The Last Days of Yesteryear: Chapter 3

It has often been speculated what occupied Sir Edmund during the time spanning his arrival at Moulde Hall and Tricknee’s return. There are no surviving letters or records of his activities, and therefore the fanciful and exotic opinions of any number of besotted poets and educators fill music halls and taverns, even today.

One thing is known, thanks to a single letter written by Lady Lambly Chopshire II, which contains an off-hand comment to her cousin that the windows in Moulde Hall remained uncharacteristically dark long into the hours of the night. This letter, being from a lady of property, is far more respected as a source than the folk-tales that say the gas-lights of Moulde Hall burned brightly in the windows for a full week. Folk stories are, after all, notoriously common.

Another thing that is known for certain is that the man who called early in the morning the following day was not Tricknee Rotledge.

When Enga explained the visitor was not his distant relative, Edmund sorted through every possibility in his head as to who could be calling on him so early in the morning, only two days after Matron’s death. He recounted later in one of his few surviving diaries that he was ashamed at his surprise when he discovered who it was.

“Father Bromard,” Edmund descended the large sweeping staircase towards the tall blonde-haired man standing peacefully in the middle of the large Foyer, his holy sconce glinting in the gas-light against his deep-red cassock. “Forgive me, I was not expecting you.”

“I’m sure you weren’t,” the priest smiled, reaching out his hand as Edmund approached. “Especially not so soon. It feels like only yesterday.”

It had been almost a week, in fact. Only five days since Edmund had been stood in front of a Military Tribunal, and the priest had stepped from the back of the room to help save his reputation. Had the priest known how his efforts to save Edmund had inadvertently spoiled his plans?

“What can I do for you, Father?”

“First, let me offer condolences and congratulations,” Bromard’s smile saddened ever so slightly. “You have been invested with the title of Patron, yes?”

“I am Patron, now,” Edmund admitted through dry lips.

“I am sorry the title comes with such a price. I only wish I had known Matron Mander better.”

“Why are you here?”

Father Bromard’s eyes glinted. “I’m afraid my duty is no pleasure. I have come as mortum magistratum, to certify the death of Matron Moulde.”

The certification of the dead is a practice that those who are not rich, wealthy, powerful, or important may be unfamiliar with. At its simplest; it was the Church’s duty and prerogative to record and certify the passing of nobles, royalty, and other persons of power to keep accurate records of who is and is not alive.

During the early years of the fifteenth century, clever and ambitious advisers were able to conduct the crowning of monarchs through the simple manipulation of messages; a rumor of a slain king became truth when the letter confirming his health was mislaid. The dangers of this state of affairs should be obvious, as Monarchs tend to raise armies when they return from a hunting trip to find their funeral feast coldly furnishing their widow’s wedding table. Due to the rapidity with which kings, queens, and heirs were disposed of, it was not uncommon for Barons of distant hamlets to publicly swear allegiance to monarchs from seven coronations ago.¹

The idea was absurd to Edmund. The history of the Mouldes, much less the other eight Founding Families, was full of betrayals and ploys that brought Matrons and Patrons to power; but to claim the title while the current head of the family was still alive? No Founding Family member would dream of doing something so improper. At least, not if they could be found out.

As unpleasant a prospect as this was, it paled in comparison to Edmund’s primary concern: “Who told you Matron was dead?”

“No one breathed a word,” Father Bromard reassured him. “It was a fact arrived at through simple observation. There has been a doctor in residence at Moulde Hall for almost a year and a half, but two days ago he left and has yet to return. This was the same day that the Moulde Family solicitor — Mr. Shobbinton, I believe? — was seen running up Haggard Hill in a panic, only to leave calmly some time after your return. It was not difficult to deduce what had happened.”

Father Bromard must have seen something in Edmund’s eyes, as he quickly held up his hands. “One of our brothers was simply passing by, and saw these events unfold; nothing clandestine. We make it our duty to keep tabs on the major events in our great Founding Families’ lives, but we will never intrude where we are not wanted.”

