at Grimm’s. The resulting events and subsequent adventures had put Edmund off scotch for the rest of his life. “You said proprietors,” he prodded gently while his rook shifted to the side. “I thought you owned the building?”

“I am afraid not,” Mr. Forthmore linked his fingers. “I am merely the manager. The proprietors are…less concerned with the day to day operation of the business. They are far more interested in their scientific pursuits.”

“Such as Chrome,” Edmund said, positioning his king-side bishop. “I have heard some amazing things about it. Lighter than steel, and never needing a polish, for example. Would you please explain to me more about it’s properties?”

“I am afraid I cannot do that.”

Edmund blinked as his bishop fell to Forthmore’s rook. “Why not?”

“As I said, as Mercantilists, we are adamant followers of the rules of mercantilism. Our company secrets are our own, and we cannot divulge information to just anyone. You understand; secrets are a tool as effective as any other weapon.”

You are the second person to tell me so in as many days, Edmund noted. He hadn’t known Matron’s philosophies were so wide-spread. “Even if it will result in a sizable order from the Military?”

Thump.

“If it is business we are discussing, than I’m afraid our policy is quite clear. We will be more than willing to discuss shipping and pricing with a customer, but this new muckraking journalism has made it quite impossible to trust anyone. Especially as Mercantilists.”

“I’m afraid if my report says nothing about Chrome as a material, the Brigadier will be unwilling to purchase any. The military cannot run on rumors.”

“Nor should it,” Forthmore leaned back in his chair. “Believe me, if it were my decision to make, I should tell you everything you wanted to know. However, Chrome is not my secret to divulge.”

Edmund frowned as one of his knights was taken. This man was infuriating. If he ever bothered to shift his tone, to reveal some clue about his nature, his intent, his personality, Edmund could make some headway…

Thump.

Edmund noticed, with some surprise, that his heart was starting to pound faster.

“As I said, the proprietors invented it. By Mercantile right, it is their secret. The best I could do would be to tell you what machines they had me purchase, and what minerals they asked for.”

Thump.

It wasn’t a machine. What was that sound? He could feel his skin begin to burn. A tickle of memory was blossoming behind his eyes. Something from long ago, when he was an orphan. “I would appreciate that.”

“Forgive me, I was speaking hypothetically. That is all I could tell you, if, in fact, I could tell you anything. However, as my proprietors have claimed their Mercantile rights, my lips are sealed.”

Thump. Faster now.

“Perhaps a tour of the factory? I should like to see how you work.” It was a clumsy move, barely worthy of him at age eight. His heart was beating even louder. He recognized this sound!

“Please, Mister Mauve — forgive me; Lieutenant. If I can’t even tell you about Chrome, I certainly can’t show you anything. I am afraid my hands are quite tied, both morally and legally.”

Thump. It was getting closer.

“I imagine you get a lot of visitors knocking on the door.” Edmund’s brow was moistening.

“Constantly,” Mr. Forthmore nodded. “Other smelters, forgers, businessmen, scientists and scholars…”

Thump. The sound had moved across the ceiling and was now descending from the second floor. A heavy metal sound. Metal on wood.

Edmund forced his jaw to open. “Especially the scientists, since you purport to have solved a scientific marvel.”

“Purport, do you say? Are you insinuating something?” Mr. Forthmore frowned.

“Only that there are several reasons someone might not wish to show the factory floor to anyone, or not wish to explain their invention, and only some of them are honest.” It was a panicked move, a mistake that Edmund recognized as soon as he made it.

Thump. Thump.

“Lieutenant Mauve, I am surprised at your brusqueness. I cannot imagine what sense there would be in spreading false rumors about our own business. If you are interested in making a purchase, I suggest you come back tomorrow, during regular business hours.”

Thump. Thump.

“A sample…” Edmund managed to choke out.

