The Battle of Harmingsdown: Chapter 8

Had Edmund made a mistake?

The thought crossed his mind only once in the span of time between sitting outside the Brigadier’s office and the signing ceremony, and the answer was quick in coming. No, he had not made any mistakes. He simply couldn’t afford to.

Edmund didn’t wait for Brother Bromard to leave again. He didn’t wait for Brigadier McNaymare to file an official command. He didn’t even wait for Major Schtillhart to step outside and demand to know why Edmund was sitting around and wasting time.

He was wasting time. He needed to get back to Filing Room B to prepare.

Edmund was not a clairvoyant,¹ but it did not take magical powers to guess what will happen when a boulder starts rolling downhill. The Brigadier was going to order the LAL to purchase Chrome from the Wickes for the army.

Edmund needed to stop him.

In some ways, this was an easier task for Edmund than preventing him from wanting the Chrome in the first place. It could even be called a blessing in disguise. At the moment his reach was limited outside the army, while inside, well, there wasn’t any part of the military he couldn’t reach with a single dispatch.

Letter after letter was typed out on his Typograph and sent to every corner of the military. Information was requested. Promises were made. Sergeants, Corporals, Colonels, and Majors were informed about the many changes that were about to be made. The entire Logistical Division of the army was put on alert. In weeks, the entire supply-chain of the military was going to shift.

Edmund had finished even before the official command came from the Brigadier’s office. Finished with the letters, that is. There was still a great deal to do that couldn’t be done with letters, or perhaps more accurately, shouldn’t be done with a paper-trail.

One of these important things began one night with a knock on the door of Filing Room B. Edmund placed a ribbon in his notebook and set it aside. “Come in.”

The door opened and Ung ushered in the scarred face of the local quartermaster.

“Yes, sah?” The quartermaster sat across from Edmund, scratching at his face with a torn fingernail. “Late for a meeting, isn’t it? What do you need, sah?”

Edmund studied the man. He had not had much opportunity to observe individual soldiers with any great depth since his enlistment. He had studied their movements and behavior patterns with the skill and care of any ornithologist, but as individuals? He was nowhere near as practiced.

Carefully, and with great reverence, Edmund took off his officer’s sash, his shoulder epaulets, and lieutenant’s shako. For a moment he almost shuddered; he felt exposed in a way he hadn’t been for the whole war.

“For the next ten minutes,” Edmund began, “I am no longer a Lieutenant.”

“Oh, aye?” The quartermaster grinned nervously. He had dealt with very strange officers before, and he could tell this conversation was about to go down one of several complicated paths.

“Instead, I want you to recognize me as…a representative of Edmund Moulde, Heir to the Moulde Estate.”

“Oh. Sure,” his grin faded. Complicated was one thing, completely mad was another. “Good friends, are you?”

“I have his full support,” Edmund nodded. “I am his proxy, if you will.”

“Aye sir, that you are,” the quartermaster nodded, eager to humor his superior officer until he was safely out of range.

Edmund stared at the man for a moment, and then sighed. “Are you a career man, Sergeant?”

The soldier’s eyes flickered. “No, sah.”

“Have a business waiting for you when the war is over, I suppose?”

“Yes, sah.”

“On Wellington street, between Glenfidwich and Lochester street?”

The quartermaster didn’t respond.

“Are you paid up with the Logisticals Union?”

“How did —” the man’s mouth opened and shut.

“As I said, I am here as a proxy.”

The quartermaster squirmed. The etiquette of the Military Hierarchy was well established and heavily regulated. The behavior between military and civilians was less clear, and even harder to fathom was the etiquette required for a civilian who wielded enough social rank to cause one’s remaining career to be very uncomfortable.

“I see…sah,” The Quartermaster saluted, just to be on the safe side.

“Now, as I was saying, the Logisticals Union covers any and all transport to and from warehouses, factories, and other places of industry. I know they take a fairly dim view to anyone operating a warehouse and transport business without dues being paid in full.”

“Not running the business now, am I?” The quartermaster protested. “Busy stocking the bloody war, ain’t I? Sir?” he added quickly.

“I agree,” Edmund nodded. “And you have been doing a wonderful job at it.”

“Thank you sah,” the Quartermaster blinked, caught between confusion and pride.

“Such a good job,” Edmund continued, “that Master Moulde will have no hesitation in funding your Union dues for a year, once the war is over.”

