Chapter 18
A pin falling on a carpet from the height of an ant’s back could have broken the silence. The air itself froze, not daring to cross the room for fear of disrupting the stunned tableau.
Tricknee had no such restraint.
“WHAT?!”
His lanky body unfolded in a flurry of black limbs, rushing towards Edmund like a wrinkled thresher machine.
“Please forgive me, Mister Tricknee,” words tumbled from his mouth in an avalanche, desperate to slow his meteoric advance, “I know we agreed to reveal this later, but I simply cannot in good conscience keep such important news from our honored guests. After all,” inspiration struck, “they have clearly expressed how much they hate surprises.”
A snort from Matron Scower was all the agreement he received. It was more than he had hoped, however, and it was enough to make Tricknee pause, his spindly hands grasping at the air inches from Edmund’s throat. After a moment, the burning fury in his eyes dimmed to icy hate. Deep in his irises, Edmund saw the thousand unnatural tortures Tricknee was planning for him, and the slow and inexorable death that would follow.
“I don’t like surprises either,” Tricknee hissed. “Is this really what you want to do, boy? You think it wise?”
“I do,” Edmund stood firm. “I think they’ll agree its time the blood feud between the Moudles and Rotledges was settled.”
“The feud settled?” Patron Vanndegaar mused, scratching under his patch. “I would have thought your families would take your little grudge to the grave.”
“I agree,” said Matron Cromley, her soft smile widening. “Tricknee, that’s a spot of forward thinking I wasn’t expecting from you.”
Everything depended now on Tricknee. Would he ruin everything just to embarrass Edmund, calling him a liar? Or would he play along to discern exactly what Edmund had planned?
They stared at each other for what felt like minutes. Then, for barely a second, Tricknee’s eyes flicked towards the heads of the families.
“Well then, boy,” Tricknee said, a tiny knife-point hidden in his tone, “you’ve started this little show, why don’t you finish it? I’m sure everyone is curious as to what could possibly convince me to allow you to marry my granddaughter.”
“Yes, Master Edmund,” Junapa said sweetly, her voice trembling only slightly. “What…on earth…could be going through your head right now? What do the Rotledges have that we could possibly want?”
“Or, indeed,” Wislydale coughed, “what do the Mouldes have that the Rotledges don’t already have?”
Edmund clasped his hands in front of him. “I think you’ll find there are several things that we can offer each other.”
Now came the difficult part. Both Tricknee and Edmund had to work out a deal while convincing the Family Heads that they had agreed on one long ago. They were walking a taught thread; neither could outright deny the other lest the ruse be revealed. This meant neither Edmund nor Tricknee could demand anything too great or offer anything too little. They each needed to know exactly what the other would be willing to accept.
Edmund briefly wondered if Tricknee had ever played chess.
“We are a fresh start for each other,” Edmund began. “The Great Agreement, which was intended to unite our families in compromise, has done nothing but breed animosity.”
“Because the Mouldes cheated us with brazen lies!” Tricknee spat.
“Quite right,” Edmund said.
Had they been in a music hall, or theatrical building, the onlookers would have gasped. Even Tricknee almost choked on his surprise rage at being agreed with.
“You’re just going to…/admit/ that?” Pinsnip gaped.
“It’s true,” Edmund shrugged.
“Hardly,” Tunansia snapped. “The Founding Families have been pulling tricks like that for centuries. The Rotledges are just sore losers. The Mouldes are no more criminals than any other Founding Family.”
No one disagreed.
Edmund splayed his fingers towards Tunansia. “This is the other side of the Feud: Because of Patron Falderdahl Moulde’s trickery, the Mouldes are all criminals. Without the promised fortune, the Rotledges are all common paupers. The Mouldes don’t have the honor and dignity that comes so easily to the Rotledges, while they have not been afforded the lifestyle they deserve. United, we can wipe away the grime and rust from both of our families, and become brilliant beacons for the Bourgeoisie once again.”
Kolb winked his appreciative applause at the alliteration.
“You think a wedding will fix all that?” Matron Cromley interrupted. “The granddaughter of an old Rotledge who is on the outs wedding a Moulde?”
“Wedding an Heir,” Edmund corrected, “with a lineage that reaches further than any other family. It was a Moulde that found the coal vein under Haggard Hill, a Moulde that stood by your families when war came to Brackenburg, and a Moulde that created the Plinkerton engines that ran many of the factories that made this city the wonder that it is.”
“I think,” Tricknee interjected. “Matron Cromley means that a marriage is not nearly enough to wipe clean so many generations of strife. She is quite correct, and that is why there will also be reparations.” He turned to Edmund, his eyes glittering. “I’m sure they are curious about the dowry you agreed to give the Rotledges…that is, how much the Moulde Estate can spare for this union.”
Restitution. Fine. I had expected this…
“Of course,” he said, turning back to the assembly. “This feud started all because of a dispute over the coal mine that lies beneath this very mansion. In a sign of good will and sign of sincerity, the Moulde Family will also be signing all mining rights pertaining to Haggard Hill over to the Rotledges when we are married.”
But for a sudden burst of self-control, Tricknee’s mouth would have dropped open. Everyone else was likewise preoccupied with keeping their jaws closed. Edmund was delighted; the Mine had been sacrosanct for so long no one had even considered its power as a bargaining tool.
“But…there isn’t a fleck of coal in Haggard Hill anymore, what?” Wislydale snorted.
Edmund nodded. “Quite correct. And since there is no coal left, Tricknee and I agreed that it is a silly thing to divide two of the founding families over. I have no qualms or hesitations in signing over all mining rights to the Rotledge family.”
“Typical Moulde,” Tricknee’s sneer was like oil. “Rotledges don’t need to wade in to bad news. Tell them the whole deal; we decided that all legal land rights would be transferred.”
Good! I knew you’d get greedy…
“I say…I don’t believe it.” Wislydale’s head drifted from side to side.
“You’re giving Haggard Hill to the Rotledges?” Kolb exclaimed, his voice cracking slightly. “We’ll be…renters?”
“That’s right,” Edmund said, carefully leaving the merest hint of defeat in his tone — just enough for Tricknee to hear. “Once we are married, the grounds of Haggard Hill will belong to the Rotledges.”
He fought to keep his gaze from Pinsnip. You know the law…you saw the flaw in Wislydale’s plan that first night…
Sure enough, it was only a moment before the stunned silence was cracked by Pinsnip’s sudden understanding; “But…um…when she’s married…all her property falls to her husband.”
Tricknee’s delighted sneer faltered.
“She’s his granddaughter, whatever else she is,” Edmund recited, “and the deed remains signed.”
He had double-checked the law books several times to make sure. As long as the deed bore the name Rotledge, it was the Rotledge’s, no matter who actually possessed the property. Then, as husband to the owner and minister of the land, Edmund was legal and social guardian of the real estate. Both families had a claim, and neither was completely in control.
“A legal deadlock,” a hint of understanding slipped into Tricknee’s tone. “One that neither the Rotledges nor the Mouldes would do well to untangle.” His eye twitched. “For neither Haggard Hill nor Moulde Hall itself.”
Okay…okay, I can work with this. Don’t push him away…
“Yes,” Edmund nodded, “though the Rotledges will only be cosigners for the Mansion, of course. There is a lot of history in the building, and we agreed the Moulde Family wouldn’t take to any deal that deprived them of their heritage outright.”
“Sharing it isn’t much better,” Tunansia spat.
Tricknee sneered. “It’s what you get,” he snorted before settling back in his chair.
Lucky, lucky Moulde, Edmund breathed again. He would have to find some way to thank Tunansia when this was over.
“All perfectly legal,” Matron Cromley grinned. “A clever offer, I must say. But as much as I hate to interject myself, I’m certain dear Samsuel also asked for something more…material?”
“Ah yes,” Tricknee coughed, recollecting his composure. “The dowry. After all, the Great Agreement drained the Rotledges’ coffers quite considerably, and we certainly wouldn’t settle for anything less than a substantial amount of interest. We agreed upon thirty-thousand.”
Edmund could hear the unvoiced gasps from his cousins. A quick glance was all Edmund needed to see that the Family Heads were astonished as well.
Struggle a bit, make it look good…
“Did —” Edmund took a breath, “did we not agree to twenty-thousand?”
“No,” Tricknee’s teeth gleamed. “I refused, if you remember.”
“Thirty-thousand pounds?” Patron Vandegaar sniffed, tilting his head back. “That would be a remarkable dowry for any of us.”
“Indeed,” Matron Cromley patted her chest in amazement. “To think, I’ve heard that the Moulde family was nearing destitution. Exactly how are you planning to afford such a dowry?”
Look proud, let them think you’ve been goaded into it…
“I assure you, Matron Cromley,” Edmund drew himself up, “reports of our poverty have been greatly exaggerated. We still own many properties around Brakenburg, to say nothing of several factories that still operate with Plinkerton engines.”
“Hardly enough to support a dowry of thirty-thousand,” Matron Scower sucked at a tooth.
We could argue all day, I could show you the numbers, but that would only prove your point; the rich don’t need to argue they’re rich, they just are.
Edmund stuck out his jaw. He had practiced for hours until he was certain he had found the optimal distance. “In fact,” he said, “I have a check right here.”
All eyes followed Edmund’s hand as it slipped into his jacket pocket. He took out the writ of investment signed by Plinkerton Moulde and countersigned by a previous Patron of the Rotledge family, and handed it to Tricknee.
The old man’s face was like stone. Not a single muscle moved as he stared at the writ. His eyes were blank. His nose-hairs hardly even moved as he breathed. A small flame of doubt quivered in Edmund’s chest; had he pushed too far? Would Tricknee cut off his nose to spite his face?
If Tricknee accepted Edmund’s offer, he would be a hero to the Rotledge family; the Rotledge who finally won not only the mining rights away from the Mouldes, but all of Haggard Hill. All it would take was a marriage, which would give Googoltha what Tricknee had wanted for her anyway.
Of course, it was largely a symbolic victory — the marriage would insure the Mouldes still retained control over the property — but symbolism mattered to the Founding Families. It looked like Edmund had given Tricknee enough money to buy away his prejudice, and that would have to be a substantial amount, hadn’t it? The Mouldes had to have money again.
No one would ever hear about the loan, of course. Edmund wouldn’t say anything, and Tricknee wouldn’t want anyone to know how close the Rotledge family came to ruin because of the Mouldes. The writ was worth well over thirty thousand pounds. He would keep his pride.
Of course, there was another way to look at it: In the end, when all was said and done, Tricknee would lose a granddaughter and the Rotledges would receive nothing practical in return. It was all words; no money would change hands, the Mouldes would still live on Haggard Hill, and there was nothing really to prevent the Rotledges and the Mouldes from fighting just as before.
Come to think of it, Tricknee had the writ in his hands right now. He could tear it up, throw it in the fireplace, and laugh in Edmund’s face.
Maybe he shouldn’t have let go until he had Tricknee’s answer.
Edmund’s heart began to beat faster as time stretched on like Mrs. Kippling’s pea-soup. Tricknee stayed frozen while the room held its breath. Everyone stared, and waited, and watched, and listened.
Please…please…
Then, Tricknee lowered the writ. His eyes snapped up, and Edmund was shocked to see a shimmer in his left eye.
“Will you keep her safe?” his lips barely moved. His voice was so soft only Edmund could hear.
An odd question, but there was only one thing a proper suitor could do. He gave a firm nod of his head.
After a moment, Tricknee returned it.
Edmund whirled to the nearby table and snatched up a pen. Filling it from the inkwell, he scrawled his name as fast as he could on the waiting contract. “Here we are. Now all it needs is your signature, and the arrangement will be fully legal. I will be wed to Googoltha in ten years, and the Rotledge family will receive the money and land rights to Haggard Hill.”
Tricknee stepped forward and picked up the pen. The look he spared Edmund was one of seething anger, wary respect, and not a little fear. His signature was long and looping, a contrast to his angular personality. When he set the pen down again, it was the sound of history being made.
Edmund turned to the three heads of the families. “And now we come to you, our honored guests, and why I really asked you here; we will need witnesses. We would be honored if you too would sign this document.” He carefully lay the pen down on the marriage certificate.
The three heads sat bemused at the scene in front of them. After a pause, Matron Scower stood up from her seat.
“I believe it is time for dinner. Then we can discuss signing this contract of yours.”
All things considered, the meal was a shocking success. Mrs. Kippling had managed to create a most exotic array of delicate — if still bland — soups and stews that Edmund had ever seen. Even Tricknee professed pleasant surprise at the bowls put in front of him.
After supper, they all withdrew to the sitting room again for tea, filling the room with quiet gossip, forced laughter, and uncomfortable chatting about family politics. Conspicuous by their absence were the usual snide comments and biting remarks.
If Edmund hadn’t been paying attention, it would have looked like a perfectly normal dysfunctional family. Reeling from the double blow of the Heads of the Families’ sudden arrival and the equally sudden end of the feud between the Rotledges and the Mouldes, his cousins had little passion to plot or plan. Instead, the Mouldes were falling back on defense, making sure their important guests saw their best behavior.
Junapa, Tricknee, and Matron Scower all conversed with short clipped speech, each unwilling to engage in too much discourse with the others, but equally unwilling to let the others mingle with anyone else. Kolb and Wislydale were speaking with Matron Cromley, trading stories and talking with animated movements. Tunansia had managed to corner Patron Vanndegaar and talked incessantly about his fine clothing and dashing airs. Sometimes she would ask a question about his scar or cane, only to blush and giggle with such ferocity that he was forced to offer her assistance before he could reply. Pinsnip darted in and out of conversation like a scavenger, keeping his back to the wall and slowly circling the room.
Even Googoltha showed up a bit later, smiling her chilling smile and not saying a word. If she was surprised or distressed by the news that she was going to marry Edmund one day, she made no sign or protest.
Edmund chose to sit in the corner and watch his handiwork. Would Matron have been proud of him? There was no way to know for sure. He only hoped that she wasn’t too disappointed, wherever she was.
Finally, mansion struck nine. As the chimes faded, Matron Cromley set down her tea-cup and cleared her throat, startling everyone with her sudden shout:
“All right, everyone out. We need to talk with Master Edmund. Go on now, clear out before we get perturbed.”
There was a flurry of fabric and pearls. Edmund barely had time to think before the sitting room was emptied of his cousins, and he found himself staring at the tall Patron Vanndegaar, the thin Matron Scower, and the broad Matron Cromley. They all stood with cold purpose chiseled in their faces, like a tribunal of judges about to pass sentence.
Edmund shifted in his chair. He hadn’t expected anything like this.
“Well now, Master Edmund,” Matron Cromley said, a twinkle in her eye. “You’ve had quite an evening, haven’t you?”
“I suppose I have,” he admitted.
Matron Scower sniffed, glancing at the closed doors. “That Googoltha is an odd duck, isn’t she? Does she do anything except smile with those pointy teeth?”
“She’s very nice. I’m happy about marrying her.” Edmund wondered if he was lying.
“I’m sure you are,” Matron Cromley smiled kindly.
“Of course, we can’t allow it,” Patron Vanndegaar said. “We will not sign as witnesses.” The Matrons both shook their heads in agreement.
Edmund gaped. “But…why not? It’s happened before. Feddric Rotledge married Pollina Moulde — "
“Neither Pollina nor Fredric were heirs,” Matron Scower snapped. “You are. Besides, that was generations ago, and that was what started all this trouble between the Rotledges and the Mouldes in the first place. We can’t let another feud sprout up, so we are not going to give consent and we are not going to sign your little document as witnesses. Now give up this foolish idea and go back to playing with your toys.”
“It’s not that it wasn’t clever, my lad,” Matron Cromley said, sympathetically. “It was, rather. Quite clever indeed, for such a young age. If I didn’t know Matron would never let anyone else do her dirty work, I would have thought she had planned this for you.”
“But…but we’ll go back to fighting!” Edmund protested. It was so obvious, he couldn’t understand why they didn’t see it. “The Mouldes and the Rotledges will keep fighting each other and nothing will ever get any better! And if the Moulde family fails, then the other families will all fight each other to pick at the corpse — you can’t want that to happen!”
“Oh my dear boy,” Matron Cromley looked shocked. “Of course not! No, we don’t want that to happen at all! In fact, we would love to let you marry that young gel.”
“Nevertheless,” Marton Scower said, “we will not witness, condone, or acknowledge your marriage.”
“And that’s final,” Patron Vanndegaar fingered his cane.
Edmund stopped, the world crystallizing in his mind. He looked at the three of them, their faces calm and blank, waiting for him to respond.
Finally understanding, Edmund took the three writs of investment out of his pocket. “How did you know?” he asked as the Heads took the offered paper.
“Don’t think us fools,” Patron Vanndegaar sneered, glancing at his writ before tearing it to tiny pieces and throwing it in the burning fireplace.
“Take it as a complement, my lad.” Matron Cromley tore hers in half, then quarters, before dropping it into her cup of tea and stirring it with her spoon. “After that little performance, I don’t think any of us doubted you had some sort of leverage on us.”
“Anything that could make Tricknee agree with a Moulde is not something we want in your hands.” Matron Scower stared at hers before folding and tucking it away into her dress.
“There! Now, there’s that little bit of business done.” Matron Cromley smiled as she stood and walked to the wedding contract, plucking up the pen. “I’m sure you’ll both be very happy together.”
“Or at least,” Matron Scower said, standing with the help of Patron Vanndegaar, “that it will seem that way to everyone else.”
“This changes things,” Vanndegaar said after he had signed his own name. “More than you think it will. The Founding Families are not accustomed to these kind of uphevals, so I trust you will keep your…extravagances to a minimum.”
Edmund nodded as Matron Scower signed her name. When she finished, Matron Cromley clapped her hands.
“Well, since we’re all…I suppose friends now, I have to ask: How on earth did you manage to wrangle your cousins together? I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m forced to wonder if you’re not some sort of young genius. What would you say to that?”
“I think his actions speak for themselves,” came a sharp crackling voice from the doorway.
With a sense of relief that brought him to bite his lip, Edmund turned to see Matron Mander Moulde standing in the doorway like a statue. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen you three together,” she sniffed. “Had I known you were coming I would have joined you at dinner.”
“We had quite a pleasant evening without you,” Matron Scower replied, her tone perfectly pitched to suggest neither conciliation nor insult.
“You are looking quite terrible,” Patron Vanndegaar smiled. “I do hope you’re feeling unwell.”
“Never better,” Matron didn’t return the smile. “If there’s one thing that brings back pleasant memories, it’s seeing that scar of yours.”
“This Young Master of yours is quite an interesting find,” Matron Cromley clucked, looking at Edmund like a skeptical schoolmarm. “I insist you keep him on, at least as a servant if not an Heir. I think he will make things very interesting for you.”
“He already has. I take it you will all be leaving soon?”
“I believe we’ve taken care of all our business here,” Matron Scower nodded to general agreement. “Please, don’t bother yourselves; we shall have no problems seeing ourselves out.”
After all the pomp and circumstance of the evening, it was somehow refreshing to see the three heads wander calmly out of the room like dismissed schoolchildren. When the three had vanished through the doors, Matron turned to Edmund, her eyebrow cocked.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
Matron’s eyes flashed, or maybe twinkled. “I expect to have lunch with you tomorrow,” she said. “Be prompt.” With that, she turned on her heels with such force Edmund was amazed she didn’t snap in half, and left.
And that was that.
Edmund walked to the table and picked up the Marriage Contract. It was done. He had won.
More than just won. Edmund closed his eyes and relished in the waves of elation that flowed through his veins. For the first time in his life, not only had Edmund been seen, but he had controlled what people saw.
In one evening he had ended the generations long feud with the Rotledge family, hosted three of the heads of the Nine Families, provided an expensive meal, and threw away millions in wealth, all for a show. Would it work? For how long? Edmund had no idea, but if nothing else, it had been an evening to be talked about.
His cousins had seen a child, only eight and a half years old, convince the strongest-willed old boot of a man to give away his granddaughter in marriage. In the midst of panic and chaos, they saw someone who was in control. The three Founding Family Heads had seen a Moulde end a generations long grudge and use four extremely valuable writs of insurance as bargaining chips, rather than fight tooth and nail to cash them in. Even the people of Brackenburg were a part of the charade; they saw Three Heads of the Founding Families come to visit the Mouldes personally. They had seen the carriages, the flags, and they would talk.
Smoke and Mirrors. A lie most beautiful, to curl about their ears and reassure them.
The Founding Families lived off of words. His cousins would need to tell their friends and families how things had drastically changed. Rumors would spread through Brackenburg about how Edmund casually tossed away valuable paintings and statues as though he had too much of them. The Heads of the Families would talk too, though Edmund couldn’t guess what they would say. What was important was that they talked about Edmund.
Words were powerful things, he reflected. In the right order and composition, they could illicit memories of springtime or summer breezes; they could entice, befuddle, and horrify; and they could even empower.
If there was one thing Edmund had learned about being important, it was that what someone believed often held more weight than the truth. Everyone believed the Founding Families were powerful because of their history, but what was history except dusty bones in a dark crypt? The truth was, they were powerful simply because no one had the gall to disagree when they said they were.
It didn’t matter how much money the Moulde Estate had as long as everyone thought they were rich. It didn’t matter how much power or influence they had as long as everyone believed it was a lot. It might take time and a few more lies — exaggerations, Kolb’s voice corrected him — but the Moulde family was on its way to rebirth.
And if worst came to worst, he still had four more writs of investment in his room, rolled up and hidden inside the skull of the first Matron of the Moulde family where it sat on his desk.
The carriage driver snapped the rains of his carriage, and the tired old horse began the long journey down Haggard Hill and into Brackenburg, carrying Edmund’s cousins away. He watched while Matron’s finger tapped impatiently on her umbrella.
It was almost a week after the dinner. He had explained everything to Matron at lunch the next day, who simply nodded and revealed little of what she thought about his actions. No matter how cleverly he asked or how subtly he pried, she refused to explain where she had been.
His cousins had spent the inter-meaning time in a state of detached politeness, speaking as little as possible to Edmund, or anyone else for that matter. Edmund still attended their lessons, though only Junapa’s sessions were largely unchanged. Kolb’s lessons largely became him telling Edmund tall tales. Wislydale took to handing Edmund books on ettiquete before returning to his drink, rather than lecture him on the intricacies and details of proper behavior. Tunansia simply shut her door in his face. Tricknee and Pinsnip both avoided Edmund entirely.
Then one day, almost in unison, they all announced their intent to leave Moulde Hall. Tricknee and Wislydale had both been invited to a Rotledge Family soiree, and they needed to get as far away as possible. Junapa had decided to spend some time at the Knittle family estate in France, while Kolb pontificated about dark and damp places in the Southern Americas. Tunansia had to return to school, and Pinsnip could only stutter and stammer before dashing off to pack.
Now, they were all riding away in the carriage, out of Edmund’s life for who knew how long.
“Well, Young Master Edmund,” Matron said as the carriage slowly rattled down Haggard Hill. “It seems you’ve become a Moulde after all. Much good may it do you. I don’t think things will be as simple as you hope they will be; there’s still quite a lot you have to learn.”
Edmund pulled out Plinkerton’s large ever-wound pocket watch to check the time. “You’ve taught me a lot,” he replied as the carriage faded into the black fog of the city, “and I think a bit more than you suspect.”
“Good,” her mouth flickered into something like a smile. “Don’t get too confident, you’re far from an expert. You missed some basic things that could have made your life a lot easier. I don’t suppose you’re serious about carrying on with this marriage of yours?”
“I have to, don’t I? I signed the paper.”
“You should know better,” Matron sniffed. “A signed paper is nothing to a Moulde.”
“It’s something to me,” he replied, feeling the weight of Plinkerton’s ever-wound pocket watch in his hand.
Autumn was drawing to a close, and the chill winds of the coming Winter were blowing more frequently now. The dull gray grounds of Haggard Hill were fading even further into monochrome as the sparsely leafed trees shed their foliage. The black smog of industry that covered Brackenburg was contrasting sharply now with the stark white of the cold clouds that were moving in from the north. Birdsong, already rare on the estate, had vanished completely, leaving the impression that Moulde Hall was little more than a painting that one had stepped into; still, silent, and subdued.
“I received three letters today,” Matron said as they walked the grounds of Haggard Hill, her sharp voice cutting through Edmund’s thoughts. “They were thanks for a lovely dinner and a promise to return when the wedding occurs.”
“Polite?” Edmund asked.
“Enough. It’s the first time any of the Founding Families has sent even a marginally polite letter to a Moulde in at least a hundred years. You got three.”
A small gust of icy wind curled itself around Edmund’s legs. The chill was becoming less noticeable to him now. He let his mind wander as the breeze continued to blow.
“I think we should have Ung put Kahmlichimus back above the door,” Edmund said. “The one that would eat people who wanted to harm the family. The one that held our motto in its claws. I think it would be good to let people know what to expect when they come into our house.”
“Our house?” Matron looked at Edmund out of the corner of her eye. “I’m beginning to wonder if I made a wise choice in adopting you.”
“Are you having second thoughts?”
Matron’s sharp gaze glittered in the fading light. “Maybe,” she admitted, her face betraying nothing of her genuine thoughts. “You are definitely not going to be easy to control. Perhaps it would be wiser to cut you loose and carry on by myself.”
“You won’t,” Edmund said, looking back at the pale landscape of Haggard Hill. “You need an heir to keep my cousins from claiming the estate. Besides, three Founding Families have witnessed my marriage. What would it look like if I suddenly wasn’t a Moulde anymore? You need to keep me around.”
“So it would seem,” Matron said, and Edmund couldn’t tell if she was disappointed with that fact or not. “I wonder if you would have been able to successfully fight all three of them. What would you have done if they hadn’t agreed to witness for you? Would you have called in the writs?”
“I don’t know,” Edmund admitted. “I think I would have looked for another way, but if I had to fight them, I would have.”
“You would have, wouldn’t you?” Matron nodded slowly. “You would have stood up to three of the Founding Families; with all of their history, wealth, lawyers, connections, and ferocity; and try to take their fortunes from them with nothing more than three ancient scraps of paper.”
“I would have won, too.”
Matron’s mouth twitched. “I wonder; the letters, the heads of the families, the food, the dress…what made you think your plan would succeed?”
Edmund looked over the dark dusky hill that rose above the city. He thought about the human body, and all the pieces working together towards a common goal, and the watch built of gears and springs. He thought how the body needed a brain, and the watch needed a mainspring. He thought about the stories of Knights who served King and country, to fight off the chaos of barbarism, and that always ended with marriage. He thought about Mrs. Mapleberry, who could never see him even when she was looking right at him; and Matron, who could always see him even when she wasn’t.
“I’m a Moulde,” is what he said.
“So,” Matron turned to face Edmund, her eyes narrow. “You have managed, in one summer, to find the long lost Cavalcadium of Fortune of Plinkerton Moulde, discover eight of the most powerful pieces of paper ever written, begin the rebuilding of the Moulde Family’s prestige, end the conflict between the Mouldes and the Rotledges, arrange a marriage for yourself, and at the end of it all the estate is still broke? You are soon to be in serious trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“You heard Matron Cromley; the heads of the nine Founding Families will think you’re a genius. They will think that the family is rich again. That’s not something you’ll be able to just fake with a smile and a nod.”
“We won’t need to fake being rich for much longer,” Edmund smiled, pulling a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “I invented something.”
Matron stretched out her hand and snatched the paper from Edmund. She studied it for a moment, her frow furrowed, before realization dawned.
“A pen?” she sneered.
“There’s a membrane,” Edmund pointed at the shaft on the blue-print, “If you push the plunger on the back, it pushes out the air, and then you stick it in ink to fill it. I call it a Vacumatic Fountain pen. It’s a safety pen too; that top is quite tight so the ink won’t dry out once it’s inside. No more messing about with eyedroppers.”
“And this?” she pointed at the diagram in the corner. “This machine here will build them? This looks like you’re becoming involved in mass production. I can’t think of anything more common.”
“Almost as common as adoption,” Edmund nodded.
Matron stared at the paper for a moment longer before folding it again and handing it back to Edmund. “You would rebuild our fortune with a pen?” Matron said, incredulously. “Is that all?”
“For a start,” Edmund shrugged. “Plinkerton didn’t stop after inventing the Plinkerton Engine, and I won’t either.”
She studied Edmund carefully, before giving a small sigh and shaking her head. “Be proud all you like, boy, but there is no easy answer to what you’ve done. Pens may do us well for a year or two, but after that? We’re still a weak family among wolves. The Families will expect things from you now, as will I, and the next time you won’t have the benefit of surprise. It would have been easier for you to barely scrape by.”
Deep in the core of Edmund’s mind, he saw a knight standing before his queen, bowing low. For the honor of the kingdom, his liege, and his family name, he had nobly journeyed forth to a foreign land. He had fought the bizarre creatures that lived there, found ancient treasures, and survived. And now, as he stood before his queen, he humbly placed his service into her hands, and proclaimed proudly for all to hear, that he had barely scraped by.
Edmund laughed, as long and loud as he ever had in a very long time.
“Very well,” Matron said, finally holding up a hand to silence him. “If you’re intent on fulfilling this charade to its fullest, there is a school you will need to attend. The only school, if you are going to convince the Families that you are a genius. Come inside, and I will tell you about Grimm’s School for the Erratically Gifted.”
It says much about youth that Edmund felt excitement at the prospect of going to school. He didn’t know much about the process, but he was certain books were involved.
While this minor assumption proved accurate, it was also secondary to the numerous events that complicated his life. While documentation proves imperfect, numerous legends have a modicum of evidence; such as his association with the Teapot Coterie, his unmasking of the Mothburn Ripper, a brief imprisonment, a minor poisoning, his discovery of the Dilettante Trust, his part in restructuring social relations between the upper- and lower- classes, and his first taste of champagne.
Had he known what was ahead of him, his optimism would no doubt have been tempered, and in fact, a great deal of things might have turned out differently.
Nevertheless, it is accepted scholarly opinion that this period of Sir Edmund Moulde’s life is more fitting for an entirely separate book.