The Last Days of Yesteryear: Chapter 2

It was the next morning. Edmund was certain of it. He had slept, he was positive of that too. Not because he had dreamed; he hadn’t dreamed once in his whole life. He had, however, learned to recognize the clues, such as stretches of time that he did not remember or the sudden arrival of sunlight through his windows.

Nevertheless, he did not feel rested nor prepared for a new day. He hadn’t slept in his bed for over five years. It was frighteningly familiar, even after so long a time. The sunlight struggling through the black cloud of smog that hung over Brackenburg felt different on his skin.

He knew time had passed, but he couldn’t feel the difference. Now, he was awake and staring at the blank piece of paper in his hand.

He had written it — or rather, not written it — during the night. His routine of sleeping with pen and paper in hand had produced nothing. Not a word, not a letter, not even a strange cryptic sketch for him to puzzle over until he deciphered what his slumbering mind was telling him.

First he had lost his poetry, then his nightly writings…was he even Edmund anymore?

Maybe this was what growing up meant. One day you were Master Edmund, scientist and poet, graduate of Grimm’s, war veteran, and heir to the Moulde estate; and the next you were Patron Moulde, sans poetry, sans wisdom, sans parent.

A knock on the door shook Edmund from his thoughts. It was Enga, wielding not the expected tray of breakfast, but a small silver plate on which lay a thin pale-blue card.

“Begging your pardon, Patron, (something sharp twisted in Edmund’s stomach) but a gentleman has arrived, demanding to be received.” Her stoic face twitched. “He is most insistent and insulting.”

A visitor before breakfast? Edmund might have been shocked at the abnormality, had he been able to accept the current state of affairs as “normal.” Setting the blank sheet of paper aside, he plucked the card from her tray. In dark purple script, with ornate and looping serifs, the signature burned in Edmund’s eyes: Mr. Tricknee Rotledge, of Vespersvale Hall.

“Where is he?”

“I left him in the first floor West-room study, sir. I presume he is still there, if his insistence has not led to him to search the mansion himself.”

In spite of his uncertainty on the subject, Edmund was still Edmund, and as such there were a large number of thoughts that flew through his mind.

The first of which was simply; did Tricknee kill Matron? It was an obvious question given the circumstances, to say nothing of the esteem (or lack thereof) Tricknee and Matron held for each other, but it was likewise quickly disregarded. Tricknee was not a fool, and to visit Moulde Hall so soon after his nemesis’s demise was hardly wise.

Secondly: Tricknee must have wanted to talk about Edmund’s Wedding. The date of the contract was fast approaching, and there would be a great many details to argue over. If Tricknee hadn’t changed in the ten years since Edmund saw him last, he would argue vehemently over each and every one.

Thirdly: the cantankerous old man had never been particularly warm towards Edmund, much less the Moulde Family. If he had demands to make, they would not be pleasant ones.

His final thoughts were that if Matron were still alive, she would speak with him. She was not, so that duty must fall to Edmund. This simple logical certainty was a life-preserver thrown to a drowning man. In a future full of unknown expectations, a duty as simple and clear as receiving visitors was at once obvious and simple enough to give Edmund direction.

Edmund set the card back on the tray. “I will see him now.”

---

As with all Gentlemen, “now” implies “as soon as I have washed, dressed, and eaten,” which meant it was almost half an hour before the now fully awake and clear-eyed Edmund made his way to the first floor study. He walked slowly, not because he feared Tricknee, but because he needed time to prepare.

Like a maestro with his piano forte or a stage magician in the wings, Edmund ran through scenario after scenario in his head. He knew his cousins well enough to know that anything could happen: a barrage of verbal abuse, a subdued argument hidden behind walls of platitudes, even an attempt on Edmund’s life was possible. This last thought was quickly dismissed, as Tricknee favored large heavy objects falling from great heights; Edmund was probably safe as long as Tricknee didn’t suggest going for a walk outside or to speak in one of the Hall’s rooms with very tall ceilings.

But threat or no, Edmund was Patron now; legally, if not in spirit. Even though he doubted deep in his heart that he really was Patron, no one else could. The whole world needed to see that Matron had done well in choosing him so many years ago.

Edmund practiced again and again as the long and winding hallways of Moulde Hall fell away before Edmund’s lanky strides. To be a Moulde was to appear perpetually in control. Seeming surprised, ignorant, or uncertain were the only unforgivable sins to a Moulde.¹

Finally, Edmund had crossed the entire Mansion and descended two floors to stand in front of an unassuming box-wood door carved with ornate frescoes of knights and dragons.

It was standing outside this door that Edmund faced his first real trial as a Patron. In Lady Yestemere’s The Art of Savoir Faire, two entire chapters are devoted to what she considered “the greatest question of our century, and indeed, the only question worth asking in polite company,” namely: to knock, or not to knock. Depending on the situation, alerting the occupants of a room to your intention to enter can be considered polite, aggressive, obsequious, submissive, domineering, pompous, or outright rude. As such, Lady Yestemere’s efforts at diagramming and cataloging the entire network of rules and guidelines for knocking was heralded as a great asset to civil society.

Edmund Moulde was a Patron in his own house, meeting with a guest early in the morning.² As such, it is left to the philosophers of the age to debate whether Edmund chose correctly in foregoing the knock, instead slipping into the room with an unassuming air.

“Hello, Mister Rotledge.”

Tricknee Rotledge, the ancient and lanky adversary of the Moulde Family, threw his gnarled body out of his chair and flew across the small study in a flailing whirlwind of limbs.

“You!” the man spat, his finger pointed under Edmund’s nose. “You, boy, summon Matron at once.”

It should be noted that the knack of members of the Founding Families to know things before being told had long since ceased surprising Edmund. As such, upon hearing Tricknee’s demand, every practiced situation Edmund had played out in his head vanished. For all his preparation, Edmund had never once imagined that Tricknee wouldn’t already know of Matron’s death.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Tricknee fumed. “Now her servants ignore me? I have been waiting for two entire days in town to meet with her, and I will not brook this constant insulting behavior…” Tricknee trailed off, while his white eyebrows jumped and dipped. Recognizing the look of confusion, Edmund waited patiently while the old man worked through what he was seeing. “Here,” he sputtered after a moment of thought. “You’re no footman…are you…” the man’s eyebrows shot upward as the confusion turned to shock. “Master Edmund?”

“It’s me,” Edmund admitted. He considered correcting the old man as to his title, but decided one shock at a time was wiser for one of his advanced years.

“Well, well,” Tricknee’s eyebrows clapped together. “Not half grown, have you? Well, tough luck, I suppose. Can’t all be handsome. Though you lucked out being adopted; missed the Moulde nose. Could have used their forehead, though, couldn’t you? Lost a bit of girth too, I see. All the soup I’m sure.”

“Was your journey pleasant?” Edmund recited.

“Can’t remember,” Tricknee shrugged his shoulders in a burst of angular motion. “It was so very long ago. Three days, in fact. Matron has never kept me waiting so long to meet with her, and I will not stand for it. Don’t think that just because we signed a contract that she can yank me around like a…like a puppet!”

“This is about the wedding?”

“Of course this is —” Tricknee’s mouth slammed shut, his eyes narrowed. “No. I see what you are doing, and I am not wasting any more time. Two nights in that squalid little flop-house, waiting for a single letter of welcome! I tell you, Matron is expecting me, I sent her notice a week ago and I’ll not suffer her calculated insults for a moment longer!”

Edmund opened his mouth and closed it again when no words came out.

Tricknee began a loping pace of the small study. “Oh, I know what she’s doing. she knows she can’t stop me so she’s getting her kicks in where she can…pathetic, really. Fah! She knows as soon as we’re in the same room I’ll dance circles around the old fool. Poor girl is really slowing down…”

Edmund open his mouth again, but still there was nothing. The poetry of conversation echoed hollowly in the caverns of his mind. Even saying the words was difficult.

“But I won’t stop!” Tricknee shouted, whirling on Edmund again. “Bring her to me at once!”

“I’m afraid Matron will not —” Edmund managed to croak out before Tricknee interrupted him.

“Pah!” Tricknee waved a hand under his nose. “That new butler already tried that, and I didn’t believe her either. I don’t care how sick Matron is; we’ve both settled our own share of scores while bed-ridden. Besides, she’s survived worse plagues than they’ve got these days. No, she’s not keeping me waiting because she’s sick, she’s keeping me here because she knows I’ve got her over a barrel this time, and I’ll —”

Once more, Edmund opened his mouth.

The art of the Poet includes the art of saying what others will never say. The poems of death are legion, and filled with clouds of euphemism, fog-banks of metaphor, and snowstorms of tact. Each one flew like a bird from Edmund’s grasp, slipping through his fingers like sand. In the end, his poetry absent, he resorted to crude, clumsy, fact.

“Matron is dead.”

“Oh?” Tricknee paused in his rage, and blinked. For a moment he stared and then gave a thoughtful nod. “She hasn’t pulled that one for ages.” He leaned forward, resting his spidery limbs on the edge of a nearby table, hunched over like a prowling cat. “What’s her game then? Who’s she trying to convince? The Redgraves, perhaps? Yes, if old Enock thought she was dead, he might —”

“No,” Edmund swallowed again. The words were no easier having been said once. “She is dead.”

“Oh give it up,” Tricknee batted at the air again. “You honestly expect me to believe it? She’s done this before; faked her death for two years when she was seventeen. That’s what made her Matron, in the end. No, my boy, you’re not going to have me believing your obvious lie. Let me speak with her at once!”

“The doctor was here. He was quite certain.”

“Fah!” Tricknee resumed his frantic pacing. “Doctors are easy enough to fool. Probably one from that miserable little quack-house she calls a hospital. Could have bribed or blackmailed them. No loss for the doctor’s reputation either, to fake documents. After all, what doctor with any reputation would ever work at her squalid wreck of a hospital? Yes, yes, give up this charade and take me to her this instant!”

“She has no pulse.”

“Budleaf!” Tricknee’s voice was cold, sharp, and wielded with all the frantic force of a desperate man. “Reduces the blood in the vein and slows the beating of the heart! I’m no fool, boy! She may have fooled you, but we old-folks have a few tricks left! I am going to see Matron today, boy. This evening. This hour! I will see her now!”

“She is dead.”

“Show me to her!” Something glittered at the corner of his eye. “Take me to her at once! Or so help me I’ll tear down this building to get to her! Show her to me now!”

---

Edmund had lived a good portion of his existence in the unfamiliar. New rooms, new people, new places and labels and expectations kept finding their way into his life.

There was a feeling he had come to recognize; a sensation when he came upon something he had seen before. It marked for him the second time he entered a new room, spoke with a new person, or felt a new texture. It was the first instant when the unknown had begun its transition into the familiar.³

He had no desire to make this moment familiar.

He stood, still and silent, watching Tricknee as he approached Matron’s bed. The old man’s gait was still lopsided as ever, but slower, as if even in the face of his insurmountable skepticism the corpse of Matron Moulde had a power all its own, keeping him from approaching without reverence or awe.

With the practiced eye of a seasoned skeptic and an expert con-man, he checked her pulse, held a glass to her mouth, sniffed at the glasses and powders at her bedside, and ran his fingers along the edges of the sheets. Edmund could hear the man muttering to himself, but he could not ascertain the words.

Finally, after a full fifteen minutes, Tricknee let his arms fall to his sides and simply stared.

Edmund waited. The silence was broken only by what sounded like two small coughs from the back of Tricknee’s throat. Or were they sobs?

In a sudden flurry of movement, Tricknee bound away from Matron’s bed and grabbed Edmund by the arm. Pulling with the strength of a madman, he dragged Edmund to a corner of Matron’s room that looked no different than any other. His eyes were red, his voice was hoarse. “You signed.”

Edmund blinked. Signed what? Of course; Tricknee meant the arranged marriage contract that established the future of both the Moulde and Rotledge families. The contract from a decade ago. “Yes,” Edmund nodded. “I signed.”

“You’re not wriggling out of it,” Tricknee hissed, his voice low and conspiratorial. His fingers tightened on Edmund’s arm. “I won’t let you. I know every trick Mander ever pulled, and some even she didn’t know about. If you try and slip out of our agreement, so help me I’ll —”

“I don’t want to slip out,” Edmund promised. “I signed the contract. I gave my word.”

“Right.” Tricknee straightened as much as his gnarled spine would allow. “I need to speak with Patron Rotledge as soon as possible. Our solicitors will comb through every inch of —”

“May I ask,” Edmund cleared his throat, “what were your demands?”

“My what?” Tricknee blinked.

“I regret you had to wait for so long,” Edmund continued, carefully ensuring that he admitted no fault or culpability, “but I am more than willing to listen to whatever demands you have regarding the wedding.”

“What? What are you talking about? I wanted to speak with Matron, and she’s dead —” Tricknee choked at the realization, his tongue leaping down his own throat. “So now you…are…”

“Patron,” Edmund finished for him.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true.”

“You’re only eighteen!”

“Matron was younger when she became Matron, and I believe Matron Broodain is only twelve.”

“I don’t care if Matron Broodain is a turtle, you’re no Patron,” Tricknee said, his tone suddenly cold and smooth as steel. “You’re a shell. A pathetic mockery. You want to fill Matron’s shoes? You’ll be barely capable to fill her grave. If you had half a brain you’d dismantle the family, hand half over to me, and scatter the rest of your piddling little plans to the winds.”

Edmund had nothing to say to that, so he didn’t say anything.

Tricknee continued: “You don’t know what’s coming at you, boy. This isn’t some childish stratagem you’re messing with, and Matron isn’t around anymore to protect you. The Founding Families don’t play games, and they don’t take prisoners that they plan on ever giving back.”

Edmund opened his mouth, but Tricknee wasn’t finished. “Then, there’s the rest of the Moulde family. You think the Knittles and the Charters are bad? Just wait until you have to deal with all the little families. Oh, they’re clumsy, foolish, simpletons, and easily distracted; but they’re hungry and they swarm. You’ll have to fight off legions of family if you go through with this, and they won’t all be waving torches and pitchforks…some of them will come bearing gifts — everything you thought you wanted. Do you really think you’re up for that? All for…for Googoltha?”

Was he? Edmund had not seen the girl in ten years. She would have grown, perhaps as much as Edmund had. He knew nothing about her, save that their marriage would set in motion a thousand tiny pebbles that would each grow into avalanches. Once she had been the linchpin that would start the Moulde Family on the path to rebirth, rejuvenation, and retribution. Now…if Edmund was being honest…

Edmund stared deep into Tricknee’s eyes, seeing the faint flickers of fear and hope that his natural scorn usually hid.

“Yes.”

Edmund had expected relief, or perhaps gratitude, but he did not expect the single tear that leaked from Tricknee’s eye.

After a moment more, Tricknee exhaled sharply. “Fine,” he spat. “Fine. If you want to pretend to be a Patron, I’ll give you enough rope to hang yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, when your incompetent bungling collapses your family around you.”

“I doubt we would have time to speak much, if that happened,” Edmund admitted. “Please, tell me your demands.”

Tricknee took a deep sniff and stuck out his jaw. “First, I demand that the Moulde Family foot the bill for this entire ordeal. The wedding, the announcement ball, the betrothal…everything. Also, the responsibility of organizing said affairs falls squarely on the Moulde Family’s shoulders. Secondly, the Moulde Family has already agreed to give all of Haggard Hill to the Rotledges, but I demand a rider be attached that gives several legal concessions and rights to me and mine, as grandfather of the bride. Thirdly, Googoltha be immediately given the title of Mistress Moulde prior to the announcement ball. Fourth, the Rotledge Family demands reparations in the form of consent for the Baroness of Shanklyre to marry Sir Peckingsbourough.”

In dealing with the Founding Families, it is always wise to remember that you are never talking about what you think you are talking about. Edmund knew that Tricknee’s demands were not actual demands, but just ploys to get what he really wanted. After all, the first two were hardly demands at all; little more than what was tradition anyways. His third demand was odd, but nothing that cost Edmund anything. His fourth demand, however, would cost Edmund and the Moulde Family dearly, while giving the Rotledges a very powerful asset.

A fool might then presume the fourth demand a distraction, and what Tricknee really wanted was one of the other three. A fool who thought they were clever might then realize that Tricknee might think similarly, and thus actually be after the fourth demand in earnest. What would then follow would be a clichéd whirlwind of “but they know that I know that they know,” until they had wrapped themselves in a straitjacket.

It took a Moulde to refuse to play the game in the first place. “I agree to your first two demands,” Edmund said, “and refuse reparations. Will there be anything else?”

Tricknee paled, and Edmund knew he had trapped him. His mouth twitched as he was forced to reply: “What about my third demand?”

“Hardly worth a demand,” Edmund said. But apparently important enough for you to address before complaining about me refusing reparations…

“Nor a refusal,” Tricknee sniffed. “It’s less than any concessions to Haggard Hill, and you agreed to those. It won’t even cost you.”

True. Come to think of it, Edmund didn’t actually know how much money the Moulde Family had. He had provided several sources of income through his inventions during his life, but where had that money gone? How much of it was left? Edmund resolved to speak with Mr. Shobbinton about it as soon as possible.

Edmund could have asked why Tricknee wanted the title of Mistress for his granddaughter before the wedding, much as he could have handed Tricknee a knife and turned his back. Rather than do either, he closed his eyes in thought.

What does the title bring? Legitimacy as a bride, of course, but the contract does that for all important parties already. Are there people outside the Mouldes and the Rotledges who need that assurance? No, Tricknee doesn’t care for social power-plays, he’s far too practical. He wants something concrete. The title doesn’t bestow any rights or duties on its own, so it must be something else. Acceptability? What is it acceptable for a Mistress of a family to do that no one else is?

Ah.

Edmund opened his eyes. “I’m afraid I must refuse.”

“Why?”

“People will talk.” It was always a useful excuse. “If I am seen too eager to make her Mistress Moulde, yet not accelerate the wedding, the gossip will be quite thick as to possible improprieties of my decision.”

“Hm,” Tricknee sighed. “Fine. Then I at least insist you give her the right of Household Mastery.”

Edmund frowned. This was almost lazy for Tricknee. Books upon books have been written about Household Mastery. It was, most scholars agree, a verbose method of describing who exactly was in charge when it came to matters regarding table-settings, pantry stock, linen styles, and the like. In fact, noted historians agree that as a concept, Household Mastery was something rarely considered by the upper classes, as the rights and duties inevitably fell to whomever was not bored to tears by the entire ordeal.⁴

“I’m afraid that is a great responsibility,” Edmund spoke slowly, carefully tasting each word as he spoke. “I cannot agree to give Googoltha anything without speaking to her about it first.”

“What?” Tricknee blinked. “What are you rambling about? What is there to speak to her about?”

“She may not want it.”

“What does that matter?” Tricknee sputtered. “Just give her Mastery of the Household!”

“No.”

The bushy white eyebrows descended like an avalanche down Tricknee’s face. “Why on earth…this is nothing, a paltry concession. No one cares about Household Mastery.”

“Apart from you,” Edmund noted.

Tricknee’s arms jerked; his tell, Edmund had learned, that he recognized his mistake. “Yes, damn you, I care. She needs…something to do. It will be good for her. She’ll need to catalog the store-rooms. Familiarize herself with Moulde Hall. This will keep her…occupied until the wedding.”

“It will also keep her here.”

Tricknee didn’t answer.

“Perhaps,” Edmund continued, “it would be best for you to bring Googoltha here, so that I may ask her if she wants Mastery of the Household. If she does not refuse, I will be willing to consider.”

Tricknee opened his mouth to shout, and then stopped, closing it again. His mouth worked for a moment, before he grumbled; “What game are you playing at? You don’t care about what she wants.”

If Edmund still had his command of poetry, he could have explained to Tricknee in no uncertain terms exactly what he cared about. He could have described the trenches at Harmingsdown, and the soldiers that the Generals had forgotten about. He could have explained what he learned at Grimm’s, toiling away with Leeta in the graveyard. He could have been able to explain exactly what it meant to care about the people that made up the machine of England.

But then he’d have to explain his part in that machine, and by extension Googoltha’s. And besides, he still didn’t have the words.

“I do,” was what he said instead.

Tricknee’s eyes narrowed further, searching Edmund’s face for something. Finally, the old man reached out a withered arm and gripped Edmund by the wrist. “I’m leaving Brackenburg tomorrow afternoon to return to Ninnenburg. Before then, I shall call again in the morning and bring her with me. You will, of course, not allow your fiancée to continue to sleep in a rat-infested flop-house.”

“I would be delighted to have both of you stay in Moulde Hall, as long as you wish.” Edmund agreed.

“And you won’t send her away, will you?” Tricknee snapped. “Not until you get an answer out of her? I won’t keep ferrying her back and forth on your whims. You keep her here, safe, until she gives you an answer about the Household, agreed?”

“Agreed,” Edmund nodded, remembering how silent she was as a child, and wondering how much she had changed. Perhaps that was Tricknee’s point.

They shook hands, and Tricknee left without another word, leaving Edmund alone in the stark bare room.