Many were the people who would have grinned at the offer. Several would have fallen to shaking Edmund’s hand as hard as they could. Even more would have gaped, dumbstruck at the generosity.

The quartermaster was a non-commissioned soldier, who knew his fair share of officers. “What’s the catch?” he asked, his good eye narrowing.

“Our Lady of Infinite Jest,” Edmund pulled a sheaf of papers out of his pocket, “has a large number of supplies that need to be distributed around the city. I have here a list of stock and recipients. I would deem it a personal favor if you worked with the Logisticals Union to see these supplies are properly distributed throughout the city.”

“Oh? And how would I —”

“You would speak with Hervey Glennfach, whose sister is married to your cousin Birt, and who plays cards at the same bar where the brother of the head of the Logisticals drinks every Tuesday.”

“…Ah,” the quartermaster muttered as he turned his attention to the paper, his eye darting back and forth. After a moment, he looked up, confusion replaced with caution.

“This is a lot,” he muttered. “Why, its a safe bet that moving half of these supplies will tie up the city for weeks.”

“Will it?” Edmund let his face remain blank. “I appreciate your expert opinion, Sergeant, but these supplies must be moved as soon as possible. The war is being fought as we speak, Sergeant, and an idle country is a conquered country.”

“You ever work with the Logisticals before? Only the price,” the quartermaster continued, waving the paper, “Not just for you, but for everyone…the prices across the city will jump sky-high.”

“Are you concerned Master Moulde cannot afford it?”

Edmund knew he was being cruel before he saw the quartermaster wince, biting his lip at the danger of confirming the accidental insult. Etiquette between high-status civilians and Sergeant was a bed of thistles.

“No, sah,” he said at last. “I believe I can get these supplies distributed within two weeks.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Edmund nodded. “I can see an investment in your business will be well worth it.”

His face a mask of indecisive concern, the Quartermaster left, leaving Edmund alone in his office.

Well, not quite alone.

“What are you doing, Mauve?”

Edmund looked up to see Pinsnip’s cold and hateful eyes glaring out from the darkness. “What do you mean?”

“When I…followed you so many years ago…chased you through Moulde Hall and…locked you in the tombs beneath, did you lose what sense you had? Are you so tied up with…with your taught strings of influence that you chase after shadows and monsters, instead of…well…practical ends?” The shadows shifted as Pinsnip sighed. “I wonder, Master Edmund, what are your plans for this war? Do you honestly think your efforts will…make a difference?”

“Sir,” Edmund corrected.

“Sir,” Pinsnip said after a pause, his dark eyes glittering in the faint gas-light.

Edmund turned away from his cousin’s stare and focused again on the papers on his desk. “I need you to take the 8:21 to Princebridge tomorrow morning. Return to Mr. Forthmore’s —”

“What?” The word was spat with surprising force. “Back and forth and back again…I must tell you, sir, that I am unaccustomed to accepting…orders that are obvious wastes of time. Why do you want me to…go back there again? What possible reason does your…your addled brain have?”

Edmund didn’t look up. “After you return to Forthmore’s, I want you to wait for three days, precisely. At midnight on the fourth day, I want you to burn the building to the ground, Pinsnip. Burn it to ash, and then burn the ash.”

---

Four days, precisely. He had timed it out as carefully as he could. He had manipulated all the numbers, made them dance across the page at his command, and in four days Edmund would experience the single most uncomfortable emotion he had ever experienced in his life.

He didn’t even know what it was, as there seemed to be no English word for it, but the Germans — a race of people Edmund was fast becoming aware had a greater emotional intelligence than any other nation on Earth — had the perfect word: Schwebendunsicherheit.

It was the feeling that grew in his chest when all the plans were laid, the traps were set, everything that was to be done had been done. The feeling when all that Edmund could do was wait and see if his manipulations would bear fruit.

It happened when he had been young, and he waited for Matron to make her decision whether to adopt him or not. It happened when he waited for three Heads of the Founding Families to decide if they would witness his arranged marriage. It happened when he was at Grimm’s, taking the minutes during the peace talks. It had happened many more times since and would happen many times again in the future.

Edmund didn’t hate these moments, exactly, but he certainly did not relish them. The sensation of complete loss of control was…to say the least…unpleasant. But that was what strategy was all about; knowing your opponent so well, that when the time came to relinquish control to them, they did exactly what you needed them to.

Four days. He had measured it out because of what would happen in four days. Four days was when the Signing Ceremony was to take place.

