Chapter 8
It was still raining.
Edmund had resolved himself to explore as many rooms in the Mansion as possible, and wasting even an hour for meals in familiar rooms felt inefficient; so when he acquired his lunch from Mrs. Kippling, he asked for a different dining room.
She directed him to a medium sized dining room, designed to seat six diners at most. There, Edmund ate his thick chunky soup that was almost a stew and smelled of oats.
He was just about finished when the door opened and Wislydale hobbled into the room with a tall glass of wine at his hand.
“Master Edmund,” he called as he moved to a nearby chair. “Sit down, old chap! We have a lot to discuss!”
Edmund remained seated while Wislydale carefully sat down, grinned, and began to wave his glass about his head like a baton.
“I’m impressed with you, my lad,” he said, his eyes half closed. “You’re made of stern stuff to be willing to stick it out here, what? Swimming with sharks, as they say. Quite capital work my boy. Giving that old Kundirk spirit.”
Edmund wasn’t sure who Kundirk was, but he nodded just the same.
“I wanted to make sure you knew that,” Wislydale continued, “because I’m sure you don’t hear it very often from anyone else. Yes,” he nodded without waiting for a reply, “the Mouldes aren’t really made for compliments, what? Not enough room in the heart for other folks, really. We Rotledges understand this. It’s too bad. I can’t imagine it’s a fun life you lead…full of jumping up and down to Matron’s whip, dodging barbed tongues and sharp smiles…” He trailed off, staring deeply into his last few swallows of wine.
Edmund didn’t have anything to say and it certainly didn’t feel like Wislydale was waiting for him to respond, so he took another spoonful of almost a stew.
“I say!” Wislydale’s eyes shot sideways to lock with Edmund’s. “I’ve just had a smashing idea! I bet you’d like to get away from all this, wouldn’t you? Of course you would! Why, what is there for a young boy in Moulde Hall that isn’t out there, and presented with a far more pleasant atmosphere, what? You’re only adopted, after all. You’re not a Moulde by blood…” Wislydale let his glass drop as he stood up and leaned over the table towards Edmund. “Why don’t you leave?”
Edmund set down his spoon.
“Think about it, old boy,” he whispered, pulling a small bank-note out from his pocket. “You won’t have to be a Moulde any more! Why, you could go to bed whenever you want. No one to tell you what you’re doing is wrong or embarrassing. No more daggers or revolvers or falling statues, what?” He set the check down on the table, tapping it with his fingertips. “You just write down on this here slip the amount of money you think you’d need, and I’ll sign it, eh what? Think about it! Old chap!”
“I will.”
Wislydale clapped his hands and stood up. “That’s all I’m asking for, my boy. Just think; a life without that haggard old crow leering at you all day! A life with the best society that money can buy! Friends! Sweets! Horses! Anything you want!”
Wislydale gestured too far and stumbled, tripping over his chair. Barely managing to keep upright, he pulled his body upright before carefully sitting again. He sat for only a moment before standing up.
“By Jove, I’m jolly well bushed,” he slurred, shoving himself towards the door. “Best be off to take a quick nap, what? Drearily sorry and all that…” and he was gone.
There were a few spoonfuls left in Edmund’s bowl, but he wasn’t hungry any more. He had just wiped his mouth and stood up from his chair, when the door opened again, revealing Kolb in a long red coat lined with gold and silver thread. His eyes pierced Edmund’s from all the way across the room. The glittering of his manic grin shimmered in the light as he strode in, his arms waving back and forth in front of him as he moved.
“My fine Master Edmund!” He crowed, striking a regal pose and bowing so low his head vanished behind the table. “A pleasure of pinnacle proportions to present my personage in your presence! I would love to learn how luxuriously luscious was your lunch?”
“As I expected,” Edmund said after careful thought.
Kolb straightened and clapped his hands. “High praise, from a gentleman! Excellent! I am always excited to hear when edibles are eaten with enjoyment. Sadly,” he brought his face next to Edmund’s, “I must discuss something of utmost secrecy with you. Do you mind?”
Without waiting for an answer, Kolb gently pushed down on Edmund’s shoulders, guiding him back down to his seat. “I have heard tell of a tremendous talisman that is sitting secretly in the silent sands of the Sahara. It is said this amazing adornment has a bewitchment that bestows bountiful blessings to any who wears it. It is a good two week journey from the closest village to the ruins where the ancient temple that held this treasure once stood. I plan to make the journey before next year…would you care to join me?”
“To Africa?” The idea was appealing — he knew there were different countries, but he also knew nothing more than that.
“That’s right,” Kolb whispered, his grin returning. “I see the adventurous humor is already rising in your bowels! Come, join my journey and depart this dreary domain for the dream-filled desert! Of course…” he paused, and the grin faded. “Matron would not appreciate your traveling as a Moulde. It’s just not done, you see. No, perhaps it would be best if you not come after all. We wouldn’t want to upset the family.”
Edmund was beginning to understand Kolb’s style of conversation. He knew he only had to wait for a moment while Kolb shrugged and walked away before he spun about, his face a mask of inspiration.
“Of course!” he said. “You could abdicate! Leave the family! Only for a while, of course, you could always return if you wished, but I could adopt you for the trip! Edmund Popomus, adventurer extraordinary!”
“Is that possible?”
“Possible, and preferable,” Kolb laughed. “Why, you would get to see Africa, and possibly even India, and I would get my…traveling partner. Think about it, my fine lad! Join me on this little adventure of mine! I have just the papers upstairs in my room whenever you are ready to travel out of the ordinary and into the unknown!”
With a flourish, Kolb leapt out of the room. The omnipresent storm continued to roll while Edmund stared at the blank check still sitting on the table.
While the ramifications and implications of Wislydale’s and Kolb’s offers are likely immediately apparent to those more familiar with the behavior of the upper-classes, Edmund was still a novice at the cutthroat world of the gentry. As such, he found himself at a complete loss.
Everyone wanted Edmund to leave, but he wasn’t going to, was he? The idea was…well, nothing he hadn’t thought about quite extensively in the last two days. Why didn’t he leave? Matron didn’t really want a son, she just wanted to stop her family from getting her estate.
But there had to be more to it than that. When she was arguing with Tricknee, he had given her another option — Googoltha — but she had refused. Why? It sounded like the only thing Matron would be losing would be money, and she had lots of that. As far as Edmund could tell, there was no good reason to reject Tricknee’s request.
So it must have been a bad reason; Sentimentality, for example. Edmund had heard of it before, but he had never imagined it would surface in the gnarled black old woman. But what other reason could there be?
She had sounded irritated about the Church, for some reason, but Edmund had never had anything to do with the Church — though this would change drastically later in his life, both during and after the war. At the time, it was simply another confusing element that he filed away later for study and edification.
No, Edmund decided, there was very little reason to stay and learn what it meant to be a Moulde. The meeting last night had made it very clear: the family didn’t want him, and her argument with Tricknee proved that Matron didn’t need him. In truth, the only reason he could think of for staying any longer was to see more of the marvelous Mansion and all the decorations, tapestries, paintings, and more; to provide him with more material to write poems about for months to come. Maybe even years.
After he had seen everything, he could leave and go…go…
Anywhere! Like…like…
As is often the case when given an opportunity without limits, Edmund couldn’t think of a single thing. The infinite possibilities of the world crowded each other out until there was nothing left.
As for Kolb’s offer, Africa or India certainly sounded interesting, but his second thoughts reminded him that foreign countries undoubtedly had foreigners living in them, and he was having a hard enough time dealing with the English.
He knew he wanted to someday go to a school, but all he knew about such places were that they were buildings of learning; not where they were, what they looked like, or how you were allowed inside.
There was always the orphanage. Orphans returned to Mrs. Mapleberry’s all the time, and there wasn’t anything really to keep him here. The food was no better, the clothing no more comfortable or well-fitting, and at least Mrs. Mapleberry made sure Edmund knew what was expected of him.
He’d even learned how to have conversations. Not particularly elegant ones, true, but possibly enough to entice some other prospective parents to adopt him.
Is that what he wanted? To be adopted again? What did he want?
Edmund had only been a Moulde for two days, but if he held Matron up to any metric he cared to name, he had to be honest…she wasn’t a very good Mother. Was there something wrong with him if he didn’t want to leave?
There was certainly still a lot of Moulde Hall left to see, and no great hurry to see it all. He hadn’t been very happy at the orphanage, and while he certainly hadn’t been happy at Moulde Hall, he’d seen books he’d never have seen at the orphanage. If he left now, there could be so much more he’d never learn.
Besides, the idea of standing in front of the old woman and telling her he wanted to leave struck Edmund as…unwise.
Vacillation was unfamiliar to Edmund; he had never been a particularly indecisive child, but strange behavior came from strange circumstances. As a scientist and a poet, the idea that a clear and precise answer couldn’t be discovered through logical deduction and careful introspection was an uncomfortable one.
So, he did what every proper gentleman learns to do when confronted with an inconvenient truth; he pointedly and purposefully decided not to think about it. Instead, he left the empty check on the table, placed his empty lunch tray outside the door, and set off into the winding passageways of Moulde Hall to see what else there was to see.
What he found, seconds after leaving the dining room, was Googoltha standing in the middle of the hallway with her hands clasped behind her back.
Edmund stared at her. Googoltha stared back.
“Hello,” he said.
She smiled.
Edmund ran.
Later, when he had the time to take a good long look at himself, he wondered why he had run. He should have been curious about this strange girl that followed Tricknee around like a dog. She was not only the close to his own age, but was also being used by her older guardian as a tool to gain control of the Moulde Family. She rarely talked. They had so much in common.
Later, when he had time to consider further, he wondered how much Googoltha actually knew about what Tricknee was doing. Was she aware that her grandfather was trying to get her adopted by Matron? Did she not want to be a Rotledge anymore? Did she have any choice in the matter?
Still later, after he found, was trapped in, and subsequently escaped the Tombs of the Moulde Family, Edmund came up with a great many answers to these questions, wrote them all down, and then forgot about them because he had been asleep at the time.
This unlikely chain of events could have been avoided if he had, in his rushed panic, turned left at the end of the hallway rather than right.
With a painful bump, Edmund went sprawling. Thin black limbs flailed around him, and a stuttering gasp hissed next to his ear. With a crash, Edmund fell to the floor, a sharp pain in his nose where he had collided with a thick black book.
“Curse you!” spat a voice. “I’ll gut your…Oh! Master…um…Master Edmund?”
Edmund opened his eyes to see Pinsnip sitting on the ground in front of him, books and papers spread around him.
“I’m sorry,” Edmund said.
“Yes…well…” Pinsnip pulled himself up, ducking up and down as he picked up the fallen books. “No matter, no matter, nothing so…you were running from…is everything…alright?”
Edmund nodded because that was what he had learned to do when anyone asked if he was alright.
“Good. Yes. Well, watch where you’re going…next time. I’d love to stay…but things to do…very busy with…the survey! Yes. The survey. Must dash…”
With most of the books and papers back in his hands, Pinsnip ran back the way he had come. Edmund would have considered his behavior curious had he not come to view all Moulde behavior as odd, and therefore perfectly normal.
He glanced down at the two books Pinsnip had left behind. One was a ledger full of hand-written numbers all neatly spaced and carefully organized. The other was…
He reached down to pick it up. Sure enough, the feel of the leather and the tiny scratches on the edge of the cover were the same; this was the book on finance he had taken from Matron’s study. A book that he had last seen sitting on his desk, waiting to be read.
How did Pinsnip have it? Had he taken it from Edmund’s room? Why?
Like as not, Pinsnip had gotten lost and thought Edmund’s room was his own. Then, upon seeing an interesting book, he took it. That made sense to Edmund; it’s what he would have done.
Edmund picked up the book to bring it back to his room.
After a moment of thought, he picked up the ledger too.
After all, if it was Pinsnip’s, he might want it back. He wasn’t sure giving someone something they dropped was proper Moulde-like behavior, but it would be a worthwhile experiment. (Edmund later learned that such behavior was very Moulde-like, as long as a suitable recompense was offered) His resolve set, Edmund marched off to find Pinsnip.
He changed his mind, and his destination, one hallway later. Pinsnip had been running very fast, after all; he’d never catch up. Instead, he would put the ledger in his room and tell Pinsnip when he saw him.
Two hallways later, Edmund’s fingers began playing about the edges of the ledger. Finance was an interesting idea, but here in his hands was its practical application. Yes, the answers had already been done, but he could look through the numbers and follow along. It would be like an autopsy; everyone knew what was in the human body, but now he would actually see it.
Three hallways later, Edmund changed his mind and direction again. Matron’s study was much closer than his room, after all.
When he reached the study, he set the ledger and finance book on the desk and searched the room for a blank sheet of paper. Luckily enough, he found a stack of empty notebooks in a large desk-drawer. A collection of pens was in another.
Selecting one of each, he turned to the first empty page of the notebook and began to copy out the ledger. For an hour, Edmund read, wrote, and scratched out pages after pages of numbers. He added, he subtracted, he divided, multiplied, recursed, modulated, applied, and derived; and when he had finished double-checking his work, he did it all again.
In later years, after his studies at Grimm’s, Edmund created his Unified Theory of Function and Form, a primer for aspiring and intermediate inventors, scientists, artists, and engineers. In it, his central thesis is explained thusly: “Function and Form are not as linked as most people believe. Simply learning or even perfecting the Form is not enough, as through these skills you will not automatically understand the Function. Making the elements of your craft dance is one skill, but interpreting these movements is another altogether.”
It is agreed upon by the scientific and historical community that the seeds of this theory were planted in Edmund when he worked on the ledgers of the Moulde family.
After two hours, Edmund flipped back through his work, frustration boiling in his brain. The numbers were making sense but there was no reason! Any logic behind the mathematics was completely obscure. Why were the numbers added here but not here? Why were they added at all? It reminded him of when he first opened The Mechanics and Structure of Verse, a Primer to the Aspiring Poetic by Sir Peeres Ekes.
Edmund looked up from his work for a moment. Interpret numbers? He was used to the idea of interpreting poetry, but numbers? Numbers were completely different than words, weren’t they?
What if they weren’t? What if they could be poetry too?
Interpretation was the key to communication, and this ledger was trying to communicate. The numbers represented something, but what? The answer came easily — money, of course — but what else?
Sometimes numbers were added, other times subtracted. That must be getting and spending money, Edmund reasoned. But sometimes a certain amount of money was added in one place only for the exact amount to be subtracted again later, or small amounts multiplied several times across the page. Why would anyone want to move their money around like this?
As Edmund flipped through page after page, he suddenly realized he wasn’t looking at different pages of different numbers, but several pages of the same numbers. This wasn’t just money, this was a story.
Eagerly, Edmund started over, tracking each number and tracing its life through the pages. Bit by bit he began to piece together a framework — a narrative that made the numbers rise and fall with purpose rather than chaotic whim.
When Edmund reached the final page of the ledger, something was wrong — the number he expected didn’t show up. Furrowing his brow, he started over with a different narrative, following the trails of numbers like bread crumbs. Again, the numbers didn’t add up.
He tried twice more, but each time there was something wrong. Edmund furrowed his brow and spread the papers out in front of him. What was he missing?
Then it hit him. He wasn’t missing something, the numbers were. Trying once more, Edmund stepped carefully through the pages, tracking numbers that should have been there, but weren’t.
That was it. Hidden deep in the numbers was another story, deeper than the first. Numbers rose and fell as income and outgo fought across the pages; two warring armies pushing back and forth. Money appeared out of nowhere, only to whittle down to nothing in less than a month. Sudden cuts to expenditures gave respite for a time, but before long the gap tightened again, choking the life out of the Moulde Family coffers. Sometimes whole months would pass without income, while expenses steadily eroded the massive fortune. Every once in a while, an expense would drop sharply, or even vanish entirely, but never as fast as the income did.
And it had all been hidden beautifully, in a dance of obscure finance.
Edmund stared at the pages in his hands. The Mouldes were supposed to be a rich family. Not as rich as it had been, of course, but rich just the same. The family was clawing for Matron’s estate, they had to be after something. Maybe someday there had been, but now the ledgers were clear; the Moulde Family was completely broke.
No.
How could the Moulde Family be poor? Matron lived in a house twice the size of a cathedral, and they didn’t have any money? It wasn’t right. Even if they weren’t as rich as a proper Founding Family, they couldn’t be poor. The Wealthy Elite were supposed to be wealthy, how else could they be elite? That was how things were supposed to work. Otherwise…
What else wasn’t how it was supposed to be?
No.
It wasn’t right. The rich were supposed to be rich; that was how it all worked. The world was like a machine. If a single cog wasn’t working, if the Mouldes were poor, then the whole world…
Edmund slammed the ledger shut, and ran out of the room like the fires of hell were lapping at his heels.
Edmund knew this feeling. Edmund was angry.
He had never been angry before, not really angry, but the heavy beats of his heart and the moist clamminess on his palms left him little room for misinterpretation. His body was furious, mirroring the thunderstorm that raged outside.
Everything was wrong.
He had been adopted, but not by a loving family who wanted to take care of him. Instead, he had been adopted by a cranky old woman who was both the Matron of one of the nine Founding Families of Brackenburg and old enough to be a grandmother.
She owned a house larger than a city block, but it wasn’t full of servants like any self-respecting upper-class mansion. Instead, there were only two servants who did all of the jobs.
Edmund had a family, but it wasn’t full of loving siblings and nieces and nephews and parents and grandparents and possibly a pet. Instead, the closest relative Edmund had was an inlaw to Matron’s grand-niece, and no one loved anyone…they barely even liked each other.
His family was rich, but it wasn’t rich at all. They were upper-class, but had no funding. They were landed gentry, but without wealth. They were Old Money, but without the money. They were just old.
A crack of thunder slammed against the stone walls of Moulde Hall. The world smelled of burning ozone, sizzling and crackling through the stale air.
Edmund walked faster, to where he didn’t know. The part of his brain that wasn’t angry kept track of his path, noting the decorations and subtle signposts as he passed. I’m on the third floor, and I recognize that crack. If I turn left here there will be a suit of armor on the right and an urn on the left. Seven meters later is a right turn and the strange painting of a dog will be hanging…there. The next left has a sword and shield on the wall…
His first night at Moulde Hall he had been lost because he didn’t know where he was. This afternoon he was lost because he knew that where he was, was wrong.
The Moulde family was one of the nine Founding Families of Brackenburg. They were supposed to be rich and powerful. Kings and queens from all over Europe had invited them to crownings, weddings, and royal balls. Royalty had married Mouldes before. The family wasn’t just gentry, they were upper-class.
Maybe Matron had made a mistake.
Machines only worked if every piece did what it was supposed to. If a gear suddenly pulled instead of pushed, or a valve opened instead of closed, the entire machine would break down. It would fall apart. If the rich weren’t rich…
Was Brackenburg doomed? Was Great Britannia? Had Edmund seen his first glimpse of the End Of The World?
Edmund stumbled as the mansion quaked underneath his heavy feet. A flash of lightning flashed as he fell, sprawling to the floor in a heap. For a moment he lay there, his breathing laboured as a loud thunderclap split the air.
The Moulde family wasn’t rich. Parents didn’t love their children. Families didn’t care for each other. He wasn’t an heir. He couldn’t learn how to be a Moulde. Everything had been a lie.
The Mansion struck five.
With the deep metallic sound reverberating in his mind, days of wandering the labyrinthine halls of the Moulde Estate yawned in front of Edmund’s eyes. Matron’s cruel visage beckoned to him with thick clock-hands, parading him like a circus amusement in front of relative after unfamiliar relative, who either ignored him or laughed at him with the loud whispering of black rain on the windows.
Slowly, the anger ebbed from Edmund’s body. His choler spent, a phlegmatic resignation washed over him, filling him with exhaustion and a profound sense of awareness. What use was his anger? He should feel delighted at the discovery. He had finally learned what it was that brought orphans back to the orphanage time and time again.
He had been a child. Young. Naive, even for an eight-year-old. It was comforting, really, to know that he had finished his rite of passage. He could return to the orphanage now, older and wiser.
Edmund picked himself up off the floor, gripping a nearby column for support.
A click, barely audible through the torrential rain, made him stop. The column’s fluting felt uneven under his hand. Peeking around the small pillar, he found a tiny catch recessed into the marble; his finger had pressed it quite by accident. Glancing around, Edmund’s eye fell on a hairline crack in the near wall. He pushed, causing it to swing away from him like a door.
Between the walls lay a thin secret passageway, stretching off into the darkness.
No.
Edmund gripped the trim of the wall and pulled the secret door shut with another soft click. The hairline crack vanished, leaving the wall as pristine as it had been before.
There. That was how it was supposed to look. No hidden secrets. No lies. Proper. Solid. Dependable. British.
Edmund turned and began to calmly walk towards his room.
Whatever else happened, Edmund was adamant. Even if he had no where else to go besides Mrs. Mapleberry’s, he was going to be an orphan again.