Edmund’s jaw twitched; What was it about this fresh-faced placid man that unsettled Edmund so? Was it his sharp and clear-eyed gaze that promised an unsurpassed intelligence? Was it the unassuming air that made Edmund feel like he was being judged on every word he spoke? Was it the uncanny feeling that even though there were only two of them in the Foyer, Bromard had not come alone?

But Matron was dead, and the Church needed to confirm it, so he had little choice but to step to the side and usher Father Bromard along the hallways of Moulde Hall.

“I have never been inside Moulde Hall before,” Bromard said as he walked next to Edmund. “It is a remarkable place. Is it right that the Clock can be heard across the entirety of Brackenburg?”

“I don’t know,” Edmund admitted. “It is powerful.”

“I have heard its echoes, even in the Brackenburg Cathedral,” Bromard looked around like an amazed child. “May I ask how was it built?”

“Precisely,” Edmund answered. When he was nine he had found the inner workings deep in Moulde Hall that powered the Clock. It had been a spiderweb of gears, springs, levers, and belts. Some of the gears were as big as he was. One of the springs was smaller than his fingernail. The bell was no bigger than his hand, but it was surrounded by brass amplification trumpets, all positioned just so.

“I would love to see it at a less portentous occasion, if you are willing.”

They walked in silence for a time, passing dark portraits and shadowy tapestries as they neared Matron’s room.

“It is a tale still told among our order,” Father Bromard shook his head with a smile, “that Matron Mander Moulde faked her death, once. I hear the poor priest was waylaid in the basement of this very building until her deception was complete.” His eyes flickered in the gas-light. “The Church was quite disappointed with Patron Grunder’s unwillingness to subject his daughter to our attention. I think he was afraid we might realize she was still alive, and not give him the chance to bury her.”

“She faked her own death so her own father would bury her alive?”

“And fight the Church for his chance to do so. It was an incredible risk, but she knew who and what her father was. And, for that matter, what the Church would do as well. I admit I always wanted to meet her; someone who was willing to go to such lengths to give their own father enough rope to hang himself, let him tie the noose…” He smiled warmly, as he caught Edmund’s gaze. “I said I wish I knew her better. Not that I didn’t know her at all. May I ask, have you heard from any of your family, yet?”

Edmund thought of Tricknee, and the cold panic in his eyes. “Not yet.”

“I’m sure you will, once her death is certified. The loss of a Matron is an event of consequence. Before long you will have family members you had never heard from before, clamoring at your doors and demanding for scraps from her table. Indeed, your upcoming wedding is an event of similar note, is it not?”

“Nowhere near as significant,” Edmund said, a little quicker than he should have.

“I am impressed at your humility; no one has heard anything of your plans, or even the name of your bride-to-be.”

Edmund remained silent.

“Well,” Father Bromard shrugged, “I will not pry. I applaud any Founding Family member who prefers the solitude of secrecy over the allure of attention. Ah. Is this her room?”

Edmund did not answer as he opened the door.

For the third time, Edmund entered Matron’s room. For the second time, he stood in the sitting area while his guest moved to Matron’s bedside. He waited while the priest inspected her body, checking for heart-beat and the like. After a time — a much shorter time than Tricknee — Father Bromard gave a nod.

Edmund was surprised when Father Bromard did not return to Edmund’s side, but instead pulled a long thin cloth out of his pocket. Draping it over his neck, he withdrew two small objects and held them to his chest, speaking in a language Edmund did not recognize.

“Excuse me,” he interrupted. “What are you doing?”

Father Bromard opened his eyes. “I am performing the Rite of Holy Sanctification. It is to welcome a body and soul into the Church, and allow for their burial. Usually, it is performed during a child’s first communion, or when a newcomer converts, but post-mortem blessings are not uncommon.”

“Please do not perform the rite.”