To call it a ceremony is perhaps overstating the situation. On any occasion where important men and women formalize what has up to now been only a verbal understanding — a handshake at best — there is the need for a modicum of pomp and circumstance. In contrast to an upper-class ball, soiree, or similar gala event, no one was present at the signing simply to be seen. There was a pragmatic elegance to the proceedings and the only people present were those who needed to be.

The Brigadier was present, of course, as it was his hand that needed to sign the contract. So too was Major Schtillhart, as any suitable aide would be. Five Generals were present as well, including General Ramsbutt, complete with pipe and paunch. The Wickes were there too, though Mr. Forthmore was strangely absent.² Edmund was there too, because no one had thought to exclude him.

The heart of the gathering and the purpose for their meeting was currently sitting in a clean folder on the central table, while everyone milled about the room shaking hands, sharing a quick chat, and generally engaging in the practice known as “a hob-knob.”

While Edmund fought the urge to stare at the Wickes, he fought too his need to stare at the folder. He had been instrumental in the Contract’s drafting, though no one knew it. Large amounts of information needed to be collected, collated, organized, and distributed to the right people,³ all before the ink was put to paper.

Now, the culmination of Edmund’s secret efforts lay on the table. The contract had been drafted, accepted, and within the hour it would be signed. The Wickes would become exclusive suppliers to the Army. They would build The Wickes’ Manufactory in the center of the Farrows district, and become the wealthiest industry of the entire war. Edmund would lose. The Wickes would win.

Or so the Wickes thought.

Edmund averted his gaze from the Wickes, lest a casual glance in his direction cause their eyes to meet. There was no telling what secrets they might glean from a careless emotiveness.

Nevertheless, he felt a pull, an urge, to look at the beastly creatures full in the face. Like a doctor staring at an impacted organ, or a detective studying a dissected corpse, he felt compelled to observe the horror.

To distract himself, he focused on the nearer and far louder gathering of officers.

“I say, Brigadier,” General Ramsbutt slapped McNaymare on the back, “This is all dashed clever of you, solving our iron shortage with a new kind of metal. I’d say it’s about time you were promoted, what?”

“Ach, well,” McNaymare drew himself up, “I canna say it was any more than my duty. What any o’ us would have done. Nay?”

“Jolly good, jolly good. Quite right,” General Ramsbutt coughed to interrupt the room’s scattered conversations. “I believe it’s time to sign? We have a lunch at the General’s Club, after all.”

“Of course,” Brigadier McNaymare stepped forward, opening the folder and picking up a pen from nearby.

As he began the arduous process of signing his name and having it notarized by three witnessing Generals, A movement caught Edmund’s eye. A young messenger had entered the room, crossed to the Wickes, and was now whispering into their ears.

Bringing the news, no doubt. Forthmore’s Fabrications is ash now. If you sign the contract, you’ll never be able to supply the army without rebuilding, and that will cost you more than you likely have.

He studied their faces, as stoic as the dead. If they now despaired at their future prospects, they made no sign.

“There!” Brigadier McNaymare stepped away from the contract, and held out the pen towards the Wickes. “Now, if ye will sign, then we can all have a bit o’ a toast, aye?”

Almost…

Like a ghost on the moors, Mrs. Wickes swept forward, her thin hand reaching out towards the pen. Gripping it in her fingers, she leaned over the table, staring at the Contract like a doctor over their patient, noting the agreed upon particulars: the amounts, the quality, the procedures, the price…

Slowly, Mrs. Wickes lowered the pen towards the page…

Edmund leaned closer…

The pen froze.

There!

For a moment, the pen hovered above the contract, poised to sign the Wickes name on the dotted line, to lock their fortunes together with the army.

Then, the pen receded.

“A moment,” Mrs. Wickes’ sharp voice cracked through the room.

You see it! Edmund felt his chest loosen. You see the new price! The Logistical Guild’s prices have risen, the cost of chromium too. Trade treaties with Norway, supply chains across the country…If you sign that contract, you’ll be forced to give away your Chrome at a fraction of the cost. You won’t make a drop of profit until the prices drop, and they’ll never drop until the war is over. You’ll be saddled with an insatiable money-pit that will drain your coffers dry, until you’ll be begging to sell your assets to whomever has the money.

“Mr. Wickes?” At his partner’s insistent tone, the man crashed over to the table to study the contract with her.

