The Last Days of Yesteryear: Chapter 6

The Wake of Matron Mander Moulde, held on the 28th of March, 1881, was, in a word, awkward.

There were multiple reasons for this, each enumerated and detailed in large numbers of historical and heraldic texts. While it would be prohibitive to explain at length here, with entire chapters devoted to the food and drink, it is simple enough to say that emotions were mixed.

This is often the case when dealing with the death of someone important, and there was no one of more importance than the Founding Families. Matron was, after all, a fellow peer. In spite of the distressing behavior of the Moulde Family, coupled with their steady descent from grace, she was still due the same honors given to every head that died of natural causes: a solemn wake filled with a lingering sense that they had beat the odds.

At the same time, there were few among the guests who did not feel the world was better for having one less Moulde in it. Matron’s cutting tongue and razor-sharp mind had not won her many friends among the nobility of England, and her knack for foiling schemes of grand design seemingly by accident was uncanny.

Matron, however, was only half the focus of the evening. On top of being an epicenter of the struggle between emotional etiquette and natural instinct, the wake was also Edmund’s débutante ball.

Not intentionally, of course, but there was no avoiding it. No one had bothered to pay much attention to Edmund when he was young. Then, he went off to school for five years in Mothburn where he kept mostly to himself. After that, a year spent as only a Lieutenant in the Great War kept him out of society’s direct gaze. Now, suddenly, the Mysterious Edmund Moulde had become Patron.

Who was this Orphan Prince? It was a phrase that was whispered constantly during the Wake, and even now echoes of this sentiment reverberate through the halls of historical schools and scientific factories alike. What was he like? What would he do now that he was Patron? And when, above all, will he blink next?

Eyes darted sideways or hid behind fans. Muttered rumors were passed back and forth between the stately guests, concocting fabulous tales of heroism, villainy, and monstrous appetites. The indelicate guests questioned if Matron really died of natural causes. After all, the doctor was hired by Edmund, and didn’t her slide into the grave start while he was off at School, learning to be a genius? The more temperate merely wondered if he had truly invented the Third Law of Hematology, or simply copied it off of a fellow scientist’s notebook at Grimm’s.

The cultural place of the Débutante Debut has shifted drastically over the years, and so some time must be spent in explaining the importance of this social expectation. This explanation will not happen now, as it is secondary to the more important fact of the evening: Matron Mander Moulde was well and truly dead.

The guests were multitude. Edmund didn’t recognize most of them. There were princes and dukes from the far corners of England, along with highly decorated generals and foreign nobles. Styles of dress from all over the world lined the ballroom, and Edmund counted no less than seven separate languages being spoken over the course of the evening. Letters, diaries, and primary sources of all kinds are commonplace among the historical record, the wake being the gala event of the year. Even the hired servants — those who could write — scribbled a line or two about the evening’s affairs, and the inevitably overheard bit of intrigue or gossip.

Indeed, the Wake of Matron Mander Moulde was, in many words; solemn, gleeful, routine, smug, intriguing, painful, triumphant, aggravating, melancholic, boring, useful, formulaic, a dismal failure, and a roaring success. As none of these feelings were allowed to be expressed in company, pleasant or otherwise, the wake could only be described as awkward.

Edmund embodied this fitful description. He was still not comfortable in crowds, so he opted instead to stand by the wall and watch. This is not to say he did not speak to anyone during the wake; several guests made their way over to speak with him, out of bravery, duty, or naivete.

While every conversation that night held great significance — resulting in golden ages for some, the start of the end for others — Historians agree that only a few held immediate concern for this chapter of Patron Moulde’s life.

The first, it is generally agreed, is when Tunansia Charter, Edmund’s cousin and erstwhile enemy and ally, slipped to his side with little flair or fanfare.

“I am glad you could make it,” Edmund half-lied¹ by way of greeting. “I wasn’t certain you would come.”

“Nor was I,” Tunansia gave a small nod, the closest Edmund had ever expected her to come to a warm smile. “My mother is here.”

Edmund looked to the southeast corner of the room, where the Charters had settled in. They had arrived in force; no less than ten, all Lords and Ladies of various honors. Lady Charter was in the middle of it all, her wide dress and tall wig making a veritable lighthouse in the sea of society.