Father Bromard blinked. “Why ever not?”

It was a question Edmund was not sure of the answer to, but he had felt quite certain when he said it. He cleared his throat to give himself time to think, and then continued. “Because I do not wish you to.”

“It’s a…very important rite,” Father Bromard licked his lips. “The Church has no record of Matron ever being given Sanctification…”

“Matron was not a religious person.” It was a safe bet; he never saw her leave the Hall with any regularity, let alone on Sundays.

“You don’t understand,” Father Bromard insisted. “If Matron is not Sanctified for burial, then her soul will not be given holy protection and passage to our Lord’s embrace.”

“You have come to certify her death, not claim her soul for the church.”

Father Bromard opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He heaved a sigh and shook his head. “Yes, you are of course correct, but I urge you to think carefully. Sanctification is such a minor thing, and its benefits for Matron are incalculable.”

“Have you finished?”

“Yes, I am done. Here.” Father Bromard pulled a card seemingly from nowhere. “This is the name of an excellent mortician and embalmer; one I believe handles a good deal of Founding Family business. A consummate professional. You should speak with her soon.”

Their robes have hidden pockets. “Thank you,” Edmund slipped the card into his own pocket. His hand bumped Matron’s letter. His stomach hurt.

“Has your family discussed any other spiritual ceremonies they would like preformed? I believe a seance is traditional?”

“I have not heard anything from my family yet.”

“Of course. I forget myself, you already said as much. The many branches of your family-tree do not live close-by, do they?” Father Bromard gripped Edmund’s shoulder as they walked out of the room. “This must mean you have to handle everything without help. A great strain.”

Perhaps it would be, but Edmund had assumed his cousins would not help. It wasn’t part of the Moulde’s modus operandi to help without being asked, much less without being compensated.

In later years, Edmund wondered if he could have prevented himself from opening Matron’s door to the hallway. He wondered if he hadn’t been so concerned about his Family, would he have noticed Enga faster and stopped her from speaking. He wondered if he could have prevented what was to come.

At the time, all he could do was pull up short to keep from running into Enga’s familiar silver tray, holding a single blue card.

“Patron,” Enga said, “Master Tricknee Rotledge has arrived with Miss Googoltha. They are waiting in the West Waiting room.”

Edmund’s blood froze in his veins. His tongue dried as he turned to see Father Bromard’s soft smile, and the shadows of flame in the depths of his eyes.

“Googoltha,” he said, tasting the name like a fine wine. “That is the name of your fiancée? The Church has been trying to find out her name for so long, and by pure chance I hear it when performing my priestly duties. I suppose it just goes to show that the Lord moves in mysterious ways. I will not detain you any longer, Patron Moulde. Please, go and spend this time with your soon-to-be-family; they must be a great comfort to you in these trying times.”

---

Edmund waited patiently until he heard Father Bromard finally leave. Then he waited for a full ten minutes, to be safe, before crossing to the other end of Moulde Hall and entering the West Waiting room.

“Who was that?” Tricknee rushed over to Edmund, his voice low and tense. “I saw his cassock! He was from the Church, wasn’t he? Which Order? How did he get here so quickly? That new servant of yours, is she trustworthy? Is she a Church Spy?”

Edmund didn’t answer. He wasn’t even looking at Tricknee. He was looking at Googoltha and trying not to shudder.

Much has been written over the years of “love at first sight.” Edmund had experienced the phenomenon twice over his life, once with Aoide, the mechanical statue in the Library of Moulde Hall, and second with Leeta, the one woman who straddled the line between his old life and his new one. There are those who have come to expect such romance from the well-known bachelors of Edmund’s era, but it can be safely said, after much research and debate, that this did not happen here.

When he was eight they had been the same height. Her hair had been pale and curled around a soft face. Her skin had been bone white, and she had been dressed in a small blood-red dress.

The woman who sat in the middle of the room with hands lightly crossed in her lap was a bit taller than Edmund, with her hair arranged atop her head in a perfect gold crown. Her round face cradled a strong nose and jaw, and her eyes glittered green in the gas-light. Her skin was darker, though not by much, and her simple dress was a faded blue.

She looked nothing like the young girl he had met ten years ago. In fact, he wouldn’t have recognized her at all had it not been for her mouth. Her lips were pale, their width and height average, and they turned up ever so slightly at the edges. It was the same perfectly enigmatic smile that had so worried him when he was young.

It was a smile that hid sharp teeth. A smile that promised the unimaginable. A smile that at once allured and horrified, and electrified his body with a promise of respite if he’d only allow his body to shiver.

“Well?”

Edmund blinked, and turned away from Googoltha’s stare. “I’m sorry, would you please repeat that?”

“I asked you what you were going to do about it?” Tricknee fumed, waving his hand off to the depths of Moulde Hall. “Priests, clerics, preachers…I’m not leaving my granddaughter with you if the Church will be wandering in and out like they live here!”

“Matron’s body needed to be certified,” Edmund admitted. “Would the Founding Families have accepted me as Patron otherwise?”

“Well…no, of course not, but —”

“Can I get you anything?” Edmund turned to Googoltha, stepping further into the room. “A drink after your long journey?”

She didn’t say a word, but simply stared as her long arm reached out to the table beside her, and plucked up a small glass full of red-black liquid. She tipped the glass, brushing her lips against the fluid, and then set the glass down again, her mouth glittering wet in the gas-light.

“She poured it herself,” Tricknee muttered, a hint of concern in his tone. “She’s getting more willful in her old age. She ignores the rest of the family, and she barely listens to me at all, anymore. I find her in places I’ve told her not to go, she’s learned to open doors that I’ve locked…” he shook his head. “I…I wanted to bring her yesterday, but I couldn’t find her. I didn’t even know if she’d come today. I told her where we were going, and she didn’t pay me any attention…but there she was, waiting by the carriage.”

Googoltha had stopped looking at Edmund and was now inspecting the nearby gas-lamp with the detached air of a bored cat. She had been everything for Edmund. His plan, so many years ago, had pivoted on marrying her and ending the blood feud between the Mouldes and the Rotledges…but now…

Everything had changed. Was changing. Would continue to change, and he wouldn’t be able to stop it. Not with Googoltha. Not the way he had hoped. With everything changing, did he need to marry her anymore? Did he want to?

“Elope.” Tricknee snapped his fingers before dragging Edmund closer. “Go away. Leave Brackenburg and travel up to…I don’t know, Rapshire for a month or two. Find a rural chapel with a Preacher who’s on the outs; they dot the countryside like flies on a carcass. Get married out of Brackenburg, and come back as husband and wife before the month is out!”

It was nothing Edmund hadn’t already considered. “What about the Betrothal ball? The Announcement ball? The Founding Families won’t travel all the way to Rapshire for —”

“Forget them!” Tricknee gripped Edmund by the arms, pushing his foul-breathed mouth into Edmund’s face. “Forget the balls and the invitations and the families, just get married as soon as possible. Please!”

Edmund opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He had never heard Tricknee say please before. He’d never heard anyone say please to him before.

This wasn’t just machinations, this was heartfelt emotion.

“The Founding Families would be insulted if they were not invited. Even if we did come back married, there is no certainty that the Families will not declare the wedding illegitimate and nullify our contract. I can protect her here.”

“How?” The old man growled, glaring at Edmund’s audacity.

“You know Moulde Hall,” Edmund gestured at the surrounding opulence. “I will give her a different room every night. It will do the rooms some good to be used once more. If Father Bromard ever returns, he will not be able to find her.”

“If he comes, he won’t come alone.”

“Then we will use the hidden passages,” Edmund countered. “There are hundreds; I found them when I was young, and they cover the Hall like an ant-hill.”

“If you found them when you were young, the Church will find them in seconds,” he protested, but his voice was calmer, less confident of the eminent doom that approached.

“There is the Mine,” Edmund said. “If they find the hidden passages, Googoltha can hide in the old coal-mine. There are thousands of places to hide down there, including the tombs of the ancient Mouldes. I have no doubt they will not be able to find her there.

“You’ve never dealt with the Church before,” Tricknee grumbled, hugging his body with his lanky arms.

“I promise, Tricknee, I have some tricks of my own. I will keep her safe.”

“So you say,” Tricknee sneered, looking up at Edmund with years of skeptical mistrust behind them. “Why should I trust you? You’re only eighteen. You’re a child who barely passed his exams at Grimm’s. The Church has existed for centuries, and they do not give up.”

“I am a Moulde,” Edmund said, crossing the room to ring for Enga.

The frown on Tricknee’s face was one of disgust and depression. “Yes, yes you are. I tend to forget that, somehow.”

Tricknee had insulted Edmund many times in his life. This one hurt worse than any of them.

The door opened to reveal Enga in her square-suited splendor. She took a single step into the room and gave the same stiff-backed bow that Ung had perfected. “Patron?”

“This is Googoltha Rotledge,” Edmund gestured. “She is my fiancée, and will be staying at Moulde Hall for the foreseeable future. She should be afforded every courtesy and provided every luxury while she is here. Under no circumstances are you to tell anyone that she is in residence. Understood?”

“Perfectly, Patron,” Enga bowed again. “I shall prepare a room immediately.”

“You’re really going to keep her here?” Tricknee asked after Enga had left. “You’re not going to elope?”

“The wedding is too important,” Edmund lied only slightly. “It must be done right. Properly. Without question of impropriety.”

Tricknee glanced at his granddaughter, who was now gently running a single finger up and down the upholstery of her chair. “You’d better have a good plan, boy, because even heaven itself won’t save you if you’re wrong.”

“What about you?”

“Me? What do you mean?”

“If the Church is looking for Googoltha and cannot find her —”

“They’ll come looking for me,” Tricknee interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “I know that. I’ve got a plan, and I won’t tell you anything about it.”

“Do you still not trust me?”

“I trust you as far as I’d trust any Moulde — and that’s saying something — but I trust the Church too, and I trust that they’ll do more than just ask nicely if they think you know something you’re not telling them. Safer all around.” Tricknee sniffed loudly, running his arm across his nose. “Right. Time to leave. I won’t write, so don’t expect a letter. Good luck, boy, you’ll need it. Oh, and if you see my son anytime soon, tell him he’s made a mess of everything and I’m better off without him.”

“I’ll remember,” Edmund held out his hand to shake.

Tricknee obliged, and stalked out of the room.

Edmund turned back to Googoltha. She turned back to him.

She smiled.

Edmund didn’t shudder.

---

It is at this point in Edmund’s life that paper records and sources become abundant. As word of Matron Mander Moulde’s death spread, Royalty, peerage, and titled families all wrote to Moulde Hall to express their sincere condolences. For most, this was not done out of regret or empathy, but out of practiced and well polished obligation. To not write to the recently bereaved was akin to foregoing to eat when invited to dinner. A faux pa at best, a sign of severe independence at worst.

It is easy to assume, therefore, based on the histories of other dead Matrons and Patrons, that Edmund’s time for the following weeks was spent primarily reading and replying to letters.

Mr. Shobbinton arrived at Moulde Hall nearly twice a week, briefcase full of stacks upon stacks of paper. Letters of inquiry, statements of intent, there was no end to the bureaucracy that slid under Edmund’s pen. He would need to purchase more ink, he realized.

As for the letters, the majority were formal correspondence, written by rote, going through the ritual required to still call yourself a gentleperson. In return, Edmund replied with the same formal gratitude, acknowledging that the social obligation was fulfilled. The dance complete, both families could return to their separate business and forget about the other until a new obligation forced them together.

A good number of letters were from families far and wide who had some claim, tenuous at best, to the Moulde Family name. Most of the names he knew, such as the Charters, the Knittles, the Sadwicks, and the Poppomusses; even the Brocklehursts wrote a surprisingly intricate letter, expressing such regret for Matron’s loss that they were nearly claiming responsibility.

Then there were names Edmund barely recognized: the Hunders, the Doves, the Flytwenders, the Sidebottoms, the Griggs, the Batemans, both the Princebridge Wakefields and the Bottingdown Wakefields; family after family sending personal heartfelt letters of regret, gratitude, and carefully manufactured sincerity.

Edmund saw through each one to their subtext. These were not letters of consolation or support, but measured ploys and machinations to bring themselves closer to the new Patron; the seat of power. The death of a Matron started a new game of cards, and there was always a chance that when the shuffling stopped, a clever and ambitious family could find itself nearer the top of the deck.

While it is not known exactly how many days passed between the arrival of his fiancée at Moulde hall and the subsequent events of Sir Edmund’s life, it is generally assumed to be no fewer than two weeks before Edmund first shared dinner with Googoltha.

It was expected of every host to share, or at least offer to share, every meal with their guests. It was an expectation Edmund had been determined to uphold, even though he rarely shared meals with anyone. The only regular meal he had ever shared was a weekly lunch with Matron, and he would never do that again.

Googoltha had given no indication that she had heard his invitations, and yet she appeared in the Dining Hall at seven sharp one evening. Edmund couldn’t decide if he was grateful or irritated.

She walked into the room with a casual air, glancing about for a moment before sitting at the opposite end of the giant dining table. She rested her fingertips on the table in front of her, leveling a steely gaze at Edmund.

It should come as no surprise to anyone that the etiquette surrounding acceptable behavior of fiancées is monumental. An entire volume of True and Proper English Ladies and Gentlemen: Etiquette for Mothers, Fathers, Husbands and Wives, Sons and Daughters, Servants and Masters, and More is dedicated to proper behavior between two fiancées who are sharing dinner with each other, covering everything from carefully choreographed and chaperoned events to a coincidental meeting-of-gazes at opposite ends of a public park.

Edmund had not read this book.

“Thank you for coming,” he said.

She did not answer. In a futile effort to be polite, Edmund did not press further. They remained in silence for almost three full minutes before the servant’s door opened and the dinner-cart was wheeled in by the staggering shape of Mrs. Kippling.

“Oh!” In a display of extravagant surprise, Mrs. Kippling pulled up short, silverware crashing into each other. “Master Edmu — I mean…begging-your-pardon…Patron. I’ve…I’ve brung your dinner!”

Patron. Two weeks ago he had hated the word; it was a word that didn’t mean Edmund. Now, after reading the title in a hundred salutations and signing it on a hundred replies, it had become part of his name; as harmless or defining as Master or Lieutenant. Perhaps that was the real value of all the formal letters of condolence; they were a method of bringing the new Patron or Matron up to speed; reminding them that the awe-inspiring title was, in the end, just a word.

Edmund sat up straight as Mrs. Kippling wheeled the tray over to Edmund’s end of the table, took the lid off the soup tureen with a loud clatter, and sloshed watery soup into Edmund’s bowl.

“Mrs. Kippling,” Edmund dabbed at the drops of splattered soup with a napkin, “Is Ung not feeling well?”

“Oh, not-my-place to say,” Mrs. Kippling grinned shyly as she tossed the ladle back into the tureen with a splash, “but he surely isn’t ill, if that’s what you mean. He’s still out in the garden,” her voice dropped to a whisper that Edmund could still easily hear over the clattering tray, “but Enga says he hasn’t come in except for meals ever since you both got back. So I decided to help out. After all, Enga can easily handle all of his other duties, and who knows better than me how to serve my own food, begging-your-pardon? I do hope you enjoy it. Its been cooking for nearly seven hours, and — Oh! Goodness, I didn’t see…Miss Googoltha?” she shot a wary glance at Edmund. “I will…just walk over there and serve you some soup as well, why don’t I? Begging-your-pardon!”

“Is everything alright, Mrs. Kippling?”

“Perfectly fine, Patron.” Her voice regained its chipper tone as she threw a ladle-full of soup in Googoltha’s bowl. “Begging-your-pardon-not-my-place.”

Edmund was familiar with the cook’s conversational foibles. “Only?”

“Only it isn’t proper for a fiancée to sit at the end of the table like this,” Mrs. Kippling flailed her ladle about in dismay, nearly missing Googoltha’s head. “And these clothes, they’re practically the latest fashion!”

Edmund spared Googoltha a glance. She was staring at her soup, making no move to taste it nor any sign of having heard Mrs. Kippling.

“Begging-your-pardon, Patron. Not-my-place, but she certainly seems to be herself.”

Edmund considered this for a moment before giving a nod. “Thank you, Mrs. Kippling,” Edmund dismissed his cook. She bowed, curtsied, bowed again, and shoved the rattling tray through the servants door with a cacophony of clattering silver.

Edmund took a sip of his soup. It was familiar to him, though he had only had it once before. It was the same green and creamy soup he had eaten during the first dinner he had ever shared with his extended family. When he had first been introduced to Kolb, Junapa, Wislydale, Tricknee…

He looked up at Googoltha. She had yet to taste her meal.

There is an art to wooing, which must be learned, studied, practiced, and above all, adhered to. In the great scaffolding of Proper English Society, predictable and choreographed behavior was the keystone that kept everything together. When two adults were romantically inclined, it was the work of a village to ensure that proper behavior was followed.²

Edmund had never wooed anyone in his life. At best, he had spoken about love with Leeta at school, and mentioned a possible future with Major Schtillhart in the army. Neither conversation had gone well.

Now, aged eighteen and the last surviving Moulde, he recognized there was no place for romance or childhood infatuations in marriage. This wasn’t about love, or kindness, or even comfort. The point of the marriage was ending the feud between the Mouldes and the Rotledges. The point was showing to the Founding Families that the Mouldes were not criminals any longer. The point was proving that Edmund was a genius, honest, and worthy. The point was to manage the worlds expectations. The point was…

Was…

“I promise I will keep you safe,” he said.

Googoltha didn’t move.

“There are many places to hide. I spent most of my time here finding them all.”

Googoltha didn’t speak.

“If you need anything, Enga or Ung will be nearby. They will get you anything you ask for.”

Would she ask? Edmund had not spent much time with Googoltha, but he had never heard her speak. He didn’t even know if she could understand him. Tricknee had never explained where Googoltha had lived, perhaps she spoke some strange exotic language. Maybe she didn’t even understand why she was here.

Why was she here? Why did the Church want to know about her, and why was Tricknee so frightened of them? For that matter, if the Church was so insistent, would Googoltha’s presence be anything except dangerous for Edmund and his plans?

Before he could explore this uncomfortable line of thought, Enga opened the Dining room door, brandishing her silver tray. On it, the card was small, thick, and slate-gray.

“Mr. Shobbinton has arrived to speak with you, Patron,” Enga bowed slightly as Edmund took the card. “He is currently waiting in the Northwestern Study.”

“Has he come for dinner?” Edmund glanced at his still full bowl of soup.

“He refused any offer of refreshment,” Enga said with only the slightest hint of disapproval. “I believe he wishes to speak with you regarding the Moulde Estate.”

Edmund placed the card back in Enga’s tray, and stood up, sparing only a moment to dab his lips with the reflexive grace of a casual wave goodbye. “Forgive me, I must attend to my guest,” he said before retreating from the room. Pausing only to exhale in relief, he made his way through Moulde Hall to speak with the family solicitor.