“I am afraid that is quite impossible. Now, if you will excuse me, there is still quite a lot of work to be done for the day. The rest of my employees have gone home, as I should like too before dinner. If there is nothing more to say?”

Edmund had a great deal he wanted to say, but he couldn’t even open his mouth before the chess-board in his mind was crushed by the thick wrought-iron shaft of a horse-post.

Terror was a marvelous thing. Edmund had experienced it several times in his life. He had studied it partially because it flew in the face of everything he knew about the human body.

Thump. Thump.

The four humours of the body did not deal with terror. Sanguinity, Melancholy, Cholor, Phlegmaticness…none of them had an answer for what it was that froze the blood and stilled the breath. None of them could explain the pounding heart and quivering skin.

Terror was not fear. Fear spawned choice. Fear drove action. Fear was the cause of more good things in the world than any other impetus. Terror stole choice. Terror prevented action. Terror was a cement coffin that locked you inside your own body, tormenting your mind with the thoughts of a future you could not avoid. Terror was evil.

Thump. Thump.

But there was no such thing as Evil to scientists and poets. Evil was a flight of fancy for the ignorant or the lazy. A red caution sign. A turn of phrase to frighten people away from powerful concepts that they were not ready for. The wise and powerful knew there was no such thing as Evil, only power; power that could be incredibly dangerous if placed in the wrong hands.

In his mind’s eye, Edmund saw the thick wrought-iron horse-post, as thick as a man’s leg, lifting and falling on the twisted rotten floorboards of Mrs. Mapleberry’s Home for Wayward Lads and Ladies.

Thump. Thump.

Drowning in his memory, Edmund struggled to catch his breath as he looked up from the wrought-iron post into the darkness above it. The hand that gripped the horse-head. The thick arm. The thin fan that opened like a sword un-sheathing. The broad hat. The cold eyes. The name…the powerful and evil name.

Even before he saw them, their faces floated in front of his face. The sharp chinned Mrs. Wickes, with her broad black hat that was almost an umbrella. The short nosed Mr. Wickes with his horse-head cane that was as thick as a lamp-post. Their dark dead eyes, looking down at the orphans, selecting each one with the care and precision of a surgeon dissecting a frog. The smiles that held no warmth, no care, no compassion. The pale skin. The children that never came back…but the Wickes always did, every year, dressed in black and soaked in barely hidden hate.

The terror of his childhood, free from his heart for almost a decade, came flooding back into his life as the door at the other end of the room opened, and the Wickes stepped through the doorway.

---

A small part of Edmund’s brain — the scientific part which held no truck with emotion of any kind — observed with objective detachment.

They were older; a few more wrinkles, Mr. Wickes was a little fatter, and their outfits conformed to the fashion of a decade later, but otherwise they were every inch the horrific Mr. and Mrs. Wickes that had been locked away in Edmund’s memories. Their eyes were those of dead things, their faces flat and still. Mrs. Wickes moved haltingly, like a puppet wielded by a blind puppet-master, while Mr. Wickes waddled back and forth like a rolling wave, pivoting around the thick wrought-iron hitching-post for his cane.

The rest of Edmund was frozen in abject horror as they came closer.

“Ah. Mr. Wickes? Mrs. Wickes? Allow me to introduce you to Lieutenant Mauve. Lieutenant? These are the Wickes, sole owners, investors, and benefactors of Forthmore’s Fabrications.”

Edmund had never dreamed before. He had read of dreams — knew what they were and how they worked — and one nightmare in particular had fascinated him; where the dreamer is being chased but cannot run. The absurd poetry of it appealed to Edmund. After all, how could you be chased if you weren’t running?

Now he understood. Like a pair of broken toys, the Wickes moved closer. The thud of Mr. Wickes cane struck the ground like a demon’s heartbeat, the flared nostrils and bared teeth of the horse-head whinnying primal equine fury into the air. Time slowed down. Edmund’s arms moved with glacial slowness, an aching leaden weight on his limbs. The air was treacle and his mouth was made of clay as he reached out to take Mrs. Wickes’ offered hand.

Mr. Wickes’ mouth smiled, while nothing else about him did. “Lieutenant Mauve,” he said, in the same cruel voice he had used at the Orphanage. “It is an honor.”

Did they recognize him? Did they remember him at all? The Wickes had only considered Edmund once and rejected him because they found his head too big. Was that enough to sear Edmund’s face in their minds the way it had seared theirs to his? Did they smell the Orphanage about him, even ten years later, and would they know exactly who — and what — he was?

“Is our Mr. Forthmore taking care of you?” the horse-post cane thudded onto the ground with sudden speed. If Edmund’s nerves had not frozen into ice he would have jumped. Mrs. Wickes was staring at him, her false smile still frozen on her face.

“I am afraid the Lieutenant was just leaving,” Mr. Forthmore’s tone betrayed no emotion of any kind. Through the cracks of Edmund’s terror he felt a jealousy he had never known.

“Why, you cannot leave! Not before you hear the good news!” Mr. Wickes hoisted his thick cane into the air, waving it like an ogre’s baton. “We are at the dawn of a new world, Lieutenant Mauve. Chrome, the metal of the future is here today! Can you imagine the uses of rust-free steel? The unobtainable goal of alchemists from centuries hence?”

Edmund could. Something, somewhere deep within Edmund, managed the herculean effort required to slowly nod his head.

“A man of vision,” Mr. Wickes continued, thudding his cane on the floor again like a judges gavel. “This brave new world is there in front of us, Lieutenant Mauve. It’s just on the other side of the door. All we have to do is give a little push, and the door will open. We will be flooded, Lieutenant Mauve, we will be inundated with dividends. You know the phrase, Lieutenant Mauve, ’the sun never shines on the Britannian Empire?’ It is the black cloud of industry that shades us from the envious sun’s harmful rays. Industry and progress. The spark of imagination that lights the forge of the future.”

Edmund didn’t move as the horrid man continued his torrent of words. It was all nonsense. Humbug. Words for the sake of words, rather than given strength and form by purpose and function. Mr. Wickes might have believed what he was saying; it didn’t matter. Hidden in his words was the clear subtext; all Mr. Wickes cared about was what Edmund believed.

Mr. Forthmore coughed gently. “The Lieutenant was asking some details about your process for creating Chrome.”

“Confidential,” Mrs. Wickes eyes stared blankly.

“My wife is correct,” Mr. Wickes dropped his cane to the ground with a thundering crash. “It is a complicated process, full of secrets and dangers. If we took you onto the floor, you may find yourself burned, or scarred, or disfigured. Or even driven mad by the indelible and irresistible secrets that lead to our miraculous metal. Even if you managed to survive, you would see things that would dazzle you, trouble you, and confuse you: when you left, you would know no more than when you went in. We are not a carnival, Lieutenant Mauve. We are scientists and engineers. Blacksmiths of the coming age. Our furnaces are hotter. Our powder is stronger. We have our own Damascus steel, burned in the forges of Brackenburg and placed red hot into our workers’ hands.”

“There, you see?” Mr. Forthmore shrugged. “I do apologize, but the Army will have to seek its supplement for steel elsewhere.”

“The army?” Mrs. Wickes eyes snapped like a whip away from Edmund’s to Mr. Forthmore’s. “They want to purchase our Chrome?”

“They want to know more about it,” Mr. Forthmore shrugged. “before they purchase anything.”

“Divulge our secrets?” Mr. Wickes snorted. “Impossible! Yet to aid our country in time of war…a solemn duty…we could I suppose, explain some of the details…”

“Are you certain?” Mr. Forthmore asked, cocking an eyebrow. “As Mercantilists, you are entirely within your rights to keep any proprietary —”

“It is our solemn duty,” Mr. Wickes said. “After all, as true Englishmen, we must do everything we can to uphold the sovereignty and strength of king and country. Even if it means selling our product to the King’s Military.”

