The Last Days of Yesteryear: Chapter 4

The little man gave no greeting, nor gave Edmund much consideration when he entered. Instead, he simply opened his ubiquitous briefcase and pulled out an entire ream of paper.

Edmund needed no prompting; he sat down, pulled one of his pens from his vest pocket, and began to sign as fast as he could. He did this primarily because of the size of the stack and a quick bit of mental mathematics; if Edmund had paused to read every paper before he signed, it would have taken days before he had gotten through them all.

Luckily, the War had trained Edmund well, and he had become quite practiced at reading quickly. He had also learned the benefits of a leisurely and elaborate signature, and as such, he was able to get a solid idea of what he had started signing before he finished signing it.

After an hour, Edmund paused to stretch his hand before resuming signing his name as regularly as any clock.

There were affidavits, affirmations, demands for legitimacy, and a few papers that appeared to be heavily veiled threats to governing officials. Formal denials of breaking the law, informal declarations of financial holdings, Legal acceptance of liability, refusal to name co-conspirators, acceptance of any profits while denying any losses…every t crossed and every i dotted. All of them had copies; Sometimes two, sometimes five.

When Edmund had finished, he handed the papers back to Mr. Shobbinton. “That is the last of it,” he said, not quite a question.

Mr. Shobbinton nodded anyway. “For the moment, Patron.”

Edmund watched as the solicitor stacked the papers and tucked them away. “How many more will there be to sign?”

The solicitor let out a short bark of a laugh. “I am forced to admit that this was a particularly light session.”

Edmund set down his pen. “Is this what it means to be Patron, then? Signing documents?”

“I am certain I cannot begin to advise you on that subject. I am afraid my expertise resides solely in the legal domain. All I can say is a fairly substantial amount of your time will be involved with affixing your signature.”

Edmund reached out and picked up his pen again, twisting the long thin rod between his fingers. “As Patron, I have the responsibilities and duties thereof, yes?

“Of course. Now, if you will excuse me, I will take my leave of —”

“And rights as well?”

“Naturally.”

“Legally,” Edmund spoke slowly, “I now own the entire Moulde Estate.”

Mr. Shobbinton cocked an eyebrow. “Legally, that is a very complicated question. As far as most lay-folk are concerned…yes,”

“What does that entail?” Edmund asked. “How much money does the family have, and where is it?”

Mr. Shobbinton, for all his mental acuity, had not yet adapted to Edmund’s patterns of thought. He blinked for a moment as he struggled to shift gears from law to finance.¹ “I am afraid I do not have a comprehensive list of all Moulde assets and liabilities at hand. If you wish, I will return in a month with a full assessment of your family’s financial status.”

“Tomorrow.”

“I…forgive me, Patron, but the sheer number of documents I will need to collect will make tomorrow —”

“In a week, then.”

“It…will be difficult, but possible.”

Edmund had just decided what to say next when there was a knock on the study door. “Enter,” he decided to say instead.

Enga stepped into the room, her ubiquitous silver tray holding a single letter. “A letter for you, Patron.”

Edmund accepted the letter and studied the wax seal. It was a rectagonal shield covered with garlands, the familiar family seal of the Rotledges.

Dear Edmund, (the letter read,)
In accordance with law and tradition, I await the dubious pleasure of your company on Tuesday next.
Patron Gregori Rotledge

“Thank you Enga,” Edmund glanced up at Mr. Shobbinton. “Do you know what this is about? He says it’s in accordance with the law.”

Mr. Shobbinton paused a moment as he read the short letter. “The Greenfriar Treaty of 1779 states that after a new Patron or Matron is established, said newly invested Head of a Founding Family must meet separately with the other eight Heads for a meal, a drink, or similar social function. It is a method of insuring that everyone is kept abreast with who is in charge of each Family.”

Edmund was not surprised at the solicitor’s assessment. Edmund, who was a Moulde, figured it was more a method of learning everything they could about the new Matron or Patron, akin to a scientist observing a new species of insect. “I have to meet with each of them? In private?”

“You need not be concerned,” Mr. Shobbinton nodded. “The volumes of law regarding these meetings is quite vast. Over the years, the Nine Founding Families have established solid legal precedent that nothing spoken during these meetings qualifies as slanderous, confessional, contractually binding…indeed, carries legal standing of any kind. Legally, and dare I say socially, these meetings do not happen.”

Edmund picked up his pen and put it back into his vest. “Well, at least I won’t have to worry about saying anything wrong,” he lied.

“If it is any comfort to you,” Mr. Shobbinton adjusted his monocle. “There are specific legal requirements that must be satisfied to protect you, your Family, and your estate. They are non-negotiable, and as such they are out of your hands. For the better part of a year, I believe, you will have very few choices available to you.”

Edmund closed his eyes. It was not a comfort at all.

---

“You have the little brat at your home, do you?” Patron Gregori Rotledge asked, speaking around half a mouthful of lamb. “Hmph. Not proper, that.”

Edmund didn’t reply. He had only been visiting Patron Rotledge for a quarter hour, and already he had learned the Patron didn’t like being questioned, contradicted, patronized, or accused. Unfortunately, he didn’t like being ignored, either.

“I said it’s not proper!” The old Patron banged his fist on the table, causing the feather-light porcelain flatware to jump. A spoon hopped onto its handle and spun a moment before falling back to the table-cloth, striking the neighboring fork with a clang. “You could be doing all sorts of vile things to her. No chaperon, no family to keep things orderly…this seeing each other at all before the wedding…its downright vile. Atrocious. Deprived.”

Edmund carefully cut a small slice of his own lamb. He had become more familiar with different cuisine over the years, and well prepared meals no longer incapacitated him. It was just as well, as the lamb was — compared to the finer meals he had eaten — dry and weakly spiced. The wine clung to the crystalware like tar, and the vegetables were limp, wet, and salty. If Patron Rotledge hadn’t been eating with a passionate gusto, Edmund would have thought the fare an insult.

“Well?” Gregori shouted across the small table, his curly white wig rocking back and forth on his skull.

Edmund cleared his throat. “I assure you, there is nothing untoward occurring at Moulde Hall between me and Googoltha. Even if either of us were so inclined, we have so many rooms that even finding each other would make the effort unpalatable.”

“Bah,” Gregori snorted with a choking swallow. “I don’t see why you picked the waif anyway. Pah. You would have done better to marry Leatescha; daughter to my cousin. Much nicer. Clean. Does what she’s told. Already has five offers of marriage from three different royal families; two English, and one Dutch. Fine pedigree, the Dutch; every one of the family can be traced right back to King Anstoph the First. And you wouldn’t have to deal with that old goat Tricknee.”

Edmund nodded. A nod seemed sufficient, as Gregori grunted and continued to eat.

Edmund had eaten in many different places during his eighteen years of life. The orphanage, Moulde Hall, Grimm’s School for the Erratically Gifted, Lady Tinbottom’s Villa, the filing room in the old ABC offices…but the Rotledge’s Dining Hall at Tendous Grange, the formal residence of the Rotledge Family, was different. It wasn’t a room full of tables and chairs for large numbers of diners to enjoy each others company, nor an intimate space for only one or two people to eat in peace or security; but a simple rustic room with a fireplace, a table that could fit ten people at most, and a thick smell of well smoked and seasoned wood. Had Edmund not passed thirteen separate rooms to reach the Dining Hall, he would have thought he was eating in a log cabin a million kilometers from civilization.

“Hm,” Gregori snorted, dropping his fork onto the table as he reached for his wine. “No matter. What’s done is done. I don’t suppose I should have expected propriety from a Moulde.”

“You are seeing me before Matron’s wake,” Edmund said. “That is not proper either, even to talk about the wedding. Matron would have called it atrocious.” She definitely would have called Gegori vile.

“This is important. Extenuating circumstance, the arranged marriage…ending the Blood-feud. Who would argue with us meeting?” the rotund Patron paused a moment to suck at a tooth. It was true. As improper as it was, to protest the meeting was to challenge the wedding taking place, and no one would dare; Not when three Heads had already signed off.

Edmund was about to reply before a grin split Gregori’s face, and he burst out laughing. “Of course it’s improper to meet with you before Matron’s Wake! I didn’t want to meet to talk about the wedding, I just wanted to meet with you first.” Any illusion Edmund may have held that this was some kind of flattery was immediately dashed. “It’s a harsh game we Founding Families play, my boy. Every scrap of information is a weapon, and winning in this world is often the matter of seconds. Meeting with you before anyone else gives me the advantage!”

Edmund carefully sipped his own wine. “I hope my Marriage to Googoltha will give us both an advantage.”

“Don’t think me a fool, boy,” the man’s face grew cold, his fork poised half-way to his mouth. “This wedding was a clever little ploy, but you and I both know better.”

“We do?” Edmund set down his glass.

“Have you heard about our new Power-Factory?” Patron Rotledge spoke through chewed flesh. “We recently came into possession of a new design of engine, perfectly designed for mass-production of electricity!”

Edmund had heard of this; in fact, it was a subtle insult for Gregori to suggest he hadn’t. “Is it based on the Babcox and Wilco steam-powered design?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Eh? Damned if I know,” Gregori waved his hand dismissively. “I’m no engineer. What I do know is the thing will generate enough electricity to power the entire city of Brackenburg! Very bold. More than would have been possible even ten years ago. Think big, that’s the trick of it. Why, you know when Plinkerton Moulde made his first Plinkerton engine, he thought that someday there would be a Plinkerton engine in every house in Brackenburg? What a waste. Inefficient, Impractical. With Rotledge’s Electrical Power-House, the needs of the city will be provided for by a single warehouse! We’ll have carts carrying household batteries across the city, dropping them off like milkmen! Centralized, efficient, and under our control.” He gurgled his wine and heaved a satisfied gasp. “What have you done?”

Edmund set down his fork. “I’m sorry?”

“Everyone will know the Rotledge name, and be grateful,” Gregori shifted in his chair to a more comfortable pose. “They will thank us for their electric lights, their warm water…what are you doing about it?”

Edmund picked up his fork again to cover his confusion. Do about what? There was more to Gregori’s bragging than mere pride. He was challanging Edmund to reveal…something.

He erred on the side of safety. “Are you suggesting I am not a suitable husband for Googoltha?”

“Ha!” a spittle-flecked scrap of meat flew across the table. “You’re a perfect fit for the ghoulish whelp. I wouldn’t see your Moulde blood mingle with any respectable Rotledge.”

Edmund poked at his food with his fork. “So you aren’t calling off the wedding?”

“Me? Ha!” Masticated greenery flew in flecks across the table. “You’ll have to do better than that, boy! I’m no fool, I know you’re looking for a loophole, but if I had my way I’d lash you to your albatross with chains!”

Edmund blinked. “I agreed to the contract.”

“Balderdash,” Gregori slapped the table again. “You didn’t agree to the contract, you wrote it. Oh yes, Tricknee spilled the whole story, I’m afraid. I know about your little ploy, and how you wormed him around to agreeing to this nonsense. You did this all on your own, and that means you have some plan for wriggling out of it. No, don’t bother denying it; I won’t believe you.” Gregori pointed his fork at Edmund like a trident. “I’ve heard rumors, oh yes. There’s that Brocklehurst girl, or Lady Dengar. Mistress Poppingay came out two months ago, and even Young Mistress Knittle has connections.” Gregori’s eyes glinted. “But you were just a bit too clever, weren’t you? You chose Googoltha, and now I’m going to see to it that you’re stuck with her!”

Edmund busied himself with his knife and fork as he tried to look like he knew what Gregori was talking about. Were there other potential brides waiting to pounce? Tricknee had warned him about the other families under the Moulde’s banner. They swarmed…

“Speaking of the contract,” Edmund wiped his mouth, a careful signal that he was about to say something important, “I should inform you that Tricknee and I have signed an amendment.”

“I figured you would,” Gregori wiped his own tiny mouth and leaned back in his thick oaken chair. “Some new loophole?”

“A concession,” Edmund pulled a folded copy out of his jacket and handed it across the table. “Tricknee has been given first options on Haggard Hill, and everything pertaining therein.”

“Ah?” Gregori snorted, glancing at the unopened page before tossing it on the table. “He gets first rights to the Coal mine? Hm…No wonder his boy Wislydale has been so churlish recently. Ha! I’ll bet that old bag thought he had one over on me! Well, we’ll see about that!” The Patron lifted his fork like a scepter, and spoke to the empty air. “I hereby revoke all of Tricknee’s standing within the family, and pass all honors, titles and duties to his son, Wislydale. Ha! Let’s see him handle that!”

Edmund blinked. What had just happened? Tricknee had been kicked out of the Rotledges? “Was that necessary?”

“Not at all!” Gregori beamed. “Just a bit of well deserved spite. Now the blighter’s gone, I am fully within my rights to give what little he had to his son. With luck it’ll keep him quiet for a while longer.”

Edmund grabbed onto the one fact he could glean from Gregori’s rant. “Tricknee’s dead?”

Gregori’s smile flickered as he realized his loose lips had given Edmund information, before he charged ahead. “No such luck; the damned fool’s gone and run for the hills. Vanished. Lab locked up, luggage gone, and three separate people say they saw him board a train for Cliffside. No telling which country he’ll flee to from there; the Queen’s Quality Zeppelin line berths there four times a day. He could go anywhere.” Gregori’s eyes narrowed as he looked back at Edmund. “Mighty convenient for you, isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” Edmund admitted. “Why did he leave?”

“Didn’t think to care,” Gregori belched. “That rotter has been a blemish on the Rotledge name ever since he married my great uncle’s sister-in-law. I doubt Googoltha’s even his real granddaughter. There’s no telling with that scandal-ridden mutt. He used to be an Esslinger before he married into the family; blood will out, I always say. Good riddance. Ah well,” he waved his hand. “Let Wislydale have it all. The fool is in debt to us so deeply, that anything he makes will come back to us anyhow. Not that he’ll make any money off an empty Coal mine. Ha! even if it wasn’t dry, there’s no profit in coal anymore. Everything is diesel now. Diesel and steel instead of solid brass and steam.”

For a moment the two Patrons sat, staring at each other with blank stares, carefully constructed to reveal absolutely nothing about their inner thoughts.

“Hm,” Gregori grumbled, drumming his fingers on the table. After a moment, he shrugged and waved his thick hands. “Well, what’s done is done. Wislydale’s gone and left you holding the bag…Oh! Ha! That’s rather good, what? Didn’t even plan that one.” Gregori sneered as he shoveled wet greens into his mouth. “As for Wislydale…let that whole side of the family go rot, and be done with it.” He leaned back in his chair, skewering Edmund with a thoughtful look. “I must say this has been a pretty poor showing, my boy. I thought you might show something unexpected, being adopted and all, but all in all you’ve been predictably Moulde.”

Edmund recognized the challenge in his voice. “I may still surprise you.”

“Oh? I think I can take the measure of any man or woman as well as anyone else, and if I have, I know you’ll not last as Patron; you’ll be ruined, imprisoned, or dead before the year is out.”

Edmund felt a rush of heat behind his ears. “I will marry Googoltha, end the blood feud between our families, and the Moulde Family will thrive again.”

Patron Gregori Rotledge reached out and pulled his almost-empty glass to his mouth. His lips pursed for a moment before smiling as he tipped the glass gently in a small nod.

“Prove it.”

Historians speculate that Edmund spent at least three or four days exploring methods by which he could prove to Patron Rotledge that he would marry Googoltha before the wedding, but if he discovered any, such proofs were not widely publicized, and are therefore lost to time.

---

The ride home from Tendous Grange was not a comfortable one for Edmund, if for no other reason then it was familiar.

Not the path itself, as Edmund had never visited Tendous Grange before that night, and would likely never visit it again;² but rather he found his mind thinking thoughts he had thought before.

He wasn’t ready.

As has been stated before, predictability and reliability are virtues to the upper-class; while Edmund was indeed now a member of the gentry, he had never felt a propensity for repetition when it came to his own thoughts.

Edmund had thought these thoughts before. Why was he thinking them again? Surely he had come to his conclusions and now no longer needed such unhelpful repetitions to encroach into his mind. Yet there they were, as plain as day.

After stepping out of the carriage and entering Moulde Hall once more, he had still not come to any satisfying conclusions. He needed to think, to sort out his thoughts and stop thinking the same things, and there was only one place in all of Moulde Hall where he could think clearly.

Halfway across the foyer, Edmund turned sharply on his heel and walked up the nearby set of stairs. Had anyone been following him, they would have thought he had suddenly remembered a quicker way to reach his destination, or perhaps only just noticed where he was. They would think this, because they didn’t know how Edmund had decided to protect his sanctuary.

After climbing the steps in a lopsided start-and-stop manner, Edmund paused by a suit of decorative armor that looked like any other in the hall and adjusted its helmet slightly before continuing on.

He shouldn’t be doing this, part of him admonished himself. He didn’t have the time — but that was unimportant; he needed the time. A true strategist needed to pay attention to shifting situations. Now, more than anything, Edmund needed a place where he could sit, think, and above all, be Edmund Moulde.

Well, not just think; he needed to think of something else apart from his own inadequacies. The Wake was the obvious alternative; it was the next large event that would consume Edmund’s time. Ung and Mrs. Kippling were assisting him, but there was still much to learn. There was no escaping it.

Edmund tapped a hanging shield with his knuckle, hearing the sound reverberate through the hallway. When the echoes had faded, he continued on.

Everyone who was anyone would be there. Lords and Ladies from all over England, and even from other countries. People Matron hadn’t seen in years, or perhaps had never seen at all. Social climbers, leaches of etiquette, and remoras of savior faire. Matron’s wake wasn’t going to be a place to go; but a place to be seen.

Edmund was not ready to be seen. Not yet. He had learned about being seen at Grimm’s, and how it could cause more problems than it could solve.

Yes, that was it. That was what terrified him. He was positive.

Edmund ran his fingers along a nearby pillar, feeling the marble shift almost imperceptibly.

What about Googoltha? The Founding Families knew all about her, but no one else did. Keeping her safe and secret was still important, and with hundreds of guests filling the banquet hall of Moulde Hall, would she be able to remain unnoticed? She had a tendency to go wherever she wished and do whatever she wanted — it had already resulted in three broken vases, a smashed barrel in the pantry, and a torn up notebook — What if she wandered into the hall on her own?

Yes, that too. That scared him.

Edmund walked carefully, hearing the minute clicks as he stepped here and there.

For that matter, if it was best for her to remain hidden, it was best for him too. And come to think of it, there was nothing that forced him to attend Matron’s wake. He could spend the evening in some out of the way room with Googoltha, and make sure she didn’t get into any trouble. It was a brilliant solution to both problems at once. They could stay somewhere out of the way, and Edmund could bring a few books, and they could spend the evening not thinking about what was happening in the banquet hall on the other side of the mansion…

Edmund stopped when the sound of his footsteps changed. He looked up.

Matron Mander Moulde had been expertly embalmed. She looked exactly as she had when Edmund first looked down at her corpse. She was lying in her pine-wood coffin, which had been chosen for its simplicity, practicality, and cost. The lid rested nearby, to be hammered on when the wake was complete. The poor would think it patronizing, that a powerful Matron would be buried in something so humble and honest. The rich would find it unbecoming, and a thumbing of the nose at anyone who dared suggest she couldn’t do what she wanted, even in death. It suited Matron perfectly.

Edmund turned on his heels, and ran.

Fool Moulde! Why couldn’t he pay attention? He had taken the wrong turn and wandered into the Banquet Hall, where Matron’s coffin was being held until the wake. The very room he had so desperately wanted to avoid.

Why had he taken the wrong turn?

Matron’s stern face flashed in his mind. He was running. He was escaping.

Edmund wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready.

Blood pounding through his veins, echoes of his thoughts pounding again and again into his mind. Edmund found the path again, climbing through the Hall until he reached the top floor. There, he walked back and forth until he reached a hallway that most anyone would have overlooked. It was exquisitely built to confuse any passers-by. No one would take this hallway unless they knew where they were going.

Taking the hallway, Edmund walked for another minute before coming to a stop next to two large doors.

Edmund rested his hand against the doors. Fool. There had been no need to run. Matron’s body could not follow. Could he run so fast as to escape himself?

Suitably chastised for his childishness, Edmund reached out his hand and pressed a small spot on one of the door’s ornate trim. There was a soft click, and then a cacophony of machinery as counterweights shifted. The lock was well hidden and feindishly complicated. It had taken a long time and exhorbitant cost to implement, but it was worth it to protect what was behind these two doors. There was one room in all of Moulde Hall that Edmund adored above all others. It was his sanctuary. His home in his home.

There was a soft clunk.

Edmund pushed the door’s trim again. Once more the symphony of levers snapping into place and springs unwinding reached his ears.

Again, the clunk.

Edmund leaned his head against the door. Turning around, he slid down the locked doors to his library, and rested his head in his hands. Had he missed a step? Had his sojourn into the Banquet hall been too long?

Fool, fool, fool of a Moulde.

It wasn’t fair. He had already suffered under the crushing weight of his own doubts. He had been suffering under them for weeks. Why was he still feeling this way?

Why had he run? There was no escape.

The thoughts, the same thoughts kept returning to his mind. He was no Patron. Gregori Rotledge didn’t think so. Tricknee didn’t think so. When he was younger, none of his cousins had thought so. Indeed, they had schemed and plotted to make sure he never would be.

Now he was.

Edmund pulled the letter from his pocket, the last words of Matron Moulde, and gripped it in his hands. He didn’t need platitudes, he didn’t need affirmation or scorn, he didn’t need sentimentality, he needed….

He needed Matron.

Like a bolt of sulfurous lightning, a formula flashed through Edmund’s head.

His heart skipped a beat as he realized what he had just thought. He could do it. He still remembered the formula. He had stopped himself before, but that was then. He didn’t need to use it then. He needed to use it now. He could do it!

In his youth, he might have leapt up from the floor of the hallway then and there. He might have run all the way to any of his multitude of laboratories dotted across Moulde Hall, and begun work on his masterpiece.

Now, in his old age, he was slower and wiser. He simply continued to think.

He had stopped himself from using his Revitalizer at Grimm’s. He had prevented the Wickes from weaponizing it. Now, had he finally found a good reason? He could mix up a syringe right now, head to Matron’s coffin, and inject her with its contents. She would move again. She would talk again. She could help him.

Every step Edmund took brought more problems and subsequent solutions. Yes, she had been embalmed, but surely that was simply solved by flushing the blood out of her system. Not having any blood was a problem, true, but blood could be cleaned, and re-injected. He didn’t have that equipment on hand, but he could put something together, he was sure. And true, he had never perfected the formula — he’d never even tested it — but a scientist didn’t need to test physics or math; they were immutable properties of the world. This would work!

Matron’s face flashed again, her eyebrow cocked in a dismissive skepticism. And disappointment.

Edmund leaned his head back against the thick doors. Behind those doors was his oldest friend, Aoide; an ancient marble automaton, she sat in her alcove, hanging by a thousand threads, waiting for Edmund’s voice to bring her to life, and for her mechanical innards to pull on the strings and make her move, dance, and speak. His Revitalizer was based on the Mechanus Vitae that powered Aoide’s gears and levers.

Matron was no puppet. She allowed herself no strings. As far as Edmund knew, she had even despised needing to eat and sleep.

When Edmund was young, he had asked Matron why she had adopted him. At the time it had been the one question he couldn’t answer on his own. She had looked at him and told him that all he needed to do was survive.

In the end, he had to do so much more. To survive, he had to graduate from Grimm’s, fight in a war, behave like a Moulde, rebuild the family, be charming and eloquent, avoid scandal, respond properly to fellow gentry, etiquette, rules, duties…

Expectations. They hung around his ears like…like…Expectations. From his fellow nobles, from the Church, from the Founding Families, from the commoners in the streets to the army to the school to the Crown itself, all he knew were expectations.

Matron’s expectations were the only ones that really mattered to Edmund now. It had been her whole reason for adopting him. He needed to be Patron.

He didn’t know how. He was failing Matron in the one way he had hoped he never would. She had placed her hopes in him, and he had betrayed her.

He had a plan, of course. Every day of every month of every year of his life, he had spared an hour to ponder Matron’s expectations, and the method by which he would return the Moulde Family to greatness. He had even laid most of the groundwork. A thousand tiny cogs had already begun to turn, from seeds he had planted at Grimm’s, to rumors spread during the war. Even his upcoming marriage to Googoltha was but a single part of a larger plan.

It was a plan that had been concocted when he was eight, only to be adjusted when he was ten, again when he was eleven, twice when he was twelve…Every year brought new changed and adjustments as he learned more about the world, the Founding Families, his family, himself…

His vision of the future for the Moulde Family was so different than it had been when he was eight. He was so different. He had over thirty notebooks filled with notes, poems, thoughts, diagrams, formulas, inventions, and so many plans.

He wasn’t ready.

He would fail. He wasn’t a Patron, he was an impostor. Before long, the other Founding Families would learn this for certain, and he would be the crowning failure, the final nail in the Moulde Family’s coffin.

If he brought Matron back, she would see it happen.

With a slow and steady gait, Edmund turned away from the locked Library, and began to wander. Plans and schemes burst like bubbles in his mind, formed and discarded again in his melancholia, with only one single chain of thoughts clear and constant:

He needed Matron. He wasn’t ready to let her go.

He couldn’t have her. She was gone.

It wasn’t fair.

Edmund continued to wander the hallways of his home, like a lost ghost searching for someone to haunt.