The Last Days of Yesteryear: Chapter 10

Bockabell Mansion was the seventh of eight homes owned by the Cromley’s in Brackenburg. Built in 1861, it was the height of modern fashion at the time, and was well known among the Nine Founding Families as one of the more scandalous and inappropriate expressions of architecture in all of Brackenburg.

“We are thinking of dismantling it,” Matron Dryshire Cromley mused, gesturing with a cigarette held in an elegantly manicured hand. “All of France is agog with this new ‘arts décoratifs’ style. I know the Founding Families are dreadfully upset with our efforts, but we feel it is important to keep up with the times.” She took a puff of smoke. “Now that my mother is gone, we actually might be able to.”

Edmund gave a small nod. “I must apologize for not attending Matron Hagetha Cromley’s wake.”

“Of course,” the new Matron Cromley sighed. “I too have to apologize for not attending Matron’s wake.”

Of course, both of them had perfectly good reasons for not attending the wakes — Edmund wasn’t about to pause his education just to come back for a Cromley, even the one who had signed as a witness for Edmund’s arranged marraige, and Dryshire wasn’t going to show up to any Moulde’s wake until she was certain she was well and truly dead — but, they both needed to keep up appearances, and that meant a personal apology, in addition to the ones already given in writting.

Matron Cromley herself could have been called Modern, as far as the Founding Families went. Her hair was cut in a short bob, with tall dangling earrings poking out from the bottom. Her dress was straight and loose, with a shorter skirt and leaving her arms bare. For a young woman it would have been amusing, but worn by the forty-year old Matron, the effect could only be called striking.

“It is a burden,” she said, weaving a net of smoke above her head, “to both set the trends and keep up with the times. One must lead and follow at the exact same time. It is a complicated skill, but one I think we have managed quite admirably.” Her eyes widened as she turned to Edmund. “Have you visited the Théâtre des Gros-Challot?”

“No,” Edmund admitted. He had heard of the building; it had only recently opened to great dissent from several quarters.

“A marvelous building. Very modern,” Dryshire continued to usher Edmund along the hallways of Bockabell Mansion. “They are currently performing The Rites of the Modern Age. I believe they are planning on bringing the performance to Brackenburg.”

They paused in their wandering to stare a gigantic painting, nearly five meters long. Art historians will know it as “Moltiere’s Last Masterpiece,” though the painting has gone officially untitled for centuries. Edmund became lost in the subtle curves of the swan’s neck, and the careful brushstrokes surrounding the pierced apple.

“I do try to keep abreast of the more amusing tidbits. Did you hear Brackenburg has a new stalker-of-the-night?”

While many cities had their own legends — such as the Ghoul-Girl of Volksburg, Redeye of Brecks, the Bogeychild of Mothburn¹, and Tree-arms Botch who still stalks the streets of Poughkisenville, to say nothing of countless Rippers of all make and manner — Brackenburg was large and diverse enough to support monsters on practically every street. It was a district of poor imagination that didn’t have at least three horrific shadowy figures that kept people indoors when the sun sank below the horizon.

“I had not,” Edmund shrugged. He didn’t put much stock in such matters.

“They call her the Lady-in-Green,” Dryshire smirked. “Such a quaint little story. It must be dreadfully dull to be common, and only have monsters to make life interesting.”

Edmund remained silent. He had found plenty of monsters that made his life interesting, and there had been nothing common about them.

“Have you received your invitation to the Brocklehurst’s debut ball?” Dryshire asked after a moment, a playful laugh hidden in her tone.

“I have,” Edmund said.

“Such a quaint little custom,” Dryshire shook her head, “but what else to expect from such a quaint little family. They’re worse than the Sadwicks, they really are.” After a pause, Matron Cromley heaved another sigh, and blew a smoke-ring. “I hear Lady Brocklehurst outright offered you their daughter?”

“At Matron’s wake.”

“Ha!” Dryshire spun with obvious glee. “How audacious! I love it. Such improper little nouvelle noblesse.”

“’Nouvelle noblesse?’” Edmund hadn’t heard the term before, and the context didn’t help at all.

“New nobility,” Dryshire rolled her eyes. “You know the type. They spend their time tracing their lineage back hundreds of years to find their Royal bloodline. They build grand mansions and villas, and wed their children off to princes and princesses of foreign parts. They collect titles like Count and Marquis and Duke.”

“Ah,” Edmund nodded. He was missing something; that described the Founding Families quite well, but she was definitely not slandering them. “I know quite a lot of people like that.”

“Dreadfully common, aren’t they,” Dryshire shook her head. “As if a mansion and thousands of pounds made you rich, or a prince for an in-law made you important. You know as well as I do, those trappings don’t make someone Upper-Class.”

“What does?”

“Why, fiat!” Matron Cromley laughed. “What else? It’s just the way things are. Oh, I would have loved to see that little Brocklehurst fumble her way through high society only to offer her daughter to you like a prize pig. I am sorry that I missed it.”

Again they stopped wandering to study Permission in Bronze, a decidedly modern sculpture for the time.

Matron Cromley slipped her arm under her elbow, cocking her hip to the side. “Have you decided whether you will accept or decline their generous offer?”

Time was, even considering the offer would have been a scandal for the ages. But times had changed, and Edmund knew what had changed them. “There are many consequences to my decision. I’m afraid I must give the matter further thought.”

“Oh darling,” Dryshire pursed her lips in pity, resting a thin hand on Edmund’s shoulder. “You don’t truly believe that, do you?”

“They are moneyed,” Edmund explained, “but the arranged marriage was signed by three heads of the Founding Families. I will gain much from either, and loose much as well.”

Dryshire gave him a smile as she pulled at her cigarette and blew another small smoke-ring. “Tell me, Patron, do you know what they call the Danish, these days?”

“There are many ’theys.’ I try not to listen to any of them.”

“The Danish stayed out of the War, you know. They let Spain and Britannia fight it out amongst ourselves, dragging in every other country into our great war, save Denmark. They stayed neutral.”

Edmund had been aware; The Danes had signed several treaties that should have forced them into the war, for either side. England, Spain, Germany, Italy, even France had cause to demand Denmark take up arms and join their side. Instead, the Danes had rejected every demand and stayed out of the war completely.

“And now,” Dryshire smiled, “everyone hates them. There is not a single country that does not despise the Danish. Do you know why? Because they didn’t chose a side.”

“I’ll never understand that,” Edmund admitted, crossing his arms and cocking his head to look at the painting from another angle. “The Great War was terrible, but no Danish’s bullet killed a single soldier. I am greatful to the Danes, they did not kill a single British soldier.”

“Because Denmark is no-one’s friend,” Dryshire sighed, waving her cigarette smoke around the hall. “We hate enemies who hurt us, yes, but we hate friends who don’t fight with us more. If Denmark had picked up their rifles and cut down English soldiers, we would understand. We would hate them, yes, but we would recognize that Denmark had decided Spain was a better friend than Britannia. All Denmark has done, in staying out of the fighting, was make sure that everyone sees them as fair-weather friends who will only look out for themselves.”

Edmund didn’t say a word. She was too close to understanding what Edmund was trying to do. Instead, he stopped to admire Kinskey’s Summertime in the Rombold.

“It’s the same with this wedding,” Dryshire waved her cigarette, sending trails of smoke flitting through the air. “If you choose the Brocklehursts, the Rotledges will hate you. Marry Tricknee’s granddaughter, and quite the reverse will happen.”

“Nevertheless, I must make the right choice.” Edmund was getting frustrated; she wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know.

“Ha! Adorable! Why is that?”

Edmund had never needed to ask himself that question, so it took him a significant span of time before he could construct a reasonable answer.

“It is…a complicated explanation. Suffice it to say that Matron adopted me to ensure the continued survival and prosperity of the Moulde Family, and this marriage is connected.”

“Ah, yes, poor Matron and the Moulde Family. On the outs, criminals, destitute…such a sad little tale.”

Edmund looked up. Dryshires voice had held a tone.

“Oh my,” she laughed upon seeing Edmund’s face. “Well, I suppose someone must tell you, and that someone must be me. I don’t doubt Matron spun a marvelous yarn for you, about the collapse of the Moulde Family, but none of its true. Do you know when the Moulde Family became a disgrace?” She lay a comforting hand on Edmund’s arm. “When Matron said it was. If she had simply carried on like her father…well, not quite like her father…but if she had told no one of her debts, gone to balls and parties and played along like the rest of us, no one would have noticed. Well, no one except the other Founding Families, of course, and we wouldn’t have cared! But no, she went and talked about it. she started calling her family wastrels and thieves and good-for-nothings…what could we do? We had to notice then. And sure enough, the family fell apart in less than a hundred years.”

“She saw the problems no one else was willing to see.”

“Silly boy, they weren’t problems until they were seen.” She waved her hand. “Look around you, . Is there any other Founding Family who would dare live in a mansion less than a hundred years old? We Cromleys have always been on the forefront of fashion and trends. We keep with the times. Did you see, we own cars? Two of them. Oh!” she burst out laughing, “the look on Patron Vanndegaar’s face when we arrived his annual ball. We’re installing a new Telegraphic machine from Germany next month. Yet somehow Matron’s adopting you was more of a scandal than anything we’ve done. Why? Because she wanted it to be.”

Edmund pulled up and turned to study Yughochevk’s Triptych of Heaven and Earth, more for an excuse to look away rather than to study the obvious symbolism of Yughochevk’s composition.²

“I would appreciate your advice.” Edmund said at last.

“Of course my dear! Two heads are better than one, after all,” her wry smile was seductive. “Ask away.”

“I have a decision to make, and I do not know which is the right choice.”

“Which do you want to do?”

Edmund balked. He had never even considered his own preference as a significant factor. He had been so wrapped up in societal expectations and eventual consequences that he couldn’t even imagine what his personal preference might have been. “Whichever is the correct choice,” he said at last.

“My dear Patron!” Kolb laughed, staggering back to his seat, “I dearly hope you were taught better than that! You are Patron now! You can do whatever you like, and no one will stop you! These laws and mores and expectations…none of them mean a fig. Of course, you can point to this crisis or that scandal that overturned years of unspoken norms throughout history, but what do they all have in common? We did it anyway. Norms are overturned, rules are broken, mores are shirked, and expectations are ignored. Scandals happen. Oh, the other Founding Families will rant and rave and pout…and then we’ll settle back into our comfy chairs and tut-tut about all this eccentricity these days.”

“Then what to you suggest?”

“I’m not suggesting anything!” Dryshire laughed, grabbing Edmund by the arm and pulling him along. “Marry whomever you wish, darling. There will always be gossip, always disagreement, always fighting. Your every act will infuriate someone, so you might as well enjoy yourself as the world falls apart at the seams around you. It’s the only way to live. Now come, I must show you the gardens before dinner.”

---

The cultural place of the Debutante Debut has shifted drastically over the years, and so some time must be spent in explaining the importance of this social expectation. This will happen now.

In centuries long past, when the process of birthing was considered dreadfully common, it was generally accepted that children of noble or upper-class heritage were to be hidden from public view. This provided for both protection from scandalous accusations of having cardinal relations; and for foiling coups, assassinations, and other throne-stealing plots. After all, why go through the effort of regicide when a previously unknown heir to the crown could suddenly appear after years of a humble life as a pig-farmer, as well as training with a retired master-swordsmen that happened to be a dear and loyal friend to the former Monarch?³

Heirs required legitimacy, however, so once a child was an adult they were presented to and acknowledged by the world at large, in such a manner as to suggest that heirs spawned at a marriageable age, rather than dealing with that messy business of growing up. In ancient times this required little more than a royal proclamation, but as spies and espionage became commonplace, Debuts and clandestine treaties through arranged marriage became one and the same. Pomp and presentation ensured legitimacy of the arrangement, and before long the Debutante Debut became analogous to ringing a dinner bell; a clear if somewhat blunt admission that there were deals to be made. For almost a century, the Debut ball was a form of social organization; as one ate dinner at dinnertime, and had tea at teatime, so too were marriages arranged at Debut balls.

As time went on and the upper-classes settled down, the Debut became less important; Fewer assassinations meant that anyone who mattered already knew about important births, and anyone who didn’t know wouldn’t be acceptable suitors in any case. Marriages became arranged before the child was even born. Many times, before the child was even conceived. In late Louisean France, the marriages of a woman’s first three children were often arranged before her wedding.

The Debut did matter to anyone who was looking for an excuse to invite important, powerful, and eligible heirs to inspect their possible future lovers. Namely, status-seekers, social-climbers, and anyone who looked towards the thrones of Europe with a particular wistful longing.

This created a separate problem: it sometimes worked. Fortune — and sometimes romance — catapulted the hopeful-class to title and prosperity. As a result, the new-rich of yesteryear became the old-rich of tomorrow. Established and well-trenched families begin holding Debut balls again, often times with fancier and more lavish food, drink, and decorations to distance themselves from their common cousins.

The trend spread, ebbed, flowed, evolved, and finally became its own social beast. Debuts were now successes or failures depending on multiple metrics; the amount of money spent, the quality of the food and drink, the inventiveness of the decor, the quality of the guests, the standing of the families involved, and — as a tie-breaker — the debutantes themselves.

The Debut Ball for Nausica Brocklehurst was held on the 23rd of May, 1881, at Topping Hall, their North Dunkin manor-house. The ballroom was draped in blue linens, servants were dressed in black with red sequins, and exotic foods from the northern nations of Sweden and the Netherlands covered the long tables. A chamber orchestra played classical and romantic chamber music with periodic sojourns into impressionism, a risque choice for a family of their pedigree.⁴

Edmund, true to himself and his Moulde heritage, didn’t pay much attention. He left the social activities to his cousin Kolb. The erratic veteran had protested his inclusion, but Edmund had been firm: If Kolb was going to remain at Moulde Hall, he needed to fulfil his societal expectations.

Edmund needn’t have worried. Upon being announced at the entry to the ballroom, Kolb had dived back in to the sea of society like a fish. Even from across the room Edmund could see the man smiling and gesturing with the old elan he remembered from his conspicuous cousin.

Edmund did not take to conversation. Instead, he attempted to remain in his comfort zone, leaning against the walls of the ball-room, observing the ebb and flow of high-society.

One of Edmund’s greatest skills, and the one that had come most easily to him, was the ability to vanish from sight. When he was young, he avoided the children in the Orphanage, and Mrs. Mapleberry’s tiresome attention. When he was older, he spied on fellow students and scientists, learning no end of secrets. In the War, he learned valuable information from officers who would have ordered him out of the room, if they had remembered he was present. He had hidden in plain view through his whole life.

The skill was gone, now. No sooner then he found a moment to take a breath then some noble Lord or Lady would sweep by and begin to talk loudly at him for several minutes before their conversation finally dwindled away and they eagerly found someone else to talk at. A moment later, a new peer would arrive to grab Edmund’s attention, and then another, and another.

He had cultivated the power that came from remaining invisible, but now that he was Patron no one ever forgot that he was there. Maybe they couldn’t.

If he could just have a minute to think.

Excusing himself to anyone who was listening, Edmund crossed the long ball-room to the large glass doors that lead to the outside terrace. Making his way to the railing, he walked the entire length of the Manor until he reached the far corner of the terrace.

Staring out across the Brocklehurst’s gardens, he took a single breath.

“Patron Moulde?”

He just needed a minute!

Edmund turned to apologize and ask for a moment alone, but stopped when he recognized the faux pas he had almost committed.

She was dressed in an elegant blue gown, and draped with glittering jewels that covered her shoulders like a shawl. Her blonde hair was piled on her head in a marvelous tower of spiraling thread. Her face was bright and calm, full of a subdued energy; like a tiger peering out of the bushes, watching its pray and waiting for the right time to pounce.

“Miss Nausica,” Edmund recited. “Congratulations on your debut. Brackenburg is truly fortunate to have a lady such as you in its society.”

“Thank you for your kind words,” Nausica curtsied. “You do me too much honor.”

Polite Conversation is as much an art as a science. As proscribed as the myriad behaviors of the upper-class are, there is still a great deal of personal style and flair allowed in the particulars. It was this that allowed Edmund to learn so much about someone by simply listening to them speak.

Nausica’s simple reply was absent any such self-expression. She had, like Edmund, said just enough to satisfy the social obligations of the situation.

Edmund studied the young woman in front of him. She studied him back.

After a pause that was half a second longer than Edmund expected, Nausica turned slightly while fanning herself in a manner to suggest sharing a brief walk.⁵ Edmund bowed at the waist and extended his arm in polite agreement. With a snap of her fan to denotate consensus, Nausica swept across the terrace, down the long steps, and out across the gardens with Edmund following alongside.

“I too find it quite difficult to remain inside for too long,” her voice was light and pleasant. “Especially when surrounded by old society.”

“It can be tiresome,” Edmund admitted.

“Dizzying, in fact. My mother expects me to keep abreast of all the plots and intrigues of high-society, and half the time I think even they don’t know what they’re planning.”

Edmund nodded. He too had noticed the propensity of a certain kind of peer to scheme without a discernible end-goal. It had taken him years to accept that this was due to a lack of forethought, rather than superior clandestine ability.

“Please do not repeat this to anyone,” she said, a twinkle in her fan, “but I would have just as soon foregone the pleasure of a Debut ball. I never took to the idea of being a pawn in my family’s games.”

“What games are those?” Edmund resorted to asking questions. It was safe enough, when he had nothing better to say.

“Oh come now, Patron,” Nausica’s smile became sincere. “You’re the target of most of them. I don’t think Mother will ever forgive Matron Mander for not naming Tunansia Charter her heir — she had quite a lot of plans for her — but she adopted you instead, and here we are.”

“Here we are,” Edmund agreed as they reached the rear gardens. Tall flowers and blossoming trees framed the path. The fresh smell of evening drifted between them, accenting the pale moonlight.

Nausica took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For leaving the ball-room. It was a marvelous excuse for me to leave as well, and now I can enjoy the evening. Do you enjoy walks at night?”

Edmund thought back to the many hours he had spent darting between the shadows of Moulde Hall, of Mothburn, of the trenches at Harmingsdown. “I do.”

“My mother expects so much of me,” she sighed, “that I hardly have any time for myself.”

“I can imagine,” he said, as they strolled past a small fountain statue of a cherub spitting into the basin. “I see how your mother’s plans could limit your own.”

“I don’t really have plans,” Nausica smiled, pausing to sit opposite the fountain on a small bench. “Yes, her expectations can chafe, but I have learned how to deal with them.” She closed her fan and rested it at her side, bidding Edmund to sit. He did so, listening to the sounds of the evening, the chamber orchestra, and the fountain-water gurgling as it arced through the air. “So,” Nausica clasped her hands. “Mother wants us to marry. I suppose we should discuss that.”

“Should we?” He hadn’t considered it a possibility.

“Of course we should. I have no interest in marrying you for myself, of course, but Mother can be very insistent, and she made a lot of very excellent points. The truth is, it would be very good for both me and my family if I married you, and the idea doesn’t repulse me. If we marry, I will do my duty to provide an heir, and apart from that I’m sure we could come to an agreement. As long as I had some time to myself to read or paint or play music, I can be very accommodating.”

“You enjoy reading?”

“I love it.”

Far off in the gardens, a wild-bird called out to anyone who cared to listen. Its song contrasted beautifully to the chamber-orchestra’s upbeat refrain.

“I don’t suppose you are interested in marrying me either,” Nausica said, cocking her head to one side.

“I had not planned on it,” Edmund admitted.

“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” she sighed. “I did try to explain to mother that you must have had reasons for arranging your own marriage. She said that you made the arrangements, so you could break them.”

The bird-song was answered from across the gardens. A dark shape flashed overhead, like a bullet heading for its target.

“Well, I suppose we should discuss terms.”

“I’m sorry?” Edmund blinked.

“Mother is very stubborn,” Nausica grimaced. “Most of her plans for the family involve having a connection to the legitimate heir to the Moulde Estate. First it was Tunansia, now it’s you…well, your heir, that is.”

“I see.”

“If we were to marry, you could have your Rotledge girl as a mistress. I certainly wouldn’t mind.”

The idea of a mistress had never occurred to Edmund, or rather, he had never considered it a possibility. The only woman he had ever been interested in had, in no uncertain terms, rejected him. He was marrying Googoltha only because he had arranged it when she was too young to know what reproductive expectations would follow.

“That won’t be acceptable, I’m afraid.”

“Hmm…” Nausica pursed her lips. “She might accept me being the mistress, so long as you publicly admitted the child was yours. We’d have to negotiate her into it, though. We could start with a flat refusal; that might panic her enough to —”

“Forgive me, are you suggesting we work together?”

“Well of course!” Nausica laughed. “We could get anything from my Mother if we give her what she wants.”

“That is a very…interesting attitude,” Edmund admitted. Did she really feel that way? Would she understand if Edmund explained everything?

“It’s just common sense,” Nausica shrugged. “Expectations are like waves. If you let them carry you along you don’t exhaust yourself, and you can swim along when you like. Do you enjoy swimming?”

“I’ve never had the pleasure.”

“We simply must take you to our beach-house, sometime. the water is simply marvelous.”

Edmund opened his mouth to reply, when the distant sound of glass shattering reached his ears. A booming voice soon followed, as the chamber-orchestra began to play louder, while still failing to drown out the shouting.

Edmund and Nausica ran back down the path to the manor house. When they arrived, Edmund could see the staggering form of Kolb on the terrace, next to the shattered remains of the glass door, shouting at the astounded and scandalized onlookers.

“See?” He spat, pointing at the crowd with his flesh-and-blood arm. “See? it only looks like it’s you, but it’s not! Just a reflection! Shattered glass on the terrace…whoops.” He looked down, a rueful smile drunkenly blooming on his face. “I ungraciously ground your glass gateway to granules. I tragically tore apart your transparent threshold. I inadvertently imploded your — do you want more? More rhymes for the rich? More poems for the privileged? More lyrics for the lucky, who eat and drink and…and fart as though nothing has changed? As though nothing is changing?”

Edmund broke into a run, grabbing Kolb by his arm and giving a sharp tug. “Kolb, it’s time to go.”

There was a sharp pop, a gurgling sound, and then an explosion of black grease poured out from Kolb’s shirt, spraying through the gauzy fabric and spreading across the terrace.

“Ah…” Kolb blinked owlishly at the ground, and then at his arm as it slid smoothly from his shirt and out the sleeve into Edmund’s hand. “See? Steam from your mouths…black oil from mine. Shattered diesel on the terrace. Just reflections, really. In a lapse, I leaked my limbs lubrication on your lovely land…like blood.”

Edmund tucked Kolb’s arm under his shoulder, and gently pulled Kolb towards the steps, and away from the manor-house.

“It’s like blood, you see?” Kolb shouted back to the receding aristocracy. “Blood of the machine. The approaching anomie will not accommodate your aspirations, oh no. Flashes and specks. Reflections of a higher system. Deus ex machina, of which we are but a simple part. Never forget, my fine flesh fantoccini, my meat marionettes, my penumbric puppets…/Memento mori!/ Memento mori. Memento mori…”

---

What follows is an excerpt from the Sir Edmund Codex, dated the 23rd of May, 1881, the day of Lady Nausica Brocklehurt’s Debutante Debut:

I have taken the opportunity, now that Kolb has lost both his arm and his consciousness, having drunk himself into a deep slumber, to study his mechanical arm.

I find it a troubling instrument.

On the pages previous, I have detailed the various lines of force and friction that make the entire limb function. I have marked down the appropriate thickness of rubber, the quality of steel, the diameter of every joint and the length of every wire.

The process by which the entire limb is lubricated from an internal reservoir has been diagrammed, along with seven self-evident improvements. Already I find myself considering a great many uses for this more polished method. A thin tank of diesel powers the limb, an efficient replacement of the larger steam-broiler, requiring less frequent refueling and simpler maintenance. Thin rubber is used instead of glass. There is no need for retriculating valves or alternating levers. There is not a single cog in the entire limb.

Kolb’s arm is a vast improvement over the simple brass and steam limbs of years past, but this is not what troubles me.

How much can be replaced before something new is built?

Ten years ago, I became a Moulde. The family was changed, perhaps irrevocably, because of my presence in it. Nothing can be done that does not cause some change, all is uncertain is the significance of the change that follows. What change did my adoption cause? Did I forever restore the Moulde Family simply by existing? Or perhaps I destroyed it forever?⁶

When Kolb had first arrived at Moulde Hall, I had thought it good fortune. He brought with him a windfall of Spanish gold to alleviate the immediate cash flow problems. He was, so I thought, a man skilled at social functions who could substitute for my natural instinct for solitude.

Poor Kolb. He is in such pain. I see it clearly in his eyes, in his tight jaw, and in his drunken antics — though for all his slurred speech and flailing limbs, I had not smelled much alcohol on his breath.

Memento Mori, he said. Was that it? Had all it taken to turn a gregarious showman into a sullen dissident was a reminder of his own mortality? Did he see the opulence of the Brocklehursts as an affront to impermanence?

Yet he is still Kolb, for who else could he be? Were he to lose a leg or an eye, to be replaced with metal limbs once more, when would he no longer be Kolb?

So much is replaceable. Where once cogs and levers were necessary, now pistons and belts hold sway. Steam replaced by oil. Greasy machines of steel and aluminium flying through the air and across city roads, replacing the brass and coal of zeppelins and trains. This new diesel world, with Electricity a commodity of plenty, rather than scarcity. Where once there was little, now there will be so much. How will we live in such a world, when restraint is no longer a needed virtue?

The ancient Greeks called it Holism. The whole is more than the sum of its parts. Replace every part, and the whole remains.

These metal machines replace us in part. The Penitent Priests even now continue their prayers in the Cathedral at Brackenburg. Perhaps some day entire churches will be little more than machines of prayer.

When I was young, I saw Aoide in the Library, and promised I would give her life again. I did so, with the vital blood of Mechanus Vitae. When I was older, I sought to do the same again with my Revitalizer. Now, I have in my laboratory the limb of my cousin, every bit a metal copy of his former arm.

I feel my next step is self evident.