“I don’t think the machines could handle the demand,” Mr. Forthmore said with a frown.

“Then we will expand!” Mr. Wicks shouted. “We will build a new center of progress in Brackenburg itself. The Wickes Manufactory, established 1880! We will do anything to ensure that Wickes’ Chrome is used to make everything from rifles to railroads, from ships to silverware. We will forge the engines that drive us into the rust-free future.”

“But only if they’re serious,” Mrs. Wickes’ smile was no warmer than that of a fish, and was beginning to twitch from the strain.

“Exactly,” Mr. Wickes pointed at Edmund’s nose. “Just as the army is not accustomed to running on rumors, we are not accustomed to dealing with low-level underlings. No offense, of course. I’m afraid we will need to speak with someone of higher rank. A Major, at least, before we sign any contracts or documents.”

“Well, there you have it,” Mr. Forthmore smiled at Edmund. “I believe we are finished here?”

“You are very like us, I think, Lieutenant Mauve,” Mrs. Wickes dead eyes stared as she licked her dark lips with a pale tongue. “Very like us, indeed. A kindred soul, I feel.” She stared at him like an entomologist studying a large beetle.

“Well, we have taken enough of your time, Lieutenant,” Mr. Wickes swung his cane towards the door. “Please, do give our regards to your Brigadier, and I am sure you will be able to explain to him the benefits of coming to meet with us, personally.”

“Farewell, Lieutenant Mauve,” Mrs. Wickes’ voice was like water dripping from a sewer. “We will be keeping an eye on your career, with great interest.”

---

It is testament to Edmund’s upbringing as a Moulde that Mrs. Kippling had no trouble saying, as was her wont; “Master Edmund, you are looking quite well today begging-your-pardon.”

He didn’t feel well, but as any upstanding gentleman knows, how one feels should never be ascertainable by how one looks, much less how someone behaves. This went double for the Mouldes, as any number of unfortunate secrets could be gleaned from an errant sneer or inadvertent smirk.

At the moment, the secrets hidden behind Edmund’s veneer were terrible ones.

The Wickes.

When Edmund had been younger, living in the dilapidated orphanage on Downs Hill outside of Brackenburg, he did not have the advanced understanding of emotion that he had now come to possess. He had never experienced frustration or boredom, crushing despair or elated euphoria.

But now, at age seventeen, Edmund had seen much more of the world. More than seen, he had experienced it; both through his cousins visiting Moulde Hall, and five years away at school. Now, looking back over those long years, he saw his life with fresh eyes, a hindsight born of emotional experience.

When he was young, the Wickes were nothing more than another inscrutable part of a wide world Edmund had no part of.

Now, they were ghouls from the darkest pits, set to rip him from everything he had ever wanted. In his memory he saw their cold and cruel eyes staring down at him, judging him, and finding him unworthy. They had looked him over for less than a minute before dismissing him outright, and moving on to the next child. He could still hear the thundering sound of Mr. Wickes’ cane on the wooden floor, louder than thunder, and the whirring snap of Mrs. Wickes’ fan opening like a whip. Their voices were laden with hate. Scorn. Metastasized cynicism and rotting disgust.

He could see them, reaching out from the shadows to grab him by the hair, explaining how Matron had made some mistake, and he was theirs now. Moulde Hall receding as the Wickes dragging him off to parts unknown, tearing him away from everything he had ever known to do unspeakable things to him. He could see how curved and wicked their tools would be, as they carved into his flesh and replaced his body with crusted gears or sticky oil. He could see their mirthless teeth. He could feel the weight of the chain around his neck and wrists as he served them like a slave, offering food and drinks to their guests as they tore into a bloody feast, laughing at their latest toy.

Or maybe they would just throw him into a darkened dungeon and leave him there, to slowly rot away into dust.

Edmund didn’t feel well.

As soon as he had left Forthmore’s Fabrications, he had huddled in the carriage all the way to the train back to Brackenburg. He had gone straight from the train station to Moulde Hall again, desperate for some kind of security.

But Edmund was still a Moulde, and that meant no one would ever know exactly how terrible Edmund felt as he walked through Moulde Hall towards the rear gardens.

Matron was already waiting for Edmund in the garden, slurping away at her soup with a sound like a rusty drainage pump. She said nothing while he approached, giving no sign she had even seen him until he had sat down in the empty chair across from her.

Enga, in perfect form, appeared from thin air to pour a stream of boiling tea into his bone-white cup, swiftly followed by a brass ladle-full of muddy soup into his silver bowl.

Edmund stared at the soup. He wasn’t hungry.

“Found something else to chew on?” Matron smirked across the table.

Edmund looked up. She was looking healthier then she had been, insofar as Matron ever looked healthy. Her skin was still parchment thin, pale, and stretched like a drum across pointed bones that could have topped spears. Her coughs had faded too, rumbling in her tiny chest instead of cracking across the room like a bullet.¹

Now, sitting next to Matron, the woman who had placed her faith in him to save the Moulde Family, he was as ashamed as he was afraid.

But he needed her help, so he swallowed his Mouldish pride — A miraculous feat in itself — and cleared his throat. “The Army is considering acquiring a new supply of metal to replace their dwindling steel stores. A replacement metal, called Chrome.”

“Ah,” Matron nodded. “So that’s what Matron Redgrave was nattering about. Very well, I suppose we should congratulate the Broodains. Invite them to the next —”

“It’s not the Broodains.”

Matron blinked.

She blinked. For all the terror that had entered Edmund’s life so recently, there was nothing more disconcerting than the fact that Matron had been surprised.

“Oh?” Matron said, after a pause that conveyed through its length how much Matron shared Edmund’s distress. “It couldn’t be the Scowers…”

Edmund’s mouth was too dry to say the name, so he took a sip of his soup² instead. When his heart had calmed again, he managed to choke out:

“The Wickes.”

Edmund had expected Matron to set her jaw in ominous resolve. He had expected the space behind her eyes to be whirring with plans and plots and solutions. He had expected her to understand.

Instead he saw confusion as she spun through the implications before finally opening her mouth. “Who are the Wickes?” she asked.

What slim comfort the familiar surroundings of Moulde Hall had provided collapsed under the weight of Matron’s ignorance. She hadn’t known!

There are some historians who believe that , had Edmund been of sounder mind at the moment, he should have seen this as a reassurance. Indeed, there are hundreds of family names that the Founding Families were blissfully unaware of. Dock-workers, for instance, tended to pass by unnoticed, as did gardeners, chiefs, and farmers. If Matron didn’t know of the Wickes, they obviously weren’t of any importance.

Edmund obviously subscribed to the alternate historical theory³ that Matron’s ignorance was simple proof that the Wickes were, in fact, so adept at their obviously fiendish machinations that even the ever vigilant Founding Families had allowed them to pass by unnoticed.

Matron, on the other hand, adhered to the first theory: “If I haven’t heard of them, they are obviously some of the nouveau riche.” Her former concern faded to familiar condescending dismissal. “Likely only came into their fortune within the past twenty, maybe thirty years…they will be overly concerned with propriety.”

Her assessment rang true to Edmund. Their behavior had the air of theatricality about it, a forced pantomime as they acted and spoke in ways unnatural and unfamiliar.

“Well then,” Matron waved her hand, “they will be so concerned with keeping up appearances that they will overlook practical and pragmatic solutions. Easy enough to overcome.”

Edmund couldn’t believe it. These weren’t just some upstart peers with designs above their station, they were the Wickes. How could they have struck fear into the hearts of every orphan who ever crossed the threshold of Mrs. Mapleberry’s Home for Wayward Lads and Ladies without being fiendishly clever? Fantastically dangerous? Terribly evil?

Matron stared at Edmund while his brain worked, churning more and more nightmares into his waking mind. Finally, after a quarter hour of silence, she coughed like a champagne cork.

“I think,” Matron said as she stood, “I will return to my room. I imagine you will spend some time in the Library before you return to your work.”

Edmund had been so concerned about the Wickes that the idea hadn’t even entered his mind, but as soon as Matron mentioned it, he realized how wise an idea it was. Not just for the comfort that came from vanishing into the printed words that filled the room like autumn leaves, but because of Aoide. She was beautiful. Comfortable. Everything felt better when he was listening to her voice, even if nothing had actually changed.

So, with the faint hope of succor, Edmund walked through the giant hallways of Moulde Hall, climbing all the way to the fifth floor, where the large doorway to the Library stood. After unlocking the door, he climbed down five flights of stairs to the bottom floor of the Library, where the smooth statue of Aoide sat in her alcove, silent and still.

Edmund could feel the tension in his body relax. It had been too long. Here sits a most marble lady, / Heavy of breast and heart was she; / I think she is the most beautiful lady / That ever read a poem to me.

“Hello, Aoide.”

At the sound of her name, the statue jumped on the marionette strings that encircled her torso, as the machine buried deep in her desk made her hands and arms move in a graceful dance of welcome.

“Hello,” she said, in a mechanical voice as clean as smokey glass. “My name is Aoide, of poetry and song. What can I do for you?”

Edmund reached out and cupped his friend’s face in his hands. Her skin was as cold and smooth as it had ever been, her painted face calm and kind. Her voice had not cooled his feavered brow like he had hoped. She sounded tired, and her arms and hands hung limply in their threaded cradle. He would need to tighten them soon, and perhaps re-stretch the silk that provided her vocal cords.

She was getting older. Cracks spidered across her face. The paint was fading. In time, she would break even more forcefully, somehow, and he would need to put her back together again. Her beauty will fade as all things will pass; / It is not rare — though cold it be; / And when she crumbles, she’ll still remember / That time she read a poem to me.

He reached out to grip her hand, feeling the smooth stone, the curving fingers…

He never remembered the cracks, but they were there. They had always been there. Time wore on, and all the tiny imperfections vanished in his memory. When he thought of her, he saw only beauty.

When he thought of the Wickes, he saw only horror.

Was he a coward?

Edmund paused. His brain rarely betrayed him so bluntly. He had never subscribed to the concept of cowardice; a frank assessment of probability couldn’t be considered a character flaw.

But he hadn’t done any assessment, had he? He had run straight from Princebridge to Moulde Hall, his nightmares chasing him all the way.

But what else could he do? How could he stop them? He didn’t even know what they were doing.

No, he knew what they were doing. They were threatening everything Edmund had created. He had worked for months, nudging the army here and there, positioning it like a chess-master. Now the Wickes stood to claim Edmund’s opportunities for their own and dominate the industry with some new metal. Why would the army settle for Edmund’s steel when they could have something better?

Could he stop them? No, of course not. Anyone else, perhaps, but them? They were inhuman!

Had they recognized him? It had been almost ten years since last they saw him, and they had called him “Mauve.” They couldn’t remember him, but only the child that they had once overlooked. He was different now, and would they even remember how he had looked then? His memories of Aoide, even when apart for only a week, tended to buff away the details, until all Edmund truly remembered was her essence…

Edmund closed his eyes in soothing revelation. That was what Matron was trying to teach him. His memory was a poem carefully crafted in his own mind. His fear had personified the worst of all possibilities. He had created his own pair of Wickes in his memory, the polished gemstone of hate and fear from the vantage point of a seven-year-old boy. Now he was seventeen, and he had the chance to see the cracks in his nightmares for himself. These were not nightmares; nightmares vanished when you woke up.

And now, Edmund was feeling quite awake, indeed.