Chapter 16
Edmund cast the lantern around the tomb, casting shadows over the rough stone. Plinkerton didn’t create this room; it was far too old. The long steps and secret door weren’t likely the original entrance either; people would notice if the crypt of the first Moulde was suddenly covered by a clock statue. There had to be another way out…the original way out.
Edmund was beginning to realize the problem with trying to be three things at once; a person, a Moulde, and an Edmund. It required him to translate the confusing thoughts and actions of others three times before he could understand the situation with precision.
On the one hand, if Edmund had designed the room, he would have put an exit here. He knew he wasn’t average, though, and an average person would probably expect the exit to be here, but the room wasn’t built by an average person. It was built by a Moulde, so the exit would likely be…
Edmund walked to the wall opposite Orpha’s throne. He ran his hand along the stone, lower than Pinsnip had, searching for mortar that wasn’t as dark or smooth as the rest of the wall.
Sure enough, at the base of the wall Edmund found a small patch of wall that was newer than the rest. Not much newer — a century at most, by his estimation — but there was no hiding the difference in stones.
No wonder Pinsnip had missed it, it was barely higher than his shins. Edmund traced the rough mortar with his fingers; the new wall filled in what must have once been a small arch, just big enough for an adult to crawl through.
Typical Moulde behavior. If you wanted to see the first Matron of the Moulde Family, you had to crawl in on your hands and knees. Debase yourself for the honor of baring witness; an ideal entombment.
It took a moment for Edmund to look around for a suitable digging tool, and when he didn’t find one, to fetch a thin but strong rib-bone from Orpha’s throne. After all, he reasoned, the worst had been done to her already.
Edmund scraped the thin bone against the old mortar, grinding and spattering crumbs of rock everywhere. It was hard going, but the bone was strong and the mortar of poor quality
According to the ever-wound watch, it took half an hour before he could remove the first stone. His arm was aching and his breath was short, but after he managed to pry a single loose brick from the wall, he redoubled his efforts; pulling at chunks of ancient mortar and dry stone.
Another half-hour and there was a hole big enough for Edmund to shine the lantern. Even in the dim light he could see the other side of the wall was a crumbling mausoleum. Flickers of dusty light danced in the room beyond as he swung the lantern back and forth.
Another half-hour and he had a hole big enough to crawl through. After checking to make sure he still had the writs of investment, Edmund plucked up Orpha’s skull on impulse and took it with him.
Through the small opening was a narrow room with a doorway at the far end. The long room was full of alcoves, coffins, burnt out torches stuck in the wall, and rotted wood. A soft echo of dripping water from somewhere far ahead drifted through the air like the popping of distant frogs.
Cranking his lantern, Edmund walked forward, avoiding the gaze of the skulls that stared out of the dark alcoves from crumbling coffins.
As he made his way through one room and then another, the mausoleum began to change. The coffin’s wood quality improved, and the rooms became more ornate. Carved stone sigils marked important Mouldes’ final resting places flanked by tall braziers.
It was a history. Edmund had never had one before. He thought he had been given one when Matron adopted him, but it had been an assumed history made up from Edmund’s imagination and the sensation of the past leaking from the old walls and floors of Moulde Hall.
When he found the books of Moulde Hall he had the facts. The truth in the words on the page and beautiful Aoide had given him a link — a solid connection to the lives and ancestors that came before him.
That history was nothing compared to the history that lay around him now. Skeletons crammed into old rotting wood and dusty placards with names crumbled to dust, history long forgotten save as a feast for vermin. If the library had made his history come alive, this tomb was where his history had died.
Memento Mori. Never had this been more clear to Edmund than now.
As he walked further, the rooms became unfinished. Stacks of rotted coffins loomed from shadowy corners while half-chiseled names and empty plinths belied the lack of care or concern for the Mouldes’ dead. Halfway through the next room, the mausoleum stopped at a misshapen tunnel. Smaller tunnels branched off here and there from the main tunnel. Broken and rusted picks stuck in the ground next to shattered clay lamps and rotten candles.
This forsaken crypt must have once been an old vein of coal, long since mined dry by the Moulde Family’s labors. They must have found the vein while building more room to bury their dead. Coal was more valuable than graveyards at the time, after all.
Edmund plunged onward, winding his way further into Haggard Hill. How long had it taken before everyone had forgotten about the sepulcher that hid beneath the ground? Plinkerton hadn’t forgotten; he had found it and used it. There was a certain romanticism to the choice; what better place to hide the seeds to rebuild the family then among the fertilizer of the first Mouldes?
As he walked, the walls became smoother and the floor wider; the passage better kept with newer stones and coffins — perhaps just one century old, rather than several. Edmund soldiered on, pushing deeper and deeper into the dark caverns, past room after room of ancient skeletons and corpses, until he came to an old door hanging loosely on rusty hinges.
The door opened into a tall cylindrical room. The well-like ceiling stretched up into the darkness, far beyond Edmund’s meager lantern’s range. The walls were smooth and red, with a small panel next to the door with a button on it.
Edmund stared at the button, feeling foolish; he’d never suspected the Elevator could go lower than the first floor. Pressing the button, he waited patiently. After a few moments, the tell-tale rattling of Moulde Hall’s elevator reached Edmund’s ears as it slowly descended towards him.
After taking a long journey skywards, the elevator ground to a halt on the first floor. Edmund’s heart lifted as the familiar rhythmic vibration of the foyer clock shook his feet. He checked his new watch; they were synchronized. It was one in the morning.
Relief flooded Edmund’s veins. It was a sensation born of comfort and safety that he hadn’t expected, but there it was. Some part of him knew that Moulde Hall was his home.
Quick as a wink, he jumped through the hallways and secret passages until he found his way to his room again. With exhaustion creeping up through his chest, he collapsed onto his bed.
He immediately jumped up again. This was no time to rest. Moulde Hall was his home, and he was going to fight for it. He pulled a pen from his desk, filled it with an eye-dropper, and began to write.
He didn’t quite know what he was writing, but he knew it was important. He plotted away the rest of the night, scribbling at his desk, images of ticking clockwork filling his mind.
Edmund awoke the next morning at his desk with pages of tight writing clustered around his head. The faint mists of sleep faded when his eyes met the sobering gaze of Orpha Moulde. Her skull had sat on his desk all night, staring at him. Or watching over him. Edmund wasn’t sure, yet.
Sitting upright, Edmund pulled the pages closer and began to read. He couldn’t remember much from last night; he must have fallen asleep soon after he started writing. He vaguely remembered a feeling of revelation, an intractable problem solved and impossible obstacle overcome.
He hoped he had written it down so he could remember what it was.
Most of the pages were simple lists detailing what he had found in the hallways of Moulde Hall, the things he had learned, and what he knew about his cousins. A few pages were long streams of consciousness, touching on the loss of Plinkerton’s designs and the difficulties of convincing his family that there was a better way of behaving.
One whole page was empty except for a single underlined word: Googoltha. Edmund stared at the word. She was vital…but he couldn’t remember why. Something to do with Tricknee…or the Rotledges? It related to the tombs…or was it the coal?
One page had a strange design of a small rod and a machine that could make them. It took Edmund a moment to understand what he had invented in his sleep, but once he grasped the idea, he nodded appreciatively. It would be a useful to have for after he had dealt with his family.
The last page was a large net of circles and lines connecting scribbled thoughts and ideas together like a web. “Moulde Hall” was written in the center, with lines reaching out to “Moulde” and “Rotledge.” The cousins were each placed in their proper circles, with crossing lines spreading over the page. “Library” was tied to “Aoide,” while “blood feud” squatted off to the side, connecting both the families together. “Haggard Hill” sat under “Moulde Hall,” and “coal mine” was under that. “Matron” was written down, and then crossed out. It had taken Edmund only a moment to realize that she was connected to almost everything.
Where was she?
Edmund shook the thought from his head. Where ever she had gone, it wasn’t here, and as far as Edmund was concerned, the Here and Now mattered far more than the There and Then.
Next to her crossed-out name was “The Founding Families” and a deep underline. Edmund stared. Why had he thought they were important? He hadn’t drawn lines from them to anything else, but they must have connected to something. He would have tried to connect them to…using his finger, Edmund began to trace imaginary lines about the page.
Revelation struck over the words “blood feud.” Flipping back through his notes, Edmund stared at the underlined “Googoltha.” That was what he had been trying to tell himself!
Edmund leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. It was certainly possible, but he would need help from Ung and Mrs. Kippling. Would they help if he told them what he was doing? Possibly, but if he instead told them…
Like falling leaves, piece after piece fell into place, creating a perfect picture of his plan. It wasn’t perfect — He would need to spend a lot of time in the library to make sure the Law would bear him out — but if he was right…if his cousins did what he expected, and the Founding Families did the same…
It took a full day and seven separate law-books before Edmund was satisfied it was a clever plan, and it took him almost two weeks from conception to implementation.
Setting up all of the pieces took most of the time. Rather than risk his cousins discovering his plans, Edmund lived like a rat for a week and a half, darting between the walls, through hidden doors, and behind tapestries when no one was around. He looked through peep holes and listened at doors to make sure no one would see or hear him, and he only left the safety of the walls to sleep in his room or work in the library.
He periodically spied on his family but their behavior hadn’t changed. If they were surprised at his continued absence from their lessons, they made no outward sign of it. Either they hadn’t noticed, or they were so desperate to hide that they knew from the rest of the family that it made no difference.
It was only then that Edmund realized how clever Matron had been: not only had she played off the Mouldes against each other with the help of Edmund’s spying, but she had balanced them so carefully that each was in the perfect position to thwart the other. If Junapa made a move, Kolb or Pinsnip could immediately counter her. Tunansia held several lynchpins that could set Tricknee toppling if he tried to subvert Pinsnip or Wislydale’s plans — which they couldn’t act on while Junapa crouched, waiting for them. It was a tentative and tumultuous equilibrium.
But their stability couldn’t last forever, so it was with a firm sense of relief that Edmund placed the last pieces of his plan together, and as the second week after he escaped the crypt came to its close, he slipped out of the walls behind Ung, eager to repay him for the several sudden appearances that had startled him during his stay at Moulde Hall.
“Excuse me, Ung,” he said, a bit louder than usual.
Ung turned, unfazed. “Yes, Young Master?” he asked.
Edmund was a little disappointed, but the excitement of the occasion bouyed him. “Can you fetch my cousins and have them join me in the large sitting room?”
“As you say, Young Master,” Ung gave a small bow, heavy hand over his heart. “At what time shall I tell them to meet you?”
“Four-o-clock sharp,” he said, heading to the sitting room to wait. “Oh, and don’t tell any of them it’s a family meeting. Let them think I want to speak to each of them alone.”
After entering the sitting-room, Edmund only paused a moment before striding to the largest chair and sitting himself down. Measuring thrice as tall as him, it was clearly the spot reserved for the head of the family.
He felt a little silly, like a child’s doll propped up in play-repose, but he forced himself to stay seated. He had worked hard to earn the right to sit in that chair, he wasn’t going to give it up just because he was uncertain.
He waited for a quarter of an hour, staring into the massive empty fireplace and worrying that no one would come. The shock of Edmund’s reappearance, to say nothing of the novelty of a personal request, should have piqued their curiosity enough to attend. All the same, it wasn’t hard to imagine his cousins laughing in dismissive scorn and carrying on with their day.
The walls struck four-o-clock moments before Pinsnip entered the room, sliding in like a shadow. He darted from door to chair, sniffing the air like a prowling wolf, when his eyes locked with Edmund’s.
“Well,” he murmured, his fingers sliding over each other like snakes. “Well, well…I… I did underestimate you, Master Edmund. How did you get out?”
“I have decided,” Edmund said, after some thought, “to not give you what you deserve.”
Pinsnip paused, his mouth hanging open. If he was going to reply, he did not get the chance before the doors swung open again as Junapa stepped into the room, her long black dress glittering in the dim gas-light.
The confident Pinsnip vanished in an instant, collapsing back to his familiar stammering self. “Junapa!” he gaped. “We…that is…Edmund and I, we were…just talking about…”
“I see this is to be a family meeting?” Junapa interrupted, clasping her hands in front of her. “Ung didn’t tell me that.”
“Nor me,” Pinsnip muttered, darting a suspicious glance at Edmund. “I take it… that is… are the others arriving soon?”
“Don’t be a fool, Pinsnip. You and I don’t have anything to discuss with him, so master Edmund must have invited everyone.”
Edmund was delighted that his little ruse had been so quickly discovered. If this fact seems unusual or unexpected, that too was precisely Edmund’s goal.
Junapa lay herself on a chaise longue, resting her head on her hand. “If we’re lucky, he called us here to inform us of the death of our dear Matron. I can only presume he was at her bedside these past two weeks, since we haven’t seen either of them much recently.” Junapa smiled. “I hope it was painful.”
“Oh…no, I…” Pinsnip’s face fell. “Is she dead? I wanted to…well…I suppose it’s too late…”
“Matron is in as fine health, as always,” Edmund said, hoping he was right.
The door opened with a bang to reveal Kolb, who leapt into the room with a single bound, barely stopping at all as he noticed the others.
“How wonderfully welcome!” he said, his piercing eyes encircling the room. “I was wondering if my meeting with the suddenly remergant Young Master would be mano-a-mano. Am I to assume that this is a meeting with our entire family?”
“I do not believe that Matron will be joining us,” Edmund said. Even this small concession to her absence felt like a knife through his heart.
Kolb’s smile became a bit more sincere. “Thank heaven for small favors. I would be delighted to hear where you have been these past weeks.”
“I admit to a curiosity myself,” Junapa cocked an eyebrow.
Edmund didn’t say a word.
Tunansia and Wislydale entered next, both with sour looks on their faces. They had obviously met in the hall and deduced where they were both headed.
“Must we meet like this?” Wislydale murmured into his drink. “I have a great many things to do before supper, what?”
“I promise this won’t take long.” Edmund said.
Wislydale shrugged, and headed for the drinks cabinet while Tunansia sat across from Edmund, her eyes narrow and burning.
No one moved, no one spoke. They all sat and stood in silence like statues as they waited for Tricknee to arrive. Like chess pieces waiting for someone to made a fatal mistake — or at least a mistake that could be made fatal.
Edmund stared at the terrible tableau of his family as they all stared at him, waiting for some movement, some twitch of breath or muscle that would betray his plans. Doubt began to creep through his heart; these were the people he wanted to come together? He couldn’t possibly succeed. His plan was doomed.
He had just opened his mouth to send everyone away with some benign excuse, when Tricknee burst through the door with Googoltha in tow. He snorted in derision and threw himself into the closest chair, snapping his fingers and pointing at the floor in front of him. Googoltha jumped forward and sat in front of him like a hunting dog. She looked around the room, locked eyes with Edmund, and smiled.
It was not her normal tooth-filled smile; it was small and simple without a single flicker of sharp teeth. There was something soothing in her gently curving mouth.
Edmund swallowed his nerves as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out three letters, holding them out in front of him like a shield.
“I have invited the heads of three of the other Founding Families for a little gathering. I have informed them of your presence at Moulde Hall, and they are expecting to enjoy a meal with all of us.”
“You did what?” Tunansia snapped. “You can’t do that!”
“Of course he can,” Pinsnip said, his tone uncertain. “He’s…well…the heir, isn’t he?”
“Call it off,” Tricknee snarled, hitting his fist on his chair. “You can’t possibly be ready to host another Founding Family, let alone three. Send another letter telling the old crumbs to go away and leave us alone.”
“Unthinkable!” Junapa said. “Un-invite a head of a Founding Family? Think of the scandal!”
“I don’t think Tricknee cares about scandalous situations, dear cousin,” Kolb stepped forward, posing to orate. “Perhaps we should prepare ourselves for pomp and performance? Even the heads of the honorable houses that helped hatch this humble hamlet deserve to be shown a grand old time every once in a while. Besides, I’m positive the Moulde Family could piece together a…passible presentation, given time. When is this little soiree to take place? In two months? Three?”
“Tomorrow,” Edmund checked Plinkerton’s ever-wound watch; it was a quarter past four. “They said they’d be here at six for dinner.”
For a moment, there was silence.
“Tomorrow?” Pinsnip shouted.
“At six?” Wislydale’s glass was emptied in a single swallow and then dropped on the floor in shock. “So early in the evening? And you tell us now? I say, old thing, you must be joking! It takes weeks to prepare for hosting a Founding Family, what? And money! Have there been preparations?”
“I don’t think so,” Edmund said. “Mrs. Kippling is making soup.”
There was a pause no longer than a heartbeat, then chaos reigned. Everyone was on their feet and talking at once.
“We’re finished!” Wislydale moaned, gripping his head in his hands. “The families will disown us! We’ll lose our credit, our standing…we’ll be commoners!”
“No one will fund my expeditions,” Kolb ranted, jerking about like a puppet. “Who would fund a former Founding Family-member? I’ll have to play…music halls!”
“You’ve ruined us,” Tunansia spat. “Don’t think you’ll get away with it! We’ll tell them exactly who to blame for our being unprepared!”
“They won’t care” Junapa snapped. “It was a Moulde who invited them, so it’s the Mouldes who will be shamed. I didn’t even bring a dress remotely appropriate to wear for hosting the heads of the other families!”
“By Jove, you’re right!” Wislydale’s hands flew to his throat. “We’ll have to buy clothes!”
They vanished in seconds, leaving Edmund alone, save Tricknee who was staring at Edmund with undisguised loathing. He shifted himself with a sniff, slowly standing with Googoltha’s help.
“You think this will change anything? I know the Families. I promise you, they only agreed to come for the show. They’ll laugh at us like they always do, leave, and we’ll all return to the bickering and fighting like we did before.” He paused at the door, a small smile flitting across his face. “But it was fun to watch them panic.”
When the door latched behind Tricknee, Edmund checked his watch. In at least five minutes, his cousins would enter their rooms to find perfectly appropriate clothing cleaned, pressed, and draped on their beds.
He had found detailed rules in the library about proper clothing etiquette for when hosting the patrons and matrons of the Founding Families. Finding the clothing in the storage rooms of Moulde Hall hadn’t been difficult once he knew what to look for, and having Mrs. Kippling clean them was simplicity itself.
Once they possessed proper clothing, where first his cousins saw nothing but doom, now there would be hope. One of them, probably Kolb, would take it upon himself to approach Mrs. Kippling and urge her to improve her menu for the evening. Thanks to Edmund, she would have a recipe all picked out. Ung had already paid the grocer in town with a large silver statue, and relayed Edmund’s orders to be ready to give a large amount of quality goods to anyone from Moulde Hall who stopped by, looking rushed.
On the way back, Kolb would likely run into the florist who had promised (after being paid with a copper candlestick) that she would stroll past Haggard Hill at five on the dot. She had also agreed to stock exacting amounts of seven types of flowers that could be easily utilized by a clever Moulde who knew something of proper arrangement.
Then would come the question of the tea. Then small-talk. Then twenty to thirty other problems that needed solutions, and as fortune would have it, every problem that they considered would just happen to have a ready and simple solution at hand, poised to be snatched up or employed by an enterprising Moulde. With every success, their humours would shift in their bodies like a weighted scale. As their fears sank, their passions would rise. Certain failure would become possible success.
Edmund could have simply purchased everything at once and told Ung and Mrs. Kippling to arrange everything. There had been time; but Edmund’s goal had not just been to arrange a reception for the Founding Families.
If Edmund knew the Mouldes at all, he knew that when their backs were to the wall, they would fight like rabid animals. This time they would all fight together against a common threat, like the organs in a body, like the gears and springs of a watch.