The Last Days of Yesteryear: Chapter 9

A church can mean many things to many people. In the quiet rural and uncrowded towns, a church can be a place for gathering and fellowship. For the bustling cities, a church can be a place of quiet, to get away from the same clusters of humanity that fill the streets. With the right preacher, a church can be a place to find guidance and moral clarity among the complicated and confusing customs of the time. With the right parishioners, a church can be sanctuary and succor for the poor and unfortunate.

Cathedrals have no such flexibility. There are no friendly vicars who dismissively wave their hands at the mud on your boots. No smiling monks who are willing to roll up their robes to help birth a calf, or thatch a roof. A cathedral is a shrine writ large; a divine embassy on mortal land. When you step across a cathedral’s threshold, you are stepping into a world where your mortal concerns are secondary. You are not a believer in a cathedral, nor parishioner, nor penitent. You are a guest.

The Brackenburg Cathedral and Metropolitical Church of God was a well built cathedral.

Edmund craned his neck to stare at the flying buttresses and spiny towers that topped the giant stone structure. There were seven doors, each topped with an arch filled with realistic representations of wars, fables, and saints. The pillars on each side of the doors were so crowded of faces, busts, and statuary, they looked ready to explode.

The black cloud of Brackenburg hung low over the city, partially hiding both the moonlight and the tallest spires in its sooty folds. The sparking street-lamps gave little light, and the dim glow from inside the cathedral flickered behind stained glass of all sizes, depicting ancient cavaliers and demons, the quivering shadows giving each one the illusion of movement; of life.

Edmund took a breath. He knew the effect his stepping into the Cathedral would have. He would be the first Patron or Matron to do so in centuries,¹ but Patron Wyldrich said Edmund needed to answer the Church, so he would answer them.

The old wrought-iron hinges creaked as the cathedral doors opened, filling the vast empty room beyond with its shrieks. Edmund’s foot-falls joined the echoes, disrupting what might have been a tranquil space for contemplation.

The nave of the cathedral was gigantic, stretching so far into the distance that Edmund almost couldn’t see the altar. The walls were no less bedecked with statues and ornamentation than the outside, and the tall pointed-arches and rib-vaults gave the distant ceiling a skeletal shape. It gave Edmund the impression of having stepped into the bones of a giant whale. He wondered if the architects believed that being inside a whale made someone more pious.

The silence was delicate but complex, like an intricate lace doily. You could barely call it silence; the air itself caused an echo with every draft. It was a silence full of the memories of past sound, like a pond moments after ripples had become little more than faint suggestions. It was a noisy silence, and that bothered Edmund. The silence of Libraries was a thick warm blanket that soothed, while this silence was aggressive and demanding. It sucked the sound from his throat, so that Edmund wasn’t positive that he could speak, let alone speak louder than the smallest whisper.

The priests stared at him. He stared back.

They were everywhere; hunched in the pews and praying to the Lord, or perhaps to themselves. Some covered their heads with dusk hoods. Others let their bald heads shine in the flickering candlelight.

Their necks were burdened with icons of their faith. Some wore the now familiar sconces, while others wore keys, ornamental orbs, or tiny daggers. One wore a spoon. Sects upon sects wandered the Cathedral, each concerned with their own ways of worshiping the Lord. Some were wandering up and down the aisles, sensors swaying like trees in the wind.

When he had been younger, Wislydale had tutored him extensively on the importance of an entrance. Entire conversations could be held with one of the landed gentry before they took their second step into a room.

There were any number of things Edmund could have done. He could have sat in a pew, communicating much from which pew he chose and how far down he chose to sit. He could have lit a candle, genuflected, or even dropped a tithe into hands of the small brass statue near the door, and then turned the crank to deposit it in the statue’s gilded chest.

Instead, Edmund waited. He knew it wouldn’t take long.

“Patron Moulde.” Sure enough, in moments Father Bromard appeared from nowhere in his deep-red cassock, his fabric shoes making no noise on the stone floor. “You are most welcome in the house of our Lord.”

“I reject your welcome.” Edmund forced the words out, matching volume with the mellifluous priest.

“It is given, just the same,” Father Bromard spread his arms, encompassing the massive cathedral. “Our Lord is the Lord of everything, not just those who believe.”

“I’ve come to demand answers.” The steely gaze that Edmund leveled at Father Bromard had been carefully constructed to convey in no uncertain terms exactly what Edmund thought about the Church and its welcome.

As the echoes of their hushed voices faded, Father Bromard gave a small nod. “Perhaps we should speak somewhere more private.”

Without looking, Edmund knew that every priest in the cathedral was staring at them now, and with good reason. Edmund was a Patron of one of the Nine Founding Families of Brackenburg, and in his chest burned the pain of a powerful man wounded. There were few things in the world more powerful, or more dangerous. A Patron of the Founding Families standing in the middle of the Brackenburg Cathedral and Metropolitical Church of God, ranting in passionate, sincere, and above all eloquent rage; it was such things as schisms are made of.

But for whatever reason, Edmund chose not to be the first Founding Family member to challenge the Church in such a manner.² Instead, he silently followed Father Bromard as he ushered Edmund through a side-door, along cramped corridors and hallways, stopping at last at a tiny door.

The room they entered was cozy, to be polite. Cramped, to be accurate. Tables and shelves lined the walls, while books and scrolls covered every available surface. There was only one chair, pushed hard against the far wall. Even Edmund’s lanky frame had to squeeze past the tables to reach the other side.

“This is my study,” Father Bromard said in a less hushed tone. “I must apologize; the nave was not built for privacy. When the Cathedral was built in 1120, the architects believed that echoes were godly. They used a great many incredible engineering tricks to ensure that when the bishop spoke, he would not be a single voice, but a resonant choir, speaking with all the many voices of God.”

“And the parishioners in the pews? Did they whisper and cough with similar divinity?”

“Dear me, no,” Father Bromard led Edmund up a thin marble staircase towards a small door at the far end. “No one would have dared cough in the old days. Please forgive the clutter. I rarely have any guests. I’m afraid the life of a priest is less glamorous than that of a Moulde.”

Looking around, Edmund saw no evidence of this. “This room looks very similar to some of my own.”

“Indeed?” Father Bromard cocked a curious eyebrow. “I find the pursuits of my heart often take precedence over the virtues of tidiness and organization. I have been reprimanded several times by my superiors, in fact, but I do believe there are more important things.”

The urge to engage the Father in a discussion of the various merits was strong, but Edmund resisted it all the same. There were, after all, more important things. “I have come to demand the Church remove itself from my grounds, and allow the burial of Matron Moulde.”

“Quite impossible, I’m afraid,” Father Bromard shook his head. “As Matron was never given Sanctification by the Church, we cannot allow her to be buried in land that may become a mine.

“This isn’t about Haggard Hill.”

Father Bromard paused, then nodded. “That is true.”

“This is about Googoltha.”

“You are correct.”

“You are determined to meet her.”

“You are hiding her. I know you are. There is no other reason for your recalcitrant behavior.”

“Perhaps I am used to my privacy.”

“Perhaps you think that if we were to learn more about who your fiancée is, we would be forced to take decisive action. You may not even know why we would, but you have proven yourself to be quite shrewd. If you believe we would, I personally am inclined to believe it.”

“Is suspicion a valuable trait in the priesthood?”

“It is trust, Patron; trust that you know me better than you let on. Trust that you have explored all the angles and have a plan of your own. I trust you, Patron, far more than you trust me.”

“Why are you trying to be my enemy?”

“I am not,” Father Bromard looked up, his voice firm. “The Church is not. I want very much for the Church to be friend to the Moulde family. I would like to be friend to you as well. I know the Founding Families do not like the Church; ‘Score-keepers,’ I believe we have been called? Well, that may be so, but even score-keepers can be…flexible. The Founding Families are no strangers to barter, and the Church has much that would be valuable to any landed-gentry.”

“If you are devoted to becoming my friend, you certainly have strange methods. You pry into private family business, refuse to allow the burial of my mother; why must you continue with this incessant harassment?”

“Because you will not help me, Patron!” Father Bromard struck the table in exasperation. “I have spent months of searching and found nothing about her. No records of her birth. No letters hold her name. After speaking with the Rotledges, I even began to wonder if you had invented your fiancée, a phantom to ward off unwanted marital advances. But then, I found news of a terrible tragedy that struck the Rotledge family almost twenty years ago. A child was lost at a very young age.”

“Who?” Edmund asked, terrified that he already knew the answer.

“A young girl. One of Tricknee’s very distant cousins, on the other side of the family. Barely any relation to Tricknee at all, in fact.”

“You think she is reborn,” Edmund said, clarity all the more uncomfortable for its suddenness. “Revitalized. A dead girl returned to life.”

Father Bromard nodded. “You know Tricknee Rotledge; he is stubborn as he is clever. A recently slain child would be little more than materials for his research…If he brings her back to life, wouldn’t he see her as his own? Not a daughter, of course; she’s far too young. But a granddaughter…a new name, a new branch of the Rotledge family, easily hidden from prying eyes and questioning priests…”

Edmund thought about Googoltha’s odd smile, her pale skin, and the strange look in her eyes that made it seem she was studying you for dissection. “What evidence do you have of this?”

“Evidence?” Father Bromard smiled. “None you would call such. I have rumors, suspicions, and a distinct lack of evidence to the contrary. For most of the Order, that would be more than enough. Indeed, your own reaction to the accusation is evidence of a sort; you did not reject my claim out of hand. You considered. Perhaps it explains a few things? Oddities you have noticed in her behavior? It doesn’t matter. While suspicions are enough for some of my fellows, they are not enough for me, especially when they are so easily disproven. Let me see your fiancée. Let me take a sample of her blood. The Church has ancient ways of discerning whether a body is risen once more, or if it walks thanks to mortal intervention.”

Edmund’s brain worked furiously. “If this tale of yours were true, then this girl was given a new name. A new family, of sorts. Why does this not make her a new person? Even if born from another’s body, does this new girl not have the right to live?”

Father Bromard sighed and stood up from his desk. “I would like to show you something. Have you heard of the Penitent Monks?”

“No,” Edmund said, noting the definite article.

“Come with me, and I will show them to you. Then, I think you might understand a little better.”

---

The Penitent Monks were praying. It was all they did.

The three red-robed monks knelt next to each other in a small room, barely big enough to accommodate both Edmund and Father Bromard in addition. Their heads bobbed as their hands clasped and unclasped, raising their arms up and down in supplication. Their foreheads touched the floor. Their fists beat their chests. Periodically, a monk would grip a holy symbol, selected from the array of crosses, sconces, beads, rods, knives, and golden orbs in front of them, and bring the object to their lips before holding it above their heads in divine exultation. On the wall in front of them was a carefully sculpted shrine, religious iconography covering every inch.

“They were built a hundred years ago,” Father Bromard said, “by Father Endrogan. He was obsessed with machinery, and thought he could use it to create a more perfect priest.”

It was all clockwork. Edmund’s ears could pick out every tick, every clack, as the mechanical monks raised and lowered their arms.

“There is an ancient steam engine in the basement,” Father Bromard explained. “It powers much of our Cathedral, including these three. It turns a wheel which rotates a cog at the base of the monk in the middle. That cog indirectly touches every other lever and spring.”

“They are wonderful,” Edmund watched the steady motion of the monks as they went about their prayers. Their painted faces, covered in divine rapture, bobbed up and down like a cork in the ocean. He wished he had known about them earlier. It might have been enough to make him go to the Cathedral regularly.

“Are they not?” Father Bromard’s gaze was filled with love and awe. “I have spent entire days sitting in this room. I have studied Father Endrogan’s blueprints and marveled at his genius.”

“I had not expected you to be a devotee of the mechanical arts.”

Father Bromard shrugged. “I am not only a priest. Or rather, I suppose I should say being a priest is more than simply praying. I study the same sciences I imagine you did at Grimm’s. I look at the world, the Lord’s great creation, the same way you do. A marvelous machine! How could I not be enraptured by every manifestation of the divine? How can we not learn how it works?”

Edmund had no answer. He watched one of the monks raise a golden orb to its brass lips before holding it out towards the fresco.

“In fact,” Father Bromard continued, “I would say the only difference between you and me is that I use this knowledge for the glory of the Lord, instead of defiling it.”

“I’ve defiled nothing.”

“No?” Father Bromard smiled. “Perhaps not. Perhaps you stopped yourself with a concoction in hand, poised to drink. Perhaps you stopped yourself from using the scalpel or lighting the fuse. Maybe the mixture in your syringe went un-injected…But I wonder how many times you’ve stopped yourself, in your lifetime. Two? Three? How many times did you invent something terrible? You were in the War, Patron Moulde. You saw the works of the Wickes. You saw at Grimm’s what madfolk can do when their passions run unchecked.”

Edmund stared as the clicking monks bowed their heads, their praying hands open wide to the sky.

“Whereas these,” Father Bromard leaned forward, his eyes wide with admiration, “are the perfect followers of God. God is eternal. Faith is eternal. We imperfect humans must pass, with our imperfect faith, but these monks…we weighed every piece and measured every gear. Their design is as precise as the rituals built into them. They have no room for sin, no margin for error. They never tire, never fade, never fumble in their piety. They exalt, apologize, plead, praise, and glorify in perfect precision. Why, one of the wisest and most pious Fathers of our Order once said that God must have been a great watchmaker, to wind the watch of the universe only once, and let it run for eternity.”

Edmund rested his hand on his waistcoat pocket, feeling his ever-wound watch resting there, ticking away. He had always thought prayer was something unique to humans. Granted, he had never took it upon himself to learn the details of religious practice — he had never even stepped inside a church before now — but he had always assumed that any Gods would care more about how humans behaved than animals or machines.³

Father Bromard sagged as he shook his head. “Forgive me. I let myself get carried away. I wanted to show you that we are more alike than you may think, so you understand when I say that I mean you no animosity. The Order of the Holy Torch has sworn an oath to ensure the laws of God and Nature are followed. When the order of the world is threatened, we burn out the sickness, so the Lord’s creation can flourish. We are surgeons, as well as priests.”

A spasm of regret twinged in Edmund’s heart; it had been so poetically put. If his own poetry had remained with him, he could have replied in kind. Instead, he was forced to rely on the poor-man’s poetry: re-appropriation.

“The Lord sees all,” Edmund quoted, “knows all, reaches all, in our deepest hearts and through our darkest nights. The Lord is among us, of us, and with us in all ways.”

Father Bromard’s befuddled uncertainty blossomed to admiration. “My dear Patron, I had no idea you were a believer! Had I known you were studying our holy doctrine, I would have offered to pray with you.”

“I finished studying it yesterday. I have since moved on to the writings of Al-Jazzeir-Malaman, holy Imam of the Blessed Book.”

Father Bromard’s face fell. “Ah…you are…comparison shopping?” His tone suggested that even saying the words might condemn him to one of the less savory circles of hell.

“I am merely curious,” Edmund admitted. “I’ve been reading up on the different histories of several religions, and that includes their own history books. I think it’s interesting that the Church of Britannia calls its own history book sacred, especially when its accuracy is disputed.”

“Only by…certain sects.”

“There are seventeen separate sects in the Church,” Edmund continued. “Each of them believes in the truth of the Lord, but they all have different cannonical doctrine. The Blessed preach from the writings of Highfather Prector, the Order of the Sheep holds mass every other Friday, the Gathering of Ombudsmen only hold service in ancient Latin…there are so many differences between the different orders and sects, and yet every single one says the same Lord’s Prayer. The same Sancti Verde, the same Ave Memorias.”

“What is your actual question, Patron?”

“Is this piety?” Edmund gestured at the priests. “If the Lord truly is everywhere, why do you need the chants and the incense? If it is replaceable by machines, why the need for a soul?”

Father Bromard’s head sank, the perfect picture of an exasperated parent, fatigue leaking from his voice like steam escaping from a valve. “Why do we partake of ritual?” Father Bromard asked, turning to face Edmund. “Because it is expected of us. When we say hello to our fellows on the street, when we shake hands, or bow, or curtsy, it is an acknowledgment of our shared place in this great society. We know we are British, because we speak the King’s English. We know we are fellows, because we take part in the same rituals. We shake hands. We say hello. It is the same with the Lord. Our Lord does not put stock in Latin phrases. Prayers are not magic spells to control our fate. All we can do is show the Lord that we are fellows, and in so doing, all who do the same are our kin. Like a family.”

While this didn’t explain everything, it did help Edmund understand why the holy wars of centuries past were always far more bloody, vengeful, and bitter than any others. Familial love was as good a reason as any he had come up with.

Father Bromard paused, and then took a deep breath. Stepping forward, he crossed the tiny room to the other side of the priests. “Even after learning everything about these marvelous machines, I do not understand them. Atophas here,” he gestured to one of the priests, “prays with the scepter every twenty-second Ave Pachem, but adds a third beat on his chest every fourth prayer. Banandette twists his hands forward instead of backward every third psalm, and bows his head deeper after any of the seven confessional prayers. Paeter is the most reliable of the three, but even he presses the orb to his lips longer than the others…he almost lingers on it…”

He stepped forward, and rested a hand on the middle priest as his copper arms raised into the air. “I could dismantle them. I could tear them apart and study each and every cog and spring. I could dissect them like cadavers, and learn everything that Father Endrogan never wrote down, never inscribed about his beautiful creations, but if I did,” Father Bromard pointed a finger at Edmund’s nose, “if I tore these priests apart, and knew everything about them…where would the majesty be? Would I find a cog that made them miraculous? Would a single spring reveal their soul? Science tears the world apart, removes the beauty of mystery to replace it with cold unyielding fact. And after my blaspheme, would I leave them in pieces?” He spun about, embracing the room with his hands. “Should I destroy what my mentor created, only to learn how they worked? If I were to destroy such a beautiful piece of art, I would truly be thrice damned. No, I would rebuild them, piece by piece as exacting as they were before. And then…” he sighed. “Then they would be my creations. No longer my mentor’s. I would have destroyed his creation and replaced it with my own.”

Edmund swallowed. His eyes were stinging.

“So with life,” Bromard whispered. “What value is there in life if it is not impermanent? The inventions of madfolk might make life more comfortable, cleaner, even faster…but it cannot make life worth more.”

Edmund watched while Bromard rested his hand once more on the head of a priest, and then turned away. “This is why I joined the Order of the Holy Torch. I want what any scientist wants. I want the laws of nature to be followed. I want the movements of the stars to remain constant. I want salt to season food, and fire to burn wood to ash. I want the earth to continue to revolve around the sun. I want tomorrow to come, the same as yesterday.”

“You think Googoltha is such a threat?”

“Not in herself, but when we allow vice to go unpunished, it will blossom into sin.”

“She has no sin in her.”

“Ah,” Father Bromard sighed, a sad smile on his lips. “I have performed this duty for many years, and this is the great tragedy of the truth. Whether one is guilty or not, their protestations are always of innocence.”

Edmund was quite familiar with a myriad aspects of criminal law, and he had never heard of any crime like what Father Bromard was suggesting. “Guilty of living?”

“I have spent years hunting Abominations,” Father Bromard’s eyes flashed, “and I have heard all the arguments. I know how they think, and how others think of them. Names are changed, attics walled off, doors hidden, all to protect their precious second chance.” Edmund waited while the priest collected himself again. “It is not about chances,” he sighed at last. “It’s not even about inheritances. The War of the Lilies was the founding moment of our Order, but the law at its center goes much deeper than keeping the crown on a single head. I was in the Great War with you, Patron Moulde. I spent time in the trenches, same as you…and I saw the pain and suffering that life can bring. Young soldiers were begging for death. Can you imagine if no one died? If things didn’t end? Perpetual change. Growth without end. Suffering without closure or purpose. It is better, it must be better to keep the watch of the world running as it should. As the Lord intended it.”

Edmund took a deep breath. “You said the Church could be flexible,” he said.

“I did.”

“You want to know more about Googoltha.”

“I do.”

Edmund turned to stare Father Bromdard full in the face. “The Order of Saint Animony frowns on marriage, as nuptials distract from the worship of the Lord. Yet only last week Father Geoffly of the Saint Animony parish in Tuffling performed the wedding ceremony for Lord and Lady Bumduck.”

“I…was aware of this.”

“Then you are aware that the Church is as flexible as any of the Nine Founding Families. If the Church is willing to be lenient, than be lenient with my fiancée and Haggard Hill. Allow me to do as I will with mine, and perhaps…we could be friends.”

Father Bromard watched Edmund’s face for a time. Then:

“There are some laws that are…inflexible, Patron. An alliance between the Mouldes and the Church would truly be a powerful union…but not at the cost of the Church itself.”

Edmund nodded. He had suspected as much. “Will you allow me to leave?” he asked, as politely as his heart would permit. Or will you chain me to the pews and force me to become as perfect as these monks?

The priest’s mouth twitched then, a frown fighting the urge to deepen into a sneer. “Of course you may leave. I beg for you to consider, however. A decision can be made quickly or wisely. Take time to consider the ramifications of your actions. We will keep Matron safe for the time being, and will await such time as you recognize the reasonableness of our request.”

Edmund opened the door, and began to leave. “Farewell, Father Bromard. I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me.”

“I only hope,” Bromard said as Edmund closed the door behind him, “that we speak again, very soon.”

---

It is a rare thing to say that Edmund wasted his time, but given the events that occurred once returning to Moulde Hall from the Cathedral, many scholars are put in the inevitable position of divising some purpose for the time Edmund spent planning and scheming on the journey.

After stepping out of the carriage and climbing the steps of Moulde Hall, Edmund headed straight for his study to put several different plans into operation. Time was not on his side, and there were a great many letters that needed writing.

He strode past Enga when she stepped out from the shadows, confident her pace would match his. “Did a letter come while I was out?”

“Yes, Patron,” Enga produced a silver tray with a letter placed on top. “A request for your presence from Matron Cromley.”

Edmund took the letter from the offered silver plate, and pulled up short. A card was underneath the letter.

“I’m afraid Lady Brocklehurst has arrived, and is waiting in the eastern sitting room,” Egna’s tone was the perfect blend of embarrassment and scorn.

Edmund’s heart sank and he took up the card. He didn’t have the time to deal with Lady Brocklehurst now. Why did the old woman seem incapable of reading the social cues? Matron had never had this much trouble with the Brocklehursts while she was alive. At least, Edmund had seen no evidence of it.

Edmund detoured to the sitting room, where the wide-dressed Lady was sweeping her way around the room, staring at the ornamentation on the walls, running her hands along the upholstery, and periodically waving her hand in the air as if practicing for a promenade.

“Lady Brocklehurst,” Edmund said as he entered the room. “I was not expecting you.”

To be unexpected by your host is to trespass most terribly. It is the duty, if not the privilege, of every guest to be expected; either through invitation or — in emergencies — waiting patiently outside until someone notices. If you are not expected, you have failed to maintain even the basest level of etiquette and proper behavior. Entire branches of family trees have been ruined by such mistakes.

To be unexpected by one of the Nine Founding Families, is akin to braving a monsoon with little more than five planks of wood tied together with twine.

Lady Brocklehurst seemed unaware of any impending doom. “Please, Patron, I insist you call me Esmerildina. Lady Brocklehurst is so very formal. And yes, I must apologize; I sent a telegram when I left Brocklehurst Hall and when I arrived your charming butler told me you had not yet returned. Such a easy mistake to make with these new inventions, is it not?”

In point of fact, Edmund found it difficult to make any mistakes at all with telegraph machines, but he presumed this was due to his familiarity with the underlying concepts. “Can I get you anything?”

“Oh, no thank you. I shan’t be staying too long, I know how busy you must be. I only stopped by to hand deliver an invitation to my daughter’s Debutante Ball.”

“I already received an invitation in the post.” Was she really this bad at lying? Or was she deliberately treating him like a child?

“Oh? Well, your acceptance must have gotten lost,” Esmerildina’s face retained every inch of motherly condescension. “They really have gotten worse, haven’t they? Why, I simply don’t trust the post anymore. Run by commoners, these days, and since the war they’ve simply lost their pride in their work, haven’t they? Well, no matter, I’m here now so I can wait while you write up your acceptance letter. Won’t take a moment, I’m sure.”

It is worth mentioning that this might have been an effective ploy for any other of the landed gentry. There are few social benefits to outright contradicting a guest, especially one so forthright and well-connected as Lady Brocklehurst. Many a lord or lady would have simply stammered agreement, and begun the unpleasant process of writing a letter while the recipient is standing over the desk, noting any grammar and spelling mistakes.

The Founding Families were not like any other upper-class families, and while outright contradiction was still taboo, it was the outright that was the problem.

“I’m afraid I will be unable to attend,” Edmund gave the well-used excuse he had supplied to several other requests already. “I have a prior engagement. However, I would be delighted to host your family here for an evening’s dinner in the near future. Perhaps in the summer?”

A halting and gracious thank you would have been the proper reply, but Esmerildina had other plans. “Oh no,” she smiled. “I’m afraid that simply won’t do. Nausica is expecting you, you see. She’s already picked out her dress. I’m afraid you simply must cancel your other plans.”

It was at this point in Edmund’s relationship with the Brocklehursts that he became positive that Esmerildina was an imbecile. There was little reason to assume that he would be susceptible to such blunt and authoritative language. Especially from a branch of the family had such comparatively unimpressive status.

Had he been in a better frame of mind, he might have expertly steered the conversation to a more suitable conclusion, leaving Esmerildina aware of both the foolishness and outright danger of ever speaking to him like that ever again, without her even noticing she was being reprimanded. However, Edmund had a lot on his mind. He didn’t have time to deal with distractions, which Esmerildina clearly was.

He had opened his mouth to say what could only have been one of the most harsh and brutal reprimands in upper-class history, when there was a knock on the sitting room door.

“Forgive my interruption,” Enga entered with an apologetic bow, “But I thought you would want to know that the priests have left Matron’s Grave.”

Edmund frowned. “Where are they now?”

“I’m afraid I do not know, Patron. Ung only just now noticed.”

“Oh, those shabby little robed men at the base of the hill?” Lady Brocklehurst waved her hand. “I sent them home.”

Edmund had developed a particularly delicate sense of when the grounds on which he walked were shifting. Mere seconds ago he had been certain Esmerildina was a fool, and likely a dangerous one. Now, as he noted the crinkle next to her eye and the slow curve of her fan, he was equally certain he needed to reassess.

“I had no idea you were a member of the clergy,” Edmund said with a careful hint of amusement.

“You are delight, Patron,” Esmerildina snapped her fan shut with a laugh. “I simply stopped off to speak with Bishop Hubuernot before I arrived. He is really quite a lovely fellow, once you get to know him, and Matron deserves to be buried in Haggard Hill, doesn’t she. Don’t worry about the Church, I’ve handled them before. You see, Patron,” Esmerildina leaned forward in her seat, “they’re all the same, really. The Church may talk about souls and duty and moral law, but that’s just how they want to amass power. What the upper-class does with money, and the Founding Families do with blood, the Church does with religion. It’s all about power, and who wields it. All it ever takes is finding the right thing to say to the right person, and I’ve always found that a lot simpler than pouring through doctrinal law, or manipulating local industry, don’t you?”

Edmund licked his lips. “I cannot say. All the same, I am grateful for your assistance. How can I —”

He stopped. He knew exactly how she wanted him to repay her.

“Well,” she leaned back, holding out her hand to Edmund. After the briefest pause, Edmund lent her his hand to help her stand. “You are a very clever Patron, aren’t you? You know what the Brocklehursts can do for you. Our families are already entwined, and we have money, connections, and are well positioned, socially. All I ask is that you take the time out of your very busy schedule to attend my daughters debutante ball. Is that so much to ask?”

Edmund looked down at the invitation. Matron’s Burial was supposed to be two days ago. You couldn’t have known the church had stopped it so quickly unless you had been waiting for it. You knew it would happen, or made sure it would, so you could sweep in and be the hero.

The question is…did you manipulate the Church, or did the Church manipulate you?

After a short pause, he slowly walked to the small writing desk nearby, and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen.