The Last Days of Yesteryear: Chapter 15

Edmund waited for a full twenty minutes in the black rain of Brackenburg before knocking on the doors of Scower Mansion. He had expected to be greeted by servants, family members, even Matron Scower herself.

Instead, he had exited his carriage to an empty drive-way, walked up the rain-soaked dirt path to the giant double-doors of Scower Mansion, and waited for someone to open them. It was an unfortunate cruelty, as it gave Edmund a long time to consider; this was his last meeting. When he returned to Moulde Hall from Scower Mansion, the other eight Founding Families of Brackenburg would recognize him as the Patron of the Moulde Family. Not officially — that had been accomplished with a few signatures — but personally.

After twenty minutes, Edmund decided that knocking was his only course of action. As detailed in The Art of Savoir Faire, by Lady Yistemyr, knocking on the front door of your host’s house is a grave insult, as it suggests they do not know how to properly greet a guest. At the same time, to keep an expectant host waiting is an equal, if not greater transgression, and so Edmund decided, on balance, that he would rather be inside than outside.

The Mansion appeared empty. The floors were thickly carpeted, but even so Edmund couldn’t hear the sounds of an active household. No servants whispering, no music playing, no opening and shutting of doors…

If Edmund had committed the faux pa of bringing Matron Scower’s invitation along with him, he could have double-checked to make sure he had arrived on the correct date. Or perhaps she had forgotten she had invited him at all, and decided to vacation at one of their many other villas across the countryside?

The door had not been locked, so there was little else to do but wait.

Or explore.

After a quick moment to decide, Edmund began to wander the hallways of Scower Mansion, quietly opening doors and quickly peeking through keyholes. The entire house was vacant, as far as he could tell. Not a single soul or servant crossed his path, and he neither saw nor heard a single person.

The twists and turns of Scower Mansion were akin to those of Moulde Hall. So familiar were they, that Edmund found himself completely lost. Where was the armor in that corner? And there should have been a doorway there. This hallway should turn left, not right. When was that painting moved?

No sooner had a flicker of desperation begun to flare in his stomach nearly half an hour later, than he turned a corner, and there, standing in the middle of the hallway, was Matron Lerriet Scower.

“Patron Edmund Moulde,” she snapped, taking a single step forward and snapping open a silver fan.

Edmund stared in shock. Not only had her sudden appearance startled him, but she hadn’t changed a bit since he had first met her ten years ago. She was even wearing the exact same mourning dress, her sharp face glaring out from a black veil. She reminded Edmund of Matron, but her back was straighter and her wrinkles curved.

“Matron Lerriet,” he began, holding out his hand. “Thank you for —”

“Are you mad?” the old Matron stalked closer, her eyes narrow and cold. “Or just young, and therefore a fool?”

“I hope I am neither,” Edmund admitted.

“Perhaps you are both,” Lerriet snorted, turning on her heel and walking away. “All this business in South Dunkin, your cousin, the Brocklehurst girl, the Rotledges…You’re making a mess boy, a foul mess. We don’t like messes, we Founding Families.”

Edmund followed after her, unwilling to be left alone in the giant mansion once again.

“Is this for Matron?” Lerriet whirled on Edmund as he drew next to her. “Are you trying to earn her respect? Her love? I’ve never seen her give either lightly, and don’t you think I haven’t watched closely.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Hm,” Lerriet sneered. “Don’t pull that on me, boy. If you expect me to think you a fool, you’ll have a hard time about it. Grimm’s was a nice touch,” she admitted, resuming her walk. “Oh, quite a few people found themselves bemused by your showing.”

“But you weren’t.”

“Your scores were too perfect,” Lerriet cackled. “Not so good as anyone would think you were special…not so bad as to make people think you worthless…Just right for people to shake their heads in disappointment, and leave you in peace. No extra expectations.”

Edmund felt his heart leap. Did she truly understand?

“And then there was the war,” Lerriet sniffed. “No, my boy, if you were a bumbling fool you would have made a mistake by now. Made waves. People would have noticed you stumble. But you’ve been…remarkably quiet. Even fortune, both good and bad, seem to leave you alone.”

“I assure you, that’s not true.”

“Ah, but you need to assure me, don’t you!” Lerriet raised a finger. “The fingerprints of fortune are self evident, unless they are purposefully hidden!”

Edmund stared at the tip of her finger, careful to keep his face still.

“For my part,” Lerriet’s cough echoed through the mansion, “I won’t be giving you the benefit of any doubt. You do your little plans and move your little chess-pieces, and I’ll be watching your every move. Don’t think you can slip one past me, and I won’t have to kick your sorry arse six ways from Sunday.”

“I won’t.”

“Ha!” Lerriet turned hard to her right, pulling Edmund down another hallway. “I suppose you don’t have the time to bother trying? Nor the energy, I’ll warrant, with so much to occupy your mind. That Brocklehurst girl, for example? Patron Rotledge is certain you will find some way to wiggle out of your wedding. And this factory in South Dunkin…as far as I can see, you don’t have any materials worth supplying to a factory. No ores to smelt, no metals to forge…I’m missing a very important piece of your efforts, aren’t I?”

Edmund swallowed. From when he was eight, he remembered Lerriet was not one for niceties and would never accept anything at face value. She could smell humbug a mile off and could ferret out the truth like a bloodhound.

So he had prepared a special truth, just for her. “I have invented a new method for refining a particular rare mineral. It requires a careful and complicated process to refine, and I needed a factory to do so. Our warehouse in the Farrows is both unsuitable in design and…central. Noticeable. I needed an out of the way spot to work in relative secrecy.”

The look on Lerriet’s face told Edmund she didn’t buy it. “Eight years ago, it took me hours before you finally let your little scheme pass your lips. Now, you tell me everything up front?”

Edmund didn’t move.

“Do you know why, out of all the Founding Families, I made sure you came to me last?”

Edmund shook his head.

“So I could ask you a single question. Tell me, Patron Moulde, how do you find the Founding Families?”

Edmund opened his mouth, and then closed it.

“Well?” Lerriet frowned. “You’ve met them all, and if you truly think you are Patron-worthy, you must have some idea. Tell me. What have you gathered?”

“I think,” Edmund felt the words click into place. “I think you are all bored. And tired. And remarkably self-confident.”

“And?”

“And…that’s an incredibly dangerous combination.”

“Kee hee!” Lerriet’s laugh was like a screeching train-brake. “You think so? And what about you then? Are you bored? Are you tired? I doubt you are self-confident, you don’t seem to have the knack for it.” She shook her head, closing her fan with a snap. “You are quite young. I will tell you a secret, Patron Moulde. Everyone you met, from Albadere to Ganglia, told you the truth. They may not have meant to, or maybe didn’t even know what it was, but all of them are right. Every single one of them is describing the same elephant, even if they are blind.”

The silence gripped Edmund in its claws as they stared at each other.

“I am quite adept at reading people, you know. My nanna called it the Witching Nose. I can smell whether you’re a clever person, or a cruel person, or if you try to be good, or want to be coddled, or if you’re a glutton…I can tell everything about someone, given enough time…but you…I’m having a very hard time reading you, boy. Why is that?” Lerriet stepped closer. “Are you even human? Or are you just a hollow mask? An empty shell of skin with nothing deep or solid or real in your heart? Who are you, Edmund Moulde? What kind of person are you without Matron’s ghost nipping at your heels? Without the shadow of the Orphanage reaching all the way from Downs Hill? What is pushing or pulling you along? Quickly now, tell me your truth!”

The distant hiss of the gas-lights filled the air, as the silence lengthened between them. A pain deep in Edmund’s chest began to swell, squeezing him like a balloon from the inside. He opened his mouth as words crawled from his stomach like worms of smoke, like spiders of darkness.

“Do you…in your wildest dreams…ever think that I…would tell you…the truth?”

