Chapter 3
The Moulde estate, Edmund learned later, was everything on top of and inside of Haggard Hill, in the northern part of the Squatling district. Haggard Hill itself was a full twenty acres of hill covered with old trees, tired grass, and a sagging old gazebo with peeling white paint, all surrounded by thorny hedges and a sharp wrought-iron fence. The heavy black gate cautioned MOULDE HALL in a sharp and spidery lettering, and was framed by statues of two large ravens, their eyes sharp and beaks terrible.
When the carriage pulled to a halt outside the gate, Edmund looked up and received his first view of his new home.
The mansion was five stories tall, and as deep and wide as a full city block. The walls were a deep purple that was fading into gray with age. Two tall towers stuck out of the roof like castle turrets, each with a bare flagpole on top. Edmund studied every line and curve of the building before counting the windows. When he finished, he counted again to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake. He hadn’t; there were thirty-nine, which was a pretentious amount for any mansion, if quite proper for the Mouldes. He wondered what could fill thirty-nine rooms.
In fact, Edmund was astonished to learn there were seventy-three separate rooms in Moulde Hall of varying sizes and shapes. He was told this by Mrs. Kippling, a soft and thin old woman who was the Moulde’s housekeeper, among other things.
Edmund met Mrs. Kippling at the front door of Moulde Hall along with a thick muscular wall of a man named Ung. Edmund learned later that Ung was Matron’s butler, among other things.
The carriage had only just come to a stop before Matron burst out of the carriage and walked towards the Mansion. The maid curtsied with an awkward and timid grace, while the giant of a man next to her gave a bow like a falling tree, his hand over his heart.
“Mr. Shobbinton has just arrived, and is currently waiting in the west third-floor study, Ma’am,” the huge butler rumbled, his voice like distant thunder.
Matron waved her umbrella aimlessly behind her as she climbed the mansion’s marble steps. “Have it cleaned and brought to us.”
At this command, the tree-like arm of Ung grabbed Edmund by the collar and hoisted him out of his seat. Mrs. Kippling fell upon him as soon as his feet touched gravel, rubbing his cheeks with her calloused hands and alternately pulling and pushing him up the Mansion’s steps.
The inside of Moulde Hall was as impressive as the outside. The foyer was gargantuan and almost empty of furniture. Ten wide pillars flanked the center of the dark-blue room, each topped with small statues of men and women in various poses. Some held swords, others orbs or scepters. One even held a book over her head like an umbrella in the all-to-common misconception that knowledge could somehow protect from the heavens. The walls were covered with tapestries, flickering gaslights, and dark paintings of somber men and women. A massive grandfather clock, at least three times as tall as Edmund, sat opposite the main door. The whole room reminded Edmund of a picture of a cathedral he had seen in a book.
“Now,” Mrs. Kippling said after she closed the doors behind them, “Begging-your-pardon but Matron would like for you to be washed and dressed.”
Edmund had no time to reply before she had grabbed him by the hand and run off into the mansion. Edmund struggled to keep up with his rapidly advancing arm.
As they dashed through the Mansion, Mrs. Kippling pointed left and right, naming different rooms as they passed. She warned him which rooms to stay away from (it’s not safe for little children), which to avoid (Matron doesn’t like anyone touching her things), and which to never go near. (that door stays locked as long as I work here!) Every door was carved with beautiful friezes; sometimes animals and trees, other times ornate patterns and strange languages, or even strong men in armor holding swords and guns. A few looked like anatomical studies, which made Mrs. Kippling blush and tell Edmund to cover his eyes as they rushed past.
Adrift on the seas of Mrs. Kippling’s frenzied pace, Edmund was hopelessly lost by the time she stopped at a small door and shoved Edmund inside.
“Here you are, Young Master,” Mrs. Kippling clasped her hands in front of her stomach. “This is your bedroom!”