But you care about propriety, don’t you. Rubbing elbows with the finest. If you don’t sign, you’ll be staring five Generals in the face and saying you’ve been wasting their time. You’ll be outcasts. You’re trapped between financial and social ruin, and you can’t help but sign. You’ll be paupers forever. You’re trapped, I’m the one who trapped you, and you’ll never know. I’ve won, and you’ve —

“We will not sign this,” Mrs. Wickes snapped, closing the folder.

Edmund blinked. So did the rest of the room.

“I beg yer pardon?” Brigadier McNaymare sniffed, drawing himself up.

“This contract,” Mr. Wickes gestured with his bottle-thick cane at the folder, “states that the Wickes will become exclusive-suppliers of the army. This is unacceptable.”

Edmund blinked again. No, it’s too expensive. That’s why you’re not signing.

“Ye haven’t been wasting our time, have ye?” McNaymare’s voice was equal parts horror and fury. “All this time?”

“It is you who have been wasting our time,” Mr. Wickes smashed his cane to the ground. “We have said, time and time again, we are Mercantilists, and will brook no limits on our economic rights!”

“It is a standard military supply contract,” Major Schtillhart stepped forward before the Brigadier could explode. “An agreement to supply any and all Chrome required by the Army. It’s what all our suppliers sign!”

All caution forsaken, Edmund stared at the Wickes. You knew that. You had to have known that.

“We are not simply supplying steel or copper,” Mrs. Wickes laced her thin fingers together in a horrific mockery of maternal patience. “Chrome is a Wickes product, and it shall continue to be such. To limit the sale of our product to the army alone is an unconscionable suppression of our mercantile rights.”

“The Cliffside Compact, Third paragraph, section C,” Mr. Wickes cited. “Designed to maintain good business. You aren’t against good business, are you, General?” Mrs. Wickes eyes pierced his.

“No!” the General coughed. “By Jove, you’ll find no greater ally of business than me, what?”

What are they doing? Edmund could feel his trap slipping away, fading to dust and ash in his grasp. They are deliberately sabotaging themselves. They weren’t supposed to do that — it doesn’t get them what they want!

…What do they want?

“I say?” One of the Generals, a pudgy pig-faced man with long mutton chops and enough medals to cover him from collarbone to hip gestured with his drink, nudging a fellow General in the shoulder. “I say old boy, this is dreadfully awkward, isn’t it?”

“Not cricket, I’m afraid,” the other General, thinner and taller with a mouse-like nose and upturned lip. “Dreadful. Absolutely dreadful.”

“I’m afraid,” Mr. Wickes sniffed, “in spite of your best efforts, we are not interested in signing away our economic freedom, even to the army. What are your soldiers fighting for, if not economic freedom? Yes, though it pains us deeply, deeply to leave you all in a lurch like this, we must now take our leave of —”

“Perhaps…” Mrs. Wickes cut in, seconds before the reddening face of McNaymare exploded.

“Perhaps what?” the mouse-nosed General asked, his voice betraying his scandalized interest.

“Perhaps…a different agreement is possible.”

Oh no.

“Oh? And what might that be?” Ramsbutt stepped forward, sniffing deeply as he stuck the thumb of his free hand into his belt. “By Jove, you’ve just been frightfully rude to all of us. You are our guests, after all.”

“We could join the military.” Mrs. Wickes answer was quick and sharp.

No, please no.

“What?” the Brigadier was the first to speak, turning to look at the Generals to see if their extra medals had somehow given them more insight into the situation. They had not.

“As colonels, of course, nothing fancy,” Mrs. Wickes continued, “but as members of the army, say heads of our own Military Research and Development division, anything we invented would become sole property of the army.”

“What a wonderful idea, my darling,” Mr. Wickes smiled a practiced smile. “How marvelous! Yes, a genius idea if I ever heard one.”

“You would become army inventors?” Major Schitllhart gaped. “And sell your inventions to the military?”

“My dear boy,” Mrs. Wickes sniffed, “Anything we invent will be the military’s.”

“What…sorts of things can ye invent?” McNaymare stroked his mustache thoughtfully.

“We will be quite prolific, with the country at stake.” Mr. Wickes clasped his whinnying horse-head cane in both of his pudgy hands. “Weapons, armor, improvements, increased efficiencies…Ah,” the man scratched his chin, “but the army will still need to manufacture anything we invent.”

“The army is more than capable of manufacturing anything your inventive brains can throw at us.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but we will not simply be inventing better bayonets. We are geniuses! We will be re-defining warfare at every level, and that means we will need to be swift. Efficient. Flexible. I’m afraid any army factory will simply be unable to provide the facilities we need.”

“Ach,” McNaymare bristled, “Can ye no build yer own inventions, and then we buy them off ye? It’s what we were havin’ ye sign not a minute ago!”

“I’m afraid that is out of the question, since as of today we no longer have a factory.”

“What?”

“I am afraid we have only just heard; Forthmore’s Fabrications has burned down. An obvious attempt at sabotage.”

“I say, ‘sab-o-tage?’ Sounds frightfully foreign, that.”

“It certainly is foreign! Spaniards or perhaps Frenchmen who know the danger that geniuses such as ourselves represent to their cause. Why else seek to hamstring our ability to support the Crown?”

The hushed mutterings of the gathered officers clarified their uncertainty.

“Of course, if we still had a factory of our own, we would happily build anything for the army at a reduced price. Even, if we must, ‘on credit.’”

“Until the war is over,” Mrs. Wickes nodded.

“Oh, I say, I’ve just had a topping idea!”

The room turned to General Ramsbutt. The man took a long pull of his pipe and grinned. “I seem to remember hearing there’s a spot of land in the Farrows district that is in need of a good factory! What if the army helped build you two a new factory in the Farrows. Then, we could sign you on as colonels, and exclusive suppliers to the King’s army. Everyone wins!”

Not everyone, Edmund despaired.

“Magnificant,” Mr. Wickes slammed his cane into the ground. “A brilliant idea, indeed. Now, for our inventions, we will of course need to dispatch ourselves to the front lines, so we can experiment.”

One of the by-standing Generals coughed. “you wouldn’t want to be somewhere more…safe?”

“Never! We are not mathematicians, we are not philosophers. We must have practical hands-on experience with war, with our inventions, else how can we invent anything worthwhile? Let’s see…I believe there is space for a field weapons development and testing lab to be set up in…say Harmingsdown? That’s nice and out of the way; the eastern edge of the front, I believe?”

Mr. Wickes stepped aside and held out his hand to his wife. Mrs. Wickes, in a flourish befitting a half-dead street magician, produced a sheaf of papers. A new contract, Edmund knew without a shadow of doubt. Carefully drafted long before they had gotten on the train to Brackenburg.

“Well then,” Mr. Wickes turned back to the room at large. “I suppose the question is, do we have a deal?”

---

Even the Germans didn’t have a word strong enough for the emotion Edmund was feeling.

It hadn’t been a deal, it had been a trap. The Generals couldn’t have said no. The trap Edmund had laid for the Wickes had sprung in McNaymare’s face instead. To decline the Wickes’ offer would have been to admit to wasting the Army’s time. In war, the word for that was treason.

The contract was signed, the Wickes made officers, and the dispatch orders were funneled through Filing Room B. The Wickes had been given the perfect spot in the Farrows. They had already requisitioned a team of army engineers to build the Wickes Family Manufactory, and provide them with enough staff to ensure their products were built in a timely and efficient manner. Edmund saw them all, and he let them go without alteration.

With one small exception. He noticed that the dispatch order demanded that Major Schtillhart be reassigned to the Wickes. It was an obvious demand, given their clear control over him. Whatever blackmail had given them a Major in the military was not something to casually sacrifice.

A single letter was all Edmund needed to be reassigned along with Schtillhart. After all, anywhere designated as a Military Research Division Test Field would need one of the ABCs to manage supply lines, materials, and any number of bookkeeping issues.

He thought that would help, and it did a little, but it didn’t solve everything.

Throughout his life, whenever his body reacted either to fear or excitement, he was able to suppress his shamefully emotional expressions. He would logically break down the situation and discover either there was no reason to be afraid, (and therefore he wouldn’t be) or there was very good reason to be afraid (and since he now knew it, there was no reason for him to feel it). He had lost count the number of times he had stilled his nervous breath or quieted his pounding heart through a careful analysis of the facts.

But now, Edmund’s heart was not cooperating. His heart continued to race despite his certainty at what he needed to do next. Miscommunication between the body parts was cited as the reason for any number of physical maladies by ancient philosophers. Edmund hoped he wasn’t about to be ill. His stomach certainly felt poorly.

“The Doctor left,” Matron muttered, “else he could have given you something.”

Edmund didn’t think there was any elixir that could cure what ailed him.

“He places something on my chest,” Matron complained, tapping a silver spoon against the edge of her teacup. “It’s always cold. If I die, it will be because of that thing.”

“I doubt you will die soon,” Edmund answered, sipping at his own cup. “You are looking better every time I see you.”

“Nonsense,” Matron snapped back. “Enga, my shawl.”

Enga pulled Matron’s black shawl from where it hung over her broad shoulder, and draped it carefully over Matron’s back. Edmund looked away to the pleasant environs. They were seated around the rear of Moulde Hall, at a wrought iron luncheon-table, looking out over the gardens of Haggard Hill.

“I recognize that look.”

Edmund blinked and pulled himself out of his thoughts. He looked at Matron, her eyes glittering as she put the teacup to her lips, a half-smile hidden behind the thin porcelain.

“What look?”

“The look you get when you think of something you’d rather wasn’t so. It shows around your eyes. They narrow, like you’ve smelled something sour.”

“Thank you,” Edmund filed away the information. Now that he knew about it, he could work on hiding it.

“Well?”

He should have been able to explain, to ask for help or guidance even knowing it would likely never come, but something was different. Ever since Matron had adopted him, since that night in the rain when they shared a pot of tea, Edmund had had only one goal in his whole life; to make the Moulde Family better. It was his purpose in life. His reason for being a Moulde. It was who he was.

He could do that if he stayed.

Filing Room B was where he had planned to spend the war. Any communication from Harmingsdown would land on his desk, and he would be only an hour from the Farrows. He could still confound the Wickes without leaving Brackenburg.

He could leave them alone. They had what they wanted, a new factory and a market for their inventions for as long as the war lasted. They were likely to relax now, and that would give Edmund all the time he needed to focus on his own schemes to overtake them.

Why did he decide to chase after them like a hound after a fox? Was it because he couldn’t let the Wickes succeed, even a little? Was he so set on defeating his childish nightmares, that to let them continue without further obstacle would be worse than letting them leave his life forever?

Was it seeing Schtillhart’s face when the Wickes suggested they join the army? The despair, the fear, the pain?

Why did he have to leave?

Even his worries about Matron were easily overcome. Enga was doing well as a butler, and Doctor Hamfish was pleased with Matron’s progress. Mrs. Kippling was managing as well, and if there was one thing Edmund knew Matron was good at, it was managing on her own.

And she might be alone for a while. Harmingsdown was the front, after all — the war was happening there.

Of course, the war was happening everywhere, but not in the same way. Bullets flew at Harmingsdown. Death was there, and yet he was not nearly as scared of the war as he was of letting the Wickes out of his sight.

“It may be some time before I can come to lunch again,” Edmund said at last.

The anodyne nonsense that followed this exclamation — all the excuses and apologies and comments on various events beyond Edmund’s control — may have sounded shallow or even insulting to an outsider. To Matron, they explained everything.

Matron listened to him in silence, eating her soup and drinking her boiling tea without making a single slurping sound, while he ranted on about the weather, the trees, and news from cousins abroad.

When Edmund was finished, Matron looked up.

“You’re a traitor,” Edmund waited to hear. “You are turning your back on me, the Family, and everything important in this world. You’re going to ruin us once more, because you can’t get some foolish notion of ‘justice’ out of your head. You’re letting your poetry get in the way of your pragmatism. I should have adopted someone else!”

Matron waved her spoon towards Edmund’s bowl. “Well, go on then. Eat your lunch.”

The rest of the meal was held in silence.

Not the silence of Mouldes exchanging secrets, where the air is filled with bits of information conveyed by a raised eyebrow or a crooked finger; actual silence. Matron was not talking to Edmund, and he was not talking to her. They were simply sitting outside at a small table for two, eating together and watching the black cloud of Brackenburg roll and boil far above their heads.

A distant thunderclap augured a dour evening, full of black rain and sooty mist. Before long, the lamplighters would be out, sparking the lights of Brackenburg streets to fight off the encroaching darkness.

Memento Mori.

It was the Moulde Family Motto. He knew it well, ever since he was eight and had been locked in the ancient tombs of the Moulde Family, surrounded by coffins, skeletons, and dust.

Even so, he had always thought he had more time.

The deep booming ring of Moulde Hall’s clock brought their lunch to a close. Edmund stood up and bowed his farewell to Matron before the first drops of rain began to fall. She stood up in turn, and held out her hand. It was not the first time she had offered it to him, but when he took it and brushed his lips against her ancient black lace glove, he somehow felt it was all different.

“I’ll tell you this, boy,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “I haven’t seen a look like that in the eyes of a Moulde for over sixty years.”