“Hmm…” Lerriet muttered as she studied Edmund’s face. “I expect not.”

“Why?” Edmund felt his throat crack. “Why? Why does everyone expect anything from me? Truth, lies, my truth, my lies…my whole life I’ve never been free from expectations! And the worst thing is that no one will tell me what they are! I have to behave right. I have to speak right. I have to be right! I have to be the person that everyone else expects me to be, and I don’t even know if I expect anything myself! I’m not like you, or any of the Founding Families, or the nobility, or the gentry, or the commoners, or anyone! I don’t think like you do! I don’t think like anyone does! It all makes sense to everyone and they go about their lives like everything makes sense when it doesn’t! None of it makes sense! I learned the rules like etiquette and letters and how to bow and proper pronunciation…but no one taught me the important rules, like how they know when it’s their turn to talk! They know how and when to smile! They know what’s funny without having to guess, and what kind of laugh each joke deserves. They know how to cry, when to walk away, how to be a person! They know all the rules that I’ve spent my life trying to understand, and it’s so easy for them! I can’t…I can’t be like them! Without Matron, the Orphanage, Grimm’s, the War…without them I’m nothing! I have to spend so much time and energy trying to fit in, and I have to fit in because if I don’t…then I won’t fit in! This isn’t my world!”

Legend says, the echoes of Edmund’s cries still roam the hallways of Scower Mansion. Tours generally pause in the great dining hall to listen for five full minutes of silence, to see if anyone can hear them. It is rare that the exercise does not bring at least one tourist to tears.

Edmund did not know how long the echoes lasted. He could only hear the heavy breathing of a terrified child, heaving in time with the pounding blood in his ears. Was it seconds? Hours? Eventually the sound subsided, and he was able to open his eyes once more.

Lerriet stared down at Edmund where he sat, curled against the wall. Her sharp nose and cold eyes seemed softer somehow, if still resolute.

“Hmm,” she hmmed.

Shame slowing his movements, Edmund stood up from the floor. He didn’t remember sinking to the ground. All he could remember was the sound…

Equally slowly, Lerriet turned and resumed her walk down the hallways of Scower Mansion. Edmund had little option but to follow.

They came upon a small nook along the southern wall where a small table and two chairs sat. A tea service had been served — recently, if the steam proved anything. Lerriet reached out and plucked a single teacup from its saucer, and sipped silently for a moment before handing another cup to Edmund.

As far as Edmund was used to, the tea was cold…but it tasted better than any tea that had ever passed his lips. He drank the cup in three swallows.

“Well then.” Lerriet set down her own cup with a loud clatter. “I suppose I have no choice.” She drew her gnarled body up to its full height — impressively tall for such an old woman, and stared Edmund full in the face.

“Patron Moulde, I apologize.”

Had she sworn fealty to the Moulde Family or proclaimed herself Edmund’s birth-mother, she could not have shocked Edmund so forcefully.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am sorry,” Lerriet repeated her impossibly contrite sentiment. “The word into which you were born has been terribly broken. Flaws abound in its design that should have been fixed ages hence. Had they been, you might have found your life to be far more fulfilling and worthwhile. We all might have.”

In the darkness, late at night, Edmund would toss and turn over what he had not said. He did not protest that his life was worthwhile, and he had found fulfillment in the most unlikely of places. He did not wryly comment that the world’s problems were likely too large to be fixed by a single person. He didn’t even reply with his own apology, for everything he had gotten wrong during his life.

Instead, he asked the only question he could think of: “Why are you apologizing?”

“Because there is no one better to accept the responsibility,” Lerriet set a firm jaw. “Rich and poor, weak and powerful, upper and lower classes…we all make the world, day after day, and some of us change it more. We all are broken in turn by our families, our friends, our mistakes…until the cracks are the only things we are certain of; and mark my words, we humans will hold onto such certainties with a death grip. Everyone could apologize to you, Patron, but it is only we Founding Families — and maybe a few monarchs — who purchase our influence and power at the cost of total responsibility.”