Edmund couldn’t believe it at first. The room was easily bigger than the bedrooms in the orphanage and was full of furniture that had nothing to do with going to sleep. There was a table, a chair, a desk near the door, mirrors, gaslights, lamps, candles, a low-hanging chandelier, a chest at the foot of the bed, two more chairs, a foot stool, a rug, two paintings on the wall, a dying plant in the corner, another table by the bed, windows, a small couch, and two other doors.
When Edmund became more familiar with his new home, he was able to grasp the multiple purposes any one room could have; but at the moment the only thought his befuddled brain could grasp onto was that there was too much room in this room. What could he do with all this space? He couldn’t use it all, he simply couldn’t. There wasn’t enough clothing and notebooks in the world.
There was that odd feeling in his stomach again, and it was growing stronger…
“Come on then,” Mrs. Kippling twittered, shoving him through the room. “Into the bathroom with you! Begging-your-pardon, Young Master.”
Edmund barely had time to blink before he found himself in a marble-tiled room that was almost as big as the bedroom. The wall near the tub was covered in reliefs of demons, lizards, birds, and other horrible faces that alternately grinned and glared at him. Something was simmering behind the wall, sloshing and splashing like thick porridge.
“Off with your shirt now, there’s a lad,” Mrs. Kippling said as she twisted brass valves and wheels that stuck out from the marble-tiled wall. Clanking and gurgling echoed though the walls. “It’s-not-my-place, but Matron didn’t know who she was adopting, so she didn’t buy any new clothing. We have to make do with all the old Masters’ clothes, I suppose. No, keep your unders on. Not-my-place, it looks like they could use a good scrubbing begging-your-pardon. Get into the tub now, Master Edmund!”
Edmund was not a stranger to baths. He had taken at least ten in his life — Mrs. Mapleberry had complained how he never seemed to need one — and he was positive there was supposed to be water in the tub.
Mrs. Kippling stepped around the tub and reached for a brass wheel, a grim smile on her face. “I’d cover my face begging-your-pardon. You don’t want to get this near your eyes.”
Edmund brought his hands to his eyes as the wheel squeaked. A blast of ice-cold water struck him in the chest, pushing him to the ground. He could feel his skin starting to peel from the strength of the water, when Mrs. Kippling pulled him upright, grabbed his hair, and forced his face under.
For a moment, all he could feel was the powerful staccato on his head, a veritable raven’s beak trying to crack his skull like an egg to feast on the yolk of his brain. Just when he was sure he was about to die, Mrs. Kippling’s hands pulled his head up and spun him around. Now the water was at his back, pounding away at his spine and trying to snap it in two.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the horrible deluge of water vanished with a sucking sound that echoed in Edmund’s ears. He risked peeking through his fingers to see the water in the tub swirling away through a drain. A cursory study of himself proved to Edmund that while his skin was a bit pinker than usual, there were, surprisingly, no welts nor cuts.
“Now,” said Mrs. Kippling, as she reached for the wheel under a laughing demon face, “time for soap!”
After a full half-hour of scrubbing, hot water, burning soap, scraping at his skin with an ivory and silver comb, yanking at his hair, and dumping even more water over his head, Edmund staggered out of the tub and into a thick white robe that smelled of sour mildew.
Back in his room, Mrs. Kippling bustled him towards the final door, a massive closet. Row after row of thick dark-colored fabric swayed as Mrs. Kippling pulled out each piece of clothing and held it up to Edmund’s body.
“Here we are,” she said, finally. “This one’ll do. It belonged to dear Master Jomas before he died quite gruesomely begging-your-pardon of mysterious circumstances. He were a bit taller than you, but I think we can make do for tonight at least. Off with your robe, its-not-my-place, and slip this on.”
Jomas must have been a lot taller, Edmund mused, after he had pulled on the shirt only to find the sleeves covered his hands. A good deal wider as well, he amended, after struggling to keep his pants up. They stayed put after the belt was fastened, but not without bunching uncomfortably in the back. The hems had to be rolled up into the legs until they ballooned out, while the extra shirt fabric had to be pulled back and hidden under the over-sized jacket, which gave him an uncomfortable hunchback.
What was this feeling?
“Stay still, begging-your-pardon,” Mrs. Kippling admonished, tugging at the tie that hung like a noose around Edmund’s neck. “There! Now, it’s time to see Matron!”
One whirling dash through the Mansion later, and Edmund was standing in front of a thick cherry door.
“Here we are!” Mrs. Kippling gave Edmund a broad smile. With the swift and practiced movement, she twisted the knob, pushed open the door, shoved Edmund inside, and shut the door behind him before he could slip out again.
The third-floor west study was just big enough for three large chairs and a desk almost as big as his bed. Bookshelves covered the walls, each with a small scattering of dusty books. A quick count revealed there were thirty-tree; more books than Edmund had ever seen in his life. He couldn’t see the titles from where he stood, but they were leather bound, and that was something.
“I trust that this should be proof enough, even for you, Mr. Shobbinton.”
Edmund shook himself free of his thoughts, and turned to see Matron’s hand curled, one finger pointing squarely between Edmund’s eyes. She was sitting in a large brown-leather chair behind the desk opposite a husky man in a dark suit with a bowler hat. The man turned to stare at Edmund, his gray eyes flickering behind a single golden monocle.
“So it would seem,” Mr. Shobbinton said, his voice smooth and crisp. “However, I’m afraid even the existence of a child is not legal proof of heirship.”
“I gave you the papers, fool!”
“Not yet notarized,” The man coughed gently, “I’m well aware the extent Mouldes are willing to go in the pursuit of their own interests.”
“Downs Hill,” Matron snapped. “Mrs. Mapleberry’s. The fool woman has my signature. Possibly framed.”
“I will confirm.” Mr. Shobbinton nodded slowly, his eye drifting back to Edmund. “If you are correct, then it appears that this whole recent affair between you and my client or clients has been little more than a waste of my time.”
“How upsetting for you,” Matron muttered. Edmund wondered what the books were about. They didn’t look like poetry or science books. How big were the words?
“An aperitif is the traditional apology,” Mr. Shobbinton’s tone held a hint of reproach.
“If I was sorry, I’d give you one. How long do I have to keep it?” Edmund wondered if she would let him borrow one book. Just one to start with.
“Traditionally, such arrangements are permanent,” Mr. Shobbinton gave another small cough. “That is, in so far as both parties are alive and well. As I do not have the pertinent documents at hand, I cannot be exact, but it is most likely that the stipulation for your current predicament will be equally…resolute.”
Matron’s eyes were like coal.
“Of course,” Mr. Shobbinton continued, adjusting his monocle, “I will examine every possible legal loophole in the pertinent documentation.”
“See that you do,” Matron’s voice echoed dangerously. “Until that moment arrives, you will handle my idiot cousin?”
“I’m afraid I can neither confirm nor deny the identity of any other client or clients, as professional decorum —”
“Oh, quit your asinine platitudes,” Matron waved her hand. “We both know who hired you this time, and you’re my solicitor just as much as you are his. Now get out!”
Mr. Shobbinton nodded once, picked up a briefcase from next to his chair, and slipped past Edmund through the door.
“Perfidious leech,” Matron’s tongue clicked against her teeth as she focused her attention to Edmund, looking him up and down. “Equally resolute, eh?” She muttered. Reaching out her hand, she plucked a small brass bell from her desk and rang.
The door opened instantly, Mrs. Kippling behind it curtsying frantically.
“Dress it for dinner,” Matron sniffed as she turned back to her papers.
“Of course, Matron, begging-your-pardon,” Mrs. Kippling curtsied as she grabbed Edmund’s arm, pulling him out of the room and slamming the door shut, separating him from the glorious books and almost hitting him in the nose.
Edmund staggered backwards, and then staggered again. Like distant thunder, a deep rumble boiled up from below his feet as the floor heaved, throwing Edmund to the ground as a thick ringing noise shook the entire mansion.
The booming knell was followed by another, and then another. Edmund had to clutch his jaw to keep his teeth from rattling in his skull. He tried to stand, but his legs barely worked. He struggled to breathe, but his lungs quaked, shifting back and forth in his chest like jelly.
“Six-o-clock!” Mrs. Kippling said as the building finally calmed down. “Don’t worry Master Edmund. Moulde Hall’s got a strong bell, but you’ll get used to the ringing soon enough. I’m sure I don’t even notice it anymore except for — Oh my goodness!” Mrs. Kippling pulled up short with a small yip of surprise. “Ung, you scared the living daylights out of me!”
The lumbering form of Ung loomed out from the shadows, his face like granite. Slowly, The butler toppled forward into his stiff and unnatural bow.
“Could you please take Master Edmund to get dressed while I run off to finish supper?” Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Kippling whipped herself about and scurried off down the hall, leaving Edmund staring at the massive form of Ung as it towered over him.
For an aching moment, neither of them moved. Edmund craned his neck to look at Ung’s rough angular face, and he in turn stared back at Edmund. Finally, the huge man lifted his arm and with a sweeping gesture, pointed Edmund down the hall.
A phlegmatic calm washed over Edmund when he stepped inside his room; while he couldn’t call the room familiar, it was the first time since he had left the orphanage that morning that he had seen anything more than once.
Dressing for Dinner turned out to be nothing more than exchanging his limp noose of a tie for a thick black cravat that felt like burlap. Edmund was forced to stand on his toes as Ung peered at the knot gripped in his thick hands.
Dinner was in a large dining hall in the east wing. The room was filled with an ebony table rimmed with gold and silver and lit from five chandeliers in the ceiling, each glowing with a soft hissing gaslight.
The table itself was large enough to seat at least fifty people, though there were place-settings for only thirty. Edmund’s chair was short, wooden, and uncomfortable, especially with his clothing bunching up behind him like an old sack. It creaked whenever he moved, so he kept as still as possible.
With the myriad array of silverware that sat at Edmund’s place setting, he first thought he was expected to set the table. A second glance was all it took for him to see that every instrument was different. There were five spoons, four knives, and seven forks along with three plates, four bowls, and six glasses all of different shape, size, and design. One of the forks had a sharp curved tine, while another had small barbs at the tips. One of the spoons had a finely serrated edge, while another had tiny divots pressed into the bowl. The smallest knife was only a little bigger than a single tine of the largest fork, and the largest spoon was almost as big as the small water bowl. The six glasses were all different heights, widths, and shapes; some with handles, others with stems. Only one was filled with water, while the others sat empty.
The bland meal was a small slab of stale bread and soup; possibly potato.
Matron Moulde sat at the other end of the long black table, eating with slurps and smacking that echoed about the room like a rusty treadle pump. She stared at Edmund from the moment he arrived as if judging his every move.
After the whirlwind of doors, water, hallways, and clothing, it was unsettling to be suddenly sitting so quietly in such a large empty room. The one benefit was that it gave him time to think, though this was turning out to be a mixed blessing at best.
What was this feeling? He’d never felt it before, and it had been growing stronger ever since the carriage ride through Brackenburg. His heart was beating hard, but it wasn’t sanguinity that flowed through his veins; it was something much more unpleasant. He was not unfamiliar with the bodily humours, but he had never had the opportunity to experience them so potently.
It was perfectly sensible that he would be feeling something new; his whole life had been behind a small wooden fence, and now he was behind a much larger one made of iron. Wasn’t that why he had wanted to leave in the first place? To see and experience new and different things?
This wasn’t just a new life, it was a new world. He wouldn’t have been shocked to find doors in the floor or furniture on the walls. Everything that he had learned over his eight years of life had vanished. He had known how to avoid the twisted rotten planks of the orphanage, but this building was solid as a rock. He had known how to dodge children running through tight hallways, but these hallways were huge and there was no one to dodge. He couldn’t eat until he was dressed in other people’s ill-fitting clothes. Walls were covered with strange decorations. Drafts were absent, the air quite content to lie dead in the stale hallways. Even time passed differently, marked by the sudden tremors of the building as the whole mansion struck the hour.
Edmund took another bite of his soup and noticed with surprise that his hand was shaking.
Terror, he realized with sudden satisfaction. That was what he was feeling.
“I expect you to be here promptly for dinner every night,” Matron crackled suddenly from her seat. “Six on the clock every day. If you are not here it will go badly for you.” She licked her lips noisily as she stood up from her chair.
Still unfamiliar with proper upper-class behavior, Edmund was not concerned with the eccentricity of such an early dinner. Instead, the quivering terror that had filled his body surged again with the realization that they had been sitting in silence for fifteen minutes at least, and she hadn’t forgotten he was there.
Just as Matron’s hand gripped the doorknob, she paused.
Hope fluttered in Edmund’s chest: She was going to tell him why she had adopted him. Or perhaps explain his duties as a son, or a Moulde. He would know what was expected of him and the terror would subside!
It is possible that a great many historical events would have occurred differently had Matron explained her expectations, both great and otherwise, in that moment. At the very least, Ung would have been spared a the effort of washing the Foyer floor.
Instead, she turned to face Edmund with eyes cold. “Some of my family is arriving tomorrow,” she said, her voice low and menacing. “Six of them. Going to spend the season here, they said.” Something like a sneer rippled across her lip. “I expect they’ll want to meet you.” With a loud rattle, she opened the door and vanished into the hallway.
The silence settled as the echo of the door faded away, leaving Edmund completely at a loss. He finished the rest of his meal in a silent haze before standing to gather his dishes to wash.
His hand grabbed his empty bowl at the same instant that a massive hand gripped the opposite side. Edmund looked up into the thick face of Ung, his broad mouth not quite scowling but definitely not smiling.
“I have to clear my dishes,” Edmund explained. It was one of the few things left he knew he had to do. His life may have changed a great deal, but Mrs. Mapleberry had been clear on his Duties As A Young Lad.
The implacable face of Ung contorted. “That is my job, Young Master,” his deep voice rolled out of his mouth. “I am your butler.”
“You are Matron’s butler,” Edmund corrected him.
“I’m the Moulde’s butler. You are a Moulde. I will take care of your dishes while you retire.”
There were certain things that Edmund knew.
For eight years he had been cleaning his own dishes after he finished eating. Mrs. Mapleberry never noticed when he did, but it was his job, and he had to do it. Machines only worked when the cogs turned properly. With the mindset of a proper Englishman, Edmund knew that even this dark and horrible mansion would be manageable as long as he did what he was supposed to do; as long as he knew his place.
Now, the largest man he had ever seen had told him that doing his own dishes wasn’t his job anymore. He had a new place, and he didn’t know what it was. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do.
He was trapped on the edge of a precipice, neither tumbling forward nor pulling back from the edge. In that moment, seconds away from falling, he wanted nothing more than to return to the relative safety of his room, focus on his book or his poetry, and stop feeling this terror.
Edmund let go of the bowl as a hot splash of liquid fell on his hand. He glanced down at the single drop of water that was sliding down his finger. Quickly wiping his face, Edmund turned away from Ung and pushed through the dining room door. He needed to get back to his room. He could read there. Or write poetry. He’d be safe in his words.
The hallway outside the Dining room stretched off into the depths of Moulde Hall, flanked by the rusted shells of knights and ancient crumbling paintings. He remembered turning left into the Dining Room, so he turned right and started walking. After a short distance, another choice presented itself; turn left or go straight ahead? Edmund wracked his brains, trying to remember how Ung had brought him to the Dining Room. He tried left. Choice by choice, he struggled to piece together exactly where he had been before.
He didn’t know where he was.
Tapestries of every color filled the halls, broken up by imposing statues, pillars that held ancient urns, paintings that ranged in sizes from postage-stamp to an entire wall, and plants in varying stages of life and death. He studied every decoration he passed, hoping in vain that they would serve as landmarks. Eventually he tried to backtrack to the Dining Room to start again.
He didn’t know how to get there.
The doors, the hallways, the floors, the decorations, they were all so different that they had blended together in his brain into a horrifying nightmare of dimly lit confusion. He continued to walk aimlessly, searching for familiar shapes, lines, or colors.
He didn’t know where he was going.
Edmund began to walk faster, hoping to cover more ground and find his room sooner. Then he broke into a run, twisting and turning randomly through the hallways, his eyes darting left and right, struggling to find a recognizable landmark.
He didn’t know what he was supposed to do.
His legs and chest burned with exertion. Every step sent needles of fire up his legs and down his spine, and still he ran. His heartbeat pounded loudly in his ears. He wasn’t trying to remember where he was going anymore, he was just running.
He didn’t know.
With a cry, he stumbled and fell, his head almost colliding with the wall. Pushing himself up off the rough carpet — even the floors were different! — Edmund gasped for breath as he lay on his hands and knees, his heart pounding in his ears.
As he gripped the floor, his realized the loud thumping was too slow and steady to be his heart. His panic ebbing only slightly to curiosity, he picked himself up and moved to a large archway a short distance down the hall, cautiously peeking around the corner.
It was the Foyer. The deep noise was the clock, its ticks echoing in the massive cathedral-like room. It was taller and thicker than the orphanage’s clock and made from a heavy black oak. The edges were trimmed with ivory that curled up at the corners like horns.
Then, with a mechanical whirring, the clock began to strike the hour. At first it was just a deep brassy bell that drifted around the foyer like an errant cough. Unlike most responsible noises, however, the chime did not fade but instead grew louder. Within seconds the bell was echoing through the walls, reverberating throughout the mansion, back and forth in a monsoon of sound.
Edmund clapped his hands over his ears at the noise. It consumed him, the vibration filling his bones until he could barely stand. His stomach churned as the clock continued to strike, the echoes shaking him to the core. He collapsed to his knees, his stomach heaving, as the Mansion struck the hour through his body.
Finally the sound faded, and Edmund uncovered his ears. He wiped his mouth, the foul taste of bile still thick on his tongue.
Everything was still. The air, the mansion, even Edmund’s heart beat slower than he ever remembered. His thoughts were quiet, shaken out of his body along with his dinner and most of his humours. The black and yellow bile expelled from his stomach, all he had left was phlegmatic calm. He felt weak, empty, and resigned.
When he looked up, he saw the two giant doors of Moulde Hall.
The stories that Edmund had heard, almost every night at the orphanage, all ended the same way.
With glacial inevitability, Edmund walked across the giant foyer, and twisted the large door-knob.
The doors rattled, but did not open. They were locked.
Had he his wits about him, Edmund might have realized it was probably for the best. Outside was Brackenburg, and he knew even less about the city than he knew about Moulde Hall. There would be strange people, empty streets, and dark factories. He would be just as lost, if not more so, than if he stayed.
Edmund turned and sat on one of the thin couches that lined the foyer, closed his eyes, and listened to the ticking clock, trying to think of home. When he failed to imagine one, he fell back on the orphanage; an anchor in a sea of the unfamiliar.
Lost and alone in the vast expanse of Moulde Hall, surrounded by black wood walls and stern marble statues, Edmund curled up on the deep-red couch and fell asleep wishing he was anywhere else.