“I’ll say this for her,” Tunansia said, turning to face the coffin of Matron Moulde at the other end of the room, “in all the time I knew her, she never once lied to me.”

“Really?” Edmund asked. It sounded unlikely.

“Well, no,” she admitted. “She lied to me all the time. But I knew she was lying, and even when she told me the truth…she never lied about herself. I knew what she thought of me, and I always knew when she was using me. She never…she never let me lie to myself.”

That sounded like Matron. Edmund’s hand brushed against something. What was in his pocket? The instinct to grip the foreign object and bring it to light was surprisingly and instinctively repressed. “How do you find Cliffside?” Edmund asked, drawing attention to a converseur’s recent relocation of domicile. “And your work with…what was her name? Adea?”

“Lacklace,” Tunansia finished. “She is an able engineer, and we have done some passable work together.”

“I read your work on an Elemental Table,” Edmund said. “I find it an ingenious idea; arranging the elements by chemical behavior.”

“Do you?” Tunansia cocked an eyebrow. “What of the holes in it? Do you agree that they prove it a failed experiment which contains the contrary to its own thesis?”

“Lord Witwhittington,” Edmund recognized the quote, “doesn’t know a thing about science or poetry. You have proven the elements follow mathematical principles. There are holes because we have obviously not found those elements yet.”

Tunansia looked at Edmund.

“In fact,” he pressed on, “because of your Elemental Table, we can understand many of the qualities of these ‘hidden elements’ without having observed them in nature. I have personally already used the table to discover the properties of the element that will reside between silicon and tin. I have named it ekasilicon.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Then, with those properties, I established six necessary qualities of the undiscovered element surrounded by ekasilicon, zinc, and aluminum.”

Tunansia took a slow drink before speaking in a sotto voice. “You may be interested to hear, Patron, of a new kind of light we recently discovered. You might find it useful. It pierces the skin, but not bone, and when used to take pictographs it provides a clear picture of — oh dear.”

Edmund turned in time to see the rotund form of Roobus Hudge, the Mayor of Brackenburg, as he approached with a frozen smile plastered on his face. When he reached the pair, he bowed with an overdone flourish. “Patron Moulde, my sincerest condolences, from the depth of my heart. Matron Mander was a great woman, beyond the pale. Truly, a loss to all of Brackenburg.”

“Thank you,” Edmund said, both out of obligation and a complete lack of anything else to say. Thankfully, propriety rose to his rescue when he remembered he was not alone. “May I introduce Miss Tunansia Charter?”

“Charmed,” Roobus bowed again. “Enchanted. You look positively —”

“I cannot abide obsequious fawning,” Tunansia snapped her fan open. “I’m wearing what one wears to a wake.” She turned back to Edmund. “If you will pardon me, I see someone over there that I simply must greet.”

“Of course,” Edmund nodded. “The Mayor too has private business to discuss with me. I hope you enjoy the rest of the Wake.” He took Tunansia’s hand, bringing it towards his lips. “I never thanked you for your help at Grimm’s.”

“It’s what families do for each other,” Tunansia nodded, closing her fan. “If not the families we are given, then the families we choose. I find myself able, now, to wish you luck, Patron; now that I am no longer invested in the Family’s good fortune, I find myself more kindly disposed towards it.”

“I am glad to hear it. We will speak again?”

“Eventually,” Tunansia smirked as she swept away into the crowd.

“I…have business with you?”

Edmund turned back to the Mayor. “Don’t you?”

The Mayor took a drink, flashing a warm and worried smile. “I…I’m sure I do, of course you are correct, but…I’m afraid at the moment…I find myself at a loss as to what it was!”

“That is disappointing,” Edmund kept his gaze steady, lest an errant twitch convey too much. “I was hoping the Moulde Family could become reacquainted with its societal responsibilities.

“Oh?” The Mayor’s face turned ashen white. Edmund understood the Mayor’s concern. With the one exception of Matron Mander, the heads of Moulde Hall had influenced Brackenburg’s affairs with regularity over the years, and their attention often proved to be double-edged at best.

“I am considering purchasing some land for a factory in South Dunkin,” Edmund said.

In spite of his caution, Mayor Hudge burst out laughing, slapping his stomach with his hand. Not a heartbeat passed before his giggles died in his throat, as he noted Edmund’s placid face. “You…/are/ joking of course?”

“Never intentionally,” Edmund admitted. “South Dunkin has a ready supply of skilled laborers and a dearth of advanced production. I have quite a few remarkable improvements to mass production techniques I am eager to try. I believe their primary industrial product is iron washers?”

“A valuable commodity,” the Mayor admitted. “A vital resource for countless important industries across the nation.”

“And mostly supplanted by brass or zinc washers, given the iron and steel shortages that still plague our country,” Edmund shrugged. “No, I feel the factories of South Dunkin need a new way forward, a product that has a place in the new economies of the future.”

The Mayor shrugged his eyebrows, conceding the point, while sipping his drink. “Yes, well…”

Edmund felt some small amount of sympathy for the Mayor. When speaking to one of the founding families, it never served anyone well to caution, contradict, or challenge anything they said. Right now, the Mayor was struggling between either stopping a potential catastrophe, or ruining his relationship with one of the nine most powerful peers in all of Brackenburg.

“South Dunkin is quite a…/willful/ town, isn’t it?” He said at last. “I mean, South Dunkin has never taken kindly to the nobility sweeping in and enacting large-scale change, even if — especially if it is for their own good.”

“True. I will undoubtedly need the help of several powerful and well-connected individuals, such as yourself.” Edmund extended his hand.

“Well…” The mayor’s hand twitched.

Unfortunately, it must be left to historical philosophers to ponder what may have happened if the Mayor had shaken Edmund’s hand. Instead, the Mayor blinked, and looked over Edmund’s shoulder

“I say, what is going on there?”

Edmund turned in time to see Kolb’s shaking finger waving under the nose of one of several visiting Lords from the countryside. The lord’s eyes were wide as Kolb spit white flecks onto his chest.

What is he doing? Edmund screamed in the privacy of his head as he strode towards them. What is the fool doing?

“And that,” Kolb hissed, “is only the third of twenty, yes, I say twenty reasons that…that your perspective on the problem is a…pale and pitiful…/pretense/ of a paltry and pathetic position…you peacock.”

“I…Well, I never!” the Lord² drew himself away from Kolb’s quivering arm. “Your behavior is quite unbecoming, Mister Popomus; I dare say it is as foul as your breath.”

“My breath?” Kolb laughed. “Is that the best beration of my bearing you can bandy about? The sourest slight you can summon up from your stubborn soul? The most infernal invective you can imagine imparting on the impish itinerant before you? Well, Sir — if it is possible to use the term without offending any nearby gentlemen — I am insulted. Will you answer for it?”

“If you were sober enough to understand the answer,” the Lord sniffed, his mouth twisting into a snarl, “then I would answer you dearly, cad!”

“Cad?” Kolb grabbed for the glove covering his artificial hand.

“Enough.”

To Edmund’s surprise, the single word was, in fact, enough. The room fell into a chilled silence. Kolb stopped speaking instantly, his tongue snapping back into his mouth like a startled snake. The aghast Lord collected himself, his snarl drooping into a more gentlemanly scowl. The muttering and gasping that had provided suitable accompaniment to the biting repartee vanished, as everyone now drew their attention to Edmund.

“Forgive me, Patron,” Kolb growled, his voice suddenly slurred. “I appear to be…very tired. I will retire for the evening…with your permission…” He wasted no time in exiting the banquet hall, the eyes of scandalized society following him out.

Etiquette would soon follow, as it often did whenever insult and anger rear their head in pleasant company. Apologies would be sent in letter-form, carefully written with every word chosen to portray the appropriate level of embarrassment, contrition, and concession. The world would continue to turn, and no one would dare mention the incident ever again.

Save those who made it a point to remember such incidents, and knew how to use them like scalpels.

But the more immediate damage had been done. The spell had been broken. When Edmund turned back to the Mayor, he had vanished into the throngs of society.

Damn you, Kolb, Edmund fumed.

---

“My, my,” a voice at his side broke into Edmund’s thoughts. “Quite an eventful wake for dear Matron. A drunken cousin? Dare I hope for long-unspoken love to be requited? Or even a mysterious theft? I suppose a long-lost relative would be too much to hope for, and far too late, besides.”

Edmund turned to see his cousin, Junapa Knittle, smiling at him like a cat might smile at the mouse in its paws. “Patron Moulde,” Junapa extended her pale hand, curtsying with the barest hint of playful mockery in the position of her fan. “What a pleasure.”

“I am glad you are here,” Edmund lied. “I am sorry I didn’t find you earlier,”

“No reason why you should,” Junapa shrugged. “We share letters often enough that I daresay we communicate more than I speak with my own siblings.”

“Nevertheless,” Edmund shrugged.

Junapa’s eyebrow cocked artfully, a clear indication she understood what Edmund meant.

He had prepared for this conversation very carefully. It was true, he and Junapa shared more letters than most gentry bothered, but this was not because of familial affection. They were each others eyes and ears, sharing more information with simple banalities than scientists shared in published papers. They schemed and plotted and played chess, never telling each other everything, but always leaving just enough unsaid that the other, if they were clever enough, could discern the shape of what was being hidden.

He had a lot to discuss with her, and even more to hide.

“Queen to h4,” Edmund said.

Junapa’s eyes flickered as she opened her fan again in wary uncertainty. “An…interesting move, Patron. May I ask how you are feeling?”

“As well as can be expected,” Edmund turned back to the gala wake. “I hope you are well?”

Junapa waved her fan in agreement before turning back to her drink. “What are you doing, Edmund?”

“Patron Edmund, if you please.”

“You can’t seriously be planning to go through with this wedding, can you?”

“I hope you are enjoying the wine. It is a select vintage.”

“I know how this will play out. I’m much older than you, and I’ve seen this happen a thousand times. You’ll plan and plot until something goes wrong and you’re forced to marry someone else, and the Rotledges and the Mouldes will go back to fighting again. You’ll have to make a power grab for money or power soon, or be ousted by one of your relatives who is smarter than you.”

“Like you?”

Junapa grimaced. “I’m too smart to want the Matronage of the Moulde Family. I’m staying as far away as possible, and you should to. Abdicate. Or sell everything. The rest of the family is coming for you, you know.”

“I’ll survive. I’ve managed so far.”

“Don’t you know why? No one is certain what your Patronage will mean for the Family; will you be a hermit, like Matron? Upend the apple cart, like Rotchild or Victrola? The only reason you don’t have assassins knocking on your door right now is because everything is too uncertain right now. If no one is making a move it’s because you are a plate perfectly balanced on a pin. This uncertainty is keeping you alive.”

“You think I should do nothing?”

“I think if anyone sees you do anything, it will risk your life.”

Edmund was about to respond when Junapa slowly tilted her fan to warn Edmund of an approaching guest.

“Patron Moulde, once again, please, accept my sincere condolences.”

Edmund turned. “Father Bromard.” The priest was standing not a foot away, drink in hand, somehow managing to bow apologetically. “I did not receive your letter that you were coming.”

“It must have been misplaced,” Father Bromard waved a dismissive hand. “I’m afraid we of the simple cloth are more familiar with the etiquette of our Lord than that of the Founding Families.” He turned a curious eye to Junapa.

“Mrs. Junapa Knittle,” Edmund introduced her. “A distant cousin.”

“As we all are,” Junapa smiled. “I’m afraid Matron encouraged a respectable familial distance.”

“An honor, my lady,” Father Bromard took her hand, brushing it gently against his lips. “Father Bromard, of the Order of the Holy Torch.”

“So I can see,” Junapa glanced at the small golden sconce hanging around his neck. “Patron has told me so much about you…you were the one who certified Matron’s death, yes?”

In fact, Edmund had told Junapa no such thing, but her powers of deduction, observation, and espionage were unmatched. “Indeed,” Father Bromard nodded. “A regretful duty, but necessary to ensure this man is, indeed, Patron. I hope, sir, you do not find the title too much of a burden?”

Edmund sipped his drink. “There is a lot more paperwork than I had expected.”

“Ah yes,” Father Bromard’s smile became sad. “It is a sorry truth of the world we have built for ourselves; the machine of society runs on red ink.”

“Very prettily put,” Junapa nodded. “Queen to a5. Are you a poet as well, Father Bromard?”

“I…prefer to think of myself as a scribe,” the priest blinked. “The poetry lies in the Lord’s creation.”

“There is poetry everywhere,” Edmund nodded. Except inside him, at the moment “King-side castle”

Father Bromard looked between the two of them. “…please, forgive me for asking, but you both are…”

“Playing chess,” Edmund explained. “It is a favored past-time of ours, and we have been playing by letter for some eight years.”

“And you still play now, without a board?” Father Bromard grinned. “Impressive.”

“There is a board,” Junapa winked with her fan. “It simply stays in our heads. When needed, of course. Bishop to f6.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t been a good opponent,” Edmund spoke before he thought. “Junapa won the last two.”

“You always manage to provide a challenge,” Junapa smiled. “I can never drop my guard around you.”

“Speaking of challenges, I must apologize for my cousin Kolb,” Edmund began, before Father Bromard held up his hand.

“Family can be as much a trial as a blessing. If we are lucky, the benefits outweigh the burdens. You have shown great compassion for a man wounded in the Great War. I personally commend you for your sympathy to his situation.”

“His situation appears to be quite lubricated,” Junapa smirked.

“Yes,” Father Bromard sighed. “It is a great pity to be slave to the drink.”

“Monks in the rural north brew beer,” Edmund said before he could stop himself, “and wine is used for many holy ceremonies.”

“Yes?” Father Bromard looked surprised. “That is correct, though I’m afraid I miss your meaning.”

“I merely wanted to point out that the Church has no doctrinal cause to look down on alcohol.”

“Indeed,” Father Bromard nodded. “In fact, many believe a little beer and wine is a most blessed thing, for it loosens the tongue and sheds the walls of fear that keep us from fulfilling our holy purpose. Too much, however…”

“Such misguided generosity,” Junapa sipped her own drink. “I have seen many inebrated peers, and very few caused such an unpleasant display. The proper thing to do is to become boisterous and frivolous, not bitter and spiteful.”

“The war was a terrible thing,” Father Bromard’s voice grew tight. “It scarred a great many men and women.”

“We have all seen terrible things,” Junapa muttered, “and committed them as well. A true Moulde could control themselves, especially in public.”

“Perhaps there are some things that are too powerful to be controlled.”

“I have no doubt that there are,” Junapa turned her viper’s smile to Edmund as she snapped her fan closed in sudden realization. “Forgive me, I never had the chance to commend you on your restrained behavior during the War. It almost makes up for your lackluster behavior at Grimm’s.”

“You flatter me.”

“No,” Junapa said, after a pause. “No, it is quite an accurate assessment, I’m afraid. The Founding Families are in somewhat of an agreement. You were quite unimpressive for a student accepted so young.”

Edmund felt an uncomfortable twist in his stomach.

“Far be it for me to speak out of turn,” Father Bromard cleared his throat, “but I believe you did invent a new kind of battery?”

“Yes,” Junapa spun her fan in a circle, “but that’s all he did. Indeed, if I hadn’t been friends with Lucia Davinport, I’d have never heard about the Teapot Coterie at all.”

Good. Edmund took a drink. “Lucia Davinport may not have been paying attention to everything I did. She was quite un-invested in several avenues of my studies.”

“No one is un-invested,” Junapa snapped her fan shut. “Everything is connected to something, Patron, and if you can’t see the connections, you are playing with one eye closed; I hope I at least taught you that. If you do not protect yourself, you will fall to those who are stronger and cleverer than you.”

Edmund took another drink. “Queen to f6.”

“Your petulance is unbecoming,” Junapa opened her fan with the speed of a sunrise. “Please, Patron, forgive me, but there is another person I have just seen that I simply must speak with.”

Edmund bowed to Junapa as she walked away. Fool Moulde!

“Forgive me…” Father Bromard spoke up. “I…do not play chess?”

“I sacrificed my queen,” Edmund admitted, “in a move she has equated with over-emotional peevishness.” Fool of a Moulde! Why not tell her everything?

“Ah. Can you not…take the move back?”

“We do not allow such concessions in our games. As in life, there are rarely second chances.”

“I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear you say that,” Father Bromard smiled before turning to face the coffin from across the room. “Life is sacred; there is no second chance. One life, one chance, one world. one Lord. Their uniqueness makes them precious.”

Edmund said nothing. After a moment’s pause, Father Bromard spoke again. “Perhaps you can take comfort in this: Matron is at peace, now. She no longer has to concern herself with the children of the Moulde family or their future.”

Small comfort, Edmund thought, as he joined in Father Bromard’s stare.

“May I ask if you have decided on a precise location for her burial?”

“I have,” Edmund felt his throat tighten. “She will be buried in the hedge maze at the bottom of Haggard Hill. Near the center, the statuary garden.”

“Ah. A place of significance for her?”

“For me.”

“I see.” Another pause. “I feel it is my duty to warn you, the Brackenburg police have received notice of a strange and ghostly figure stalking the streets late at night. I only mention it because I heard there was a Ripper in Mothburn during your first year at school? There is concern another may be in Brackenburg.”

“Oh?”

“I merely wished to urge caution should you find yourself out at night. I am unfamiliar with your habits, or those of your fiancée…by the way,” Bromard’s easy smile returned. “I’ve been doing some research — the Church always likes to be prepared whenever a wedding is due — and I’ve been unable to find out anything about a ‘Googoltha’ Rotledge in our records. A curious thing, but not unheard of, especially when it comes to the Founding Families; they do so love their privacy.”

“We do,” Edmund said, slightly harsher than was necessary.

“Even so,” Father Bromard linked his fingers around his glass, “the Church does strive to be prepared. Can you tell me anything about your fiancée? Her dress size, perhaps? Hair? Eye color?

“I presume she has them. I don’t know what they are, I’m afraid.”

“Not even her eye color? Patron, I truly do not understand this…recalcitrance of yours! It took months for you to tell me her name, and now all I want is to be prepared to provide assistance to whichever priest you choose to perform the ceremony.”

“We may not use a priest.”

There was a long pause, as Patron and Father stared at each other. Neither one moved while the whirling storm of high society took place all around them.

Finally, Father Bromard spoke. “I do so wish we could be friends, Patron Moulde. The Church could do much to help the Mouldes regain their footing in the coming age. We are not without influence among many of the barrows and districts of Brackenburg, and beyond. We reach all the way from the smallest hovel to King Wilhelm’s Palace at Blackham. We could help each other. We could be allies.”

“Perhaps, someday, we shall.” Edmund gave a small concession.

“Then I shall hope, and remain patient. Ah!” Father Bromard reached out his hand. “Please, let me formally introduce you to one of my flock; she has so desired to speak with you.”

---

“Patron, may I introduce to you Lady Esmerildina Brocklehurst.”

When her name was mentioned, Edmund had to pull himself up short lest he collide with the billowing dress of the stately middle-aged woman who had stepped in front of his path.

“Patron Moulde,” Esmerildina curtsied as best she could in a dress three times her own size, her fan spread to the side like a swan’s wing. “I have so wished to speak with you this evening.”

Edmund knew the Brocklehursts, of course. They were distantly connected to the Mouldes from a three-decades-old marriage. Edmund had thought them a contentedly humble and quiet family, before one of their number had actively opposed his education at Grimm’s. He wasn’t familiar with Lady Esmerildina as such, except that she lived with her husband in a large villa in North Dunkin, along with several hundred-thousands of pounds. They were, in many ways, emblematic of the neuveau riche.

“An honor to finally meet you,” Edmund returned the greeting. “I hope you are enjoying the evening?”

“It is an absolutely marvelous affair,” Esmerildina smiled beatifically. “Oh! Would you please do me the honor of escorting me to the refreshment table? I have been desperate for a drink, but it appears that every available man has already staked their claim to a more eligible lady.

Edmund faltered. To explain the breaches of etiquette involved in Lady Brocklehurst’s request is to simply explain the expected role of a well-bred woman at a wake. Indeed, her requesting something of Edmund at all would be enough to scandalize the nobility of England for weeks, but to ask him for an escort? In favor of any number of other gentlemen? To admit desperation? To mention eligibility? The shear audacity of Esmerildina’s behavior was more than enough to grab Edmund’s attention.

“If you will excuse me,” he said to Father Bromard as he offered his arm to Esmerildina.

Father Bromard bowed as Edmund walked with Esmerildina to the large table on the far wall, full to the edges with bottles and glasses.

“I cannot tell you how regretful we are,” Lady Esmerildina said as she dragged him along, “for the behavior of our namesake during your time at Grimm’s. His behavior was quite inexcusable. I can only say that we Brackenburg Brocklehursts make it a point to never associate with the Mothburn Brocklehursts. Only two days ago my husband called them uncouth and boorish. Quite rightly, too, in my opinion.”

It was a piddling apology, all things considered, but Edmund was still off balance from Kolb’s outburst earlier, to say nothing of his mistake in Junapa’s chess-game. Were he in a wiser frame of mind, he could have accepted her apology, made some excuse, withdrawn, and waited until he knew exactly what Esmerildina was up to. As it was, he felt the need to be merciful, and perhaps even generous.

“In the end, it all turned out for the best,” he lied.

“You are so gracious to say so. I still think Matron should have exiled Lady Morrisina on the spot.”

“Lord and Lady Morrisina Brocklehurst,” Edmund recited what history he remembered. “Fifty years ago, they moved to Mothburn after a scandalous wedding.”

“Lord Brocklehurst,” Esmerildina hissed through a steady smile, “was a gardener and fountain-cleaner. Hardly appropriate marriageable material for someone of her stature. No, no, I’m quite afraid that the Mothburn Brocklehursts came out of a marriage made in poor judgment, and it shows. Did you know, the current Lord Brocklehurst’s mother once offered to purchase the Duchess of Wheatfield’s dress only two days after it had been worn to the Duke’s summer ball? Nothing but poor judgment, generation after generation. It constantly embarrasses us; poor judgment is such a disparagement to our name, isn’t it?”

If her goal was to encourage Edmund to remove the Mothburn Brocklehursts from the Moulde family, or to at least force them to change their name, it was an awkward method of going about it. “I can see how you would think so,” Edmund hedged.

“I often wonder,” she sighed, tilting her head and fanning her fan, “if only I had been there, would I have been able to advise her differently, explain the downsides of marrying someone of poor means and the consequences of poor judgment?”

If there was anything that convinced Edmund that Lady Brocklehurst was one of the neuveau riche, it was this clear misunderstanding of marriage equality. The fact was: the Founding Families had a sense of personal pride that resulted in even wedding Royalty being seen as “marrying down.” At the same time, the disgust the Founding Families felt for each other meant that every wedding was nothing less than an atrocity that sent mothers sobbing to their rooms and fathers disowning their progeny with extreme prejudice, no matter who the bride or groom was.

This lasted for generations before anyone realized they would have to become slightly more flexible if they wanted to have an heir at all. After a quick glance about at their peers, the Founding Families decided that “marrying down” was preferable to “marrying them,” and so a fiancée’s suitability became defined by far more exotic measures, rather than their titles or lineage.

Edmund took two glasses full of pale wine from the table and handed one to Esmerildina. “Your health.”

Esmerildina took the glass, staring at Edmund with an appraising look. “I must say, I expected something more. I do not mean to insult you, of course, but when Matron chose to adopt we all thought that there must be something quite…/remarkable/ about this boy. We heard about Grimm’s, of course, and how you volunteered during the War, but looking at you now I must be honest…I’m surprised at what I see.”

Edmund was delighted to hear it. “I’m afraid there may be little I can do about that, Lady Esmerildina.”

“Well, no matter. May I ask how you find your new title? Do you have many struggles?”

“I find it well enough.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll soon get the hang of it,” Lady Brocklehurst shrugged with her fan, curving it through the air like a painter’s brush. “I sincerely hope you come to us if you have any problems.”

Edmund’s jaw almost dropped at the implication. “You want to offer me advice?”

“You must understand, Patron, that any mistakes you make now are no longer yours alone. You have the Moulde Family name to care for, yes, and an established social structure, but you must also care for the families that are close to the Mouldes, through marriage or…other means.”

“Like the Brocklehursts.”

“Among others, yes. Have you heard anything of our daughter, Nausica?”

Ah. “I’m afraid with the War, and focusing on my studies, I have been woefully negligent in keeping abreast of the affairs of others.”

“Not at all, I quite understand. We have not said much about her to anyone, regardless — she is quite young, you know, and it is hardly proper to gossip about ones own daughter — but she is such a wondrous young lady. She can play music like an angel and is quite educated, for a girl. She is heir to the titles of Countess of Fensdown and Baroness of Highstreet. Her dowry is quite substantial, as well. Her debutante ball is next month, and we would be honored if you could make an appearance.”

There was, and indeed has never been, anything unusual in a Head of a Founding Family attending the debutante ball of a familial ally, both in a show of support and legitimacy. However, extolling a debutante’s virtues was a practice reserved exclusively for those who are viewed as eligible and prospective spouses. No matter how Edmund looked at it, there was no other explanation than Esmerildina had just publicly and forcefully offered her daughter to Edmund in marriage.³

Edmund took a sip of wine, desperate for every second available to think.

“Lady Brocklehurst, you are —”

“Esmerildina, please.”

“…Esemerildina, I have only just been appointed Patron of the Moulde Family. My affairs are numerous and quite pressing, and while I would be delighted to attend any ball the Brocklehursts hold…my own marriage arrangements may take precedence.”

“Yes,” her stern face pulled to the side in mild disgust. “We have heard all about those rumors; an arranged marriage between you and the Rotledges back when you were eight…It is so obviously nonsense.”

“I assure you, Esmerildina, the wedding was arranged.”

“Oh yes, we are aware of that,” her fan twirled in dismissal, “I mean the wedding itself is absurd. Why, I hear she doesn’t even have a dowry. We are quite aware the betrothal will be off before the end of the year.”

Edmund opened his mouth and then closed it.

One of the difficulties in being a Moulde, Edmund had realized, was never knowing how many steps ahead someone was. Subtext was a first language for the upper-classes; and subtle innuendos, clandestine whispers, and plausible deniability dotted the verbal landscape like dandelions on a hill. As such, whenever anyone said anything odd or disconcerting, the first thing to do was to decide whether the speaker was trying to allude to a deeper context, or if they were simply a fool.

Edmund couldn’t tell with Lady Brocklehurst. “I assure you, it won’t.”

“Of course it will,” Esmerildina smiled, snapping her fan open and ending the debate. “It really was such an unseemly plan, marrying a Rotledge. Could you imagine, one of them providing you an heir? Besides, it is obviously more important for you to shore up the strength of the Moulde bloodline and return the strength due the Moulde name. You know the troubles that arose because of Matron’s…recalcitrance. We simply cannot go through all of that again. It is the opinion of a great many of us that you must work towards creating an heir at once.”

Edmund blinked. “Us?”

Lady Brocklehurst may have been foolish, but she wasn’t stupid. “Lord Brocklehurst and I are the only ones you need concern yourself with at the moment. Of all the Moulde’s families, the Brocklehursts are the closest in line with the Moulde bloodline, and marrying our daughter would ensure the future of the Family. She’s very fertile; takes after her grandmother, you know. In addition, we already have connections in seven prominent European regions, and one of our sons has married the cousin of the prince of Denmark’s niece. We’re practically Royalty.”

“And the Rotledges? Haggard Hill? The feud that has lasted since the city was founded?”

“Why, that makes it a tradition, doesn’t it?” Esmerildina waved her fan. “Besides, what does it matter? The Rotledges don’t behave any worse towards us than any of the other Founding Families, do they? In the end, it doesn’t matter at all, does it?”

It does, Edmund bit his tongue. It matters very much.

“In any case, a formal invitation will be sent,” Lady Esmerildina snapped her fan shut. “It will be held in our summer villa, in South Dunkin. I hope you come. There is a great deal of poor judgment that could easily be avoided, if you consider very carefully. Now, if you will excuse me, I see someone else I simply must meet.”

Edmund bowed to Esmerildina as she took her leave, sweeping away from the table like a billowing white cloud in spring, that promised a rainstorm to come.