Edmund’s chest ached. Could he tell her? He opened his mouth…

“Well then,” Lerriet flashed her fan open again, brushing Edmund away. “I suppose our little meeting is at an end. I will keep watching your efforts with interest, Patron; and if I happen to see an opportunity for the Scowers to profit, I assure you I will take it. You may leave now. Turn left at the next hallway and descend the stairs; the foyer will be on your right. Incidentally, if you should happen to hear any voices on your way out, I advise you to ignore them. It might not be healthy to listen too closely.”

---

For the first time in Edmund’s life,¹ he was not consumed with thought. The trip back to Moulde Hall was filled not with concern, nor a careful analysis of what had and had not been said, but empty silence.

When the carriage arrived, Edmund stepped out across the drive, walked up the steps of Moulde Hall under the watchful and reprochful gaze of Kahlimachus, the Gran Gargoyle, and through the foyer to the labrynthine halls of his home.

His winding path took him past the pile of Bauxite in the basement. It was growing larger, but slower than Edmund expected. He made a mental note to speak with Ore-Man Jack tomorrow before continuing on his way. He walked slowly, turned sharply, and reached out to touch the myriad decorations of his empty home, before reaching the top floor and the closed doors of the Library.

When he touched the spot on the door, the song of machinery reached his ears, ending with a soft click.

The Library doors opened.

The room was five stories tall, cylindrical, and full to bursting with books, journals, scrolls, and notes to read. He hadn’t been able to spend much time in the library, recently. There had been too many papers to sign, too many letters to answer. It had all been so much, and so fast.

Once the library doors opened and closed behind him, he could feel his skin loosen. He had felt so tight recently. It was getting so the Library was the only place he could ever feel like himself anymore.

Whomever that was…

The stairs and ladders of the library were smooth and cool. The single skylight let the moon shine through the black cloud and fill the room with its pale silvery light. Edmund stared at the walls of books that surrounded him, and studied the statue of the tall brass tree at its center. For all the work he had to do, he could always spare a moment to indulge in the beauty of the cylindrical vault of literature.

Slowly, Edmund descended through the Library to his favorite chair, and sat.

He took a deep breath.

Edmund was exhausted.

In his life, Edmund had never been so tired. Not just physically, not just mentally, but essentially. Ever since that night in the rain, having tea with Matron, his every waking moment had been in some way connected to his greater goal of the salvation of the Moulde Family. Plans upon plans, shifting about as he grew and learned, and never once had he stopped nor even paused.

We wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Of course, he could, but if he did, he would be ruining everything. All of his plans for the Moulde Family would collapse around his ears, and he’d have to start all over from the beginning. Ten years of planning, wasted.

Maybe that would be for the best?

What good had his plan been? For all his efforts at Grimm’s, success had only come when he stepped out of the way and let Leeta handle things. How many lives had been lost before Edmund decided to stop using his soldiers in the war like pawns, and start treating them like people? Everything he had ever done — done with the best of intentions — had failed.

Failures were lessons that had lead to successes. He did not fear failure when the cost was small, but this wasn’t the health of a school, or the results of a war…this was a future at stake. A future for the Moulde Family, and the whole British Empire.

The sound of a turning page froze his blood.

As if in a dream, Edmund stood and made his way to a small alcove on the second floor. There, a lady sat dressed in a simple green dress with a faint silver inlay. Her hair, short and curly when she was young, was tied on her head in what must have been a fashionable style some decades ago.

Googoltha didn’t even look up when he approached. She sat in a small alcove, only big enough for two chairs, and not much else. Any two sitting people would had to have been very comfortable with each other, or else very thin.

At first, Edmund was horrified. How had Googoltha opened the doors? Had she followed him, and somehow known which movements were key to unlocking the library? Had he neglected to protect against some circumvention of his locks? How long had she been here? What had she touched? What had she moved? What had she ruined?

Should he tell her to leave? Would she listen if he did?

Did he want her to leave?

Edmund sat down in the opposite chair, his long legs brushing against hers. With the casual air of a disinterested cat, Googoltha looked up from the book to stare at Edmund, her mouth a faint half-smile that conveyed absolutely nothing.

She was not as classically beautiful as Nausica. The Brocklehursts had given Nausica a fashionable dress, beautiful jewelry, powder and color and a corset to adjust her shape. She had been honest, kind, understanding, intelligent, and responsive. She hadn’t been afraid to talk to Edmund like a peer. It had been so easy to talk to her.

I should say something.

He didn’t know what to say.

Googoltha sat. Perfectly still, her eyes focused on Edmund, not a single muscle moving.

He should say something, he knew. It was expected. He should apologize for tying up her life in his when she was too young and ignorant to do anything about it. He should apologize for treating her like a tool, a pawn in his plans, without even speaking with her. He should ask her if she was well, if the Rotledge Family Estate was as pleasant as he had heard. He should ask her if there was anything he could get her. He should tell her that he would care for her, and love her forever, even if it wasn’t true. He should tell her his plans, and bring her into his locked cell of a mind, revealing secrets he had kept for over a decade. He should recite one of his poems, slipping her name in place of references to the moon, or the stars. He should give her flowers, sing, make her laugh. He should woo her. He should apologize.

Goolgotha remained still.

What did she expect him to do?

Edmund sat for a quarter-hour, staring at Goolgotha, while she stared back at him. Neither of them spoke or moved an inch.

Like a blossoming flower, Edmund realized that — after almost two decades of seeing, hearing, and feeling the expectations of everyone around him; of playing the part of orphan, heir, student, soldier, and now patron — the woman sitting in front of him was empty.

Not empty like a hole or chasm, but the emptiness that fills a dreamless sleep, or shimmers in the depths of the eye. The emptiness of the sky or the blank page. The emptiness that is full of everything.

She wanted nothing from him. She did not expect him to behave in any way. She, in fact, didn’t expect him to behave at all. What he had taken for a bemused disconnection was in fact a zen-like acceptance of the world as it was. She had no insistence, no demands, no preconceptions. Her placid smile was one of abject fearlessness; for how could anyone fear when everything was new?

She didn’t expect conversation. She didn’t demand a connection. She didn’t even expect a reason behind anything that Edmund cared to do. She was perfectly fine with both of them sitting and looking at each other.

She taught him all of that, as they sat alone in the library, looking at each other.

When he was eight, he had been worried that Matron might have expected him to sit next to her, still and staring at nothing. They would remain a tableau, two isolated hermits in stoic contemplation, a monument to seclusion, while the fire burned low and cold in a sad and dark fireplace.

At the time, he had thought it a hellish idea.

Perhaps it could be heaven.

---

What follows is an excerpt from the Sir Edmund Codex, dated the 20th of June, 1881, a day of no particular significance or importance:

#+Begin_quote Am I alive?

What is life?

As I look back through the pages and pages of failed attempts to find purpose for my Mechanicals, I am forced to question my goals. Every function I can imagine is fundamentally flawed. Food and farming labor is currently plentiful. Factories are already overflowing with automation, with assembly lines and generators replacing the steam turbines and manual labors. Armies are being supplemented with giant cannons and flying machines. What can my Mechanicals do that nothing else can do better?

Or are the conductors and choreographers correct? Is the stage the best place for mechanical life: dancers and musicians performing with mechanical precision, carefully constructed and artfully designed? Is this not what Father Bromard found so fulfilling about his Penitent Monks?

I had always assumed that any Gods of the world cared more about how humans behaved than animals or machines; but Father Bromard had been quite insistent. He spoke of the Penitent Monks with admiration, almost yearning. If they were perfect priests, did they not have a soul?

Perhaps the praying was what made the soul.

Then is it thought that makes the mind?

Not a month ago, I received from the Dilettante Trust a letter from a Danish mathematician and engineer of no prominent name. He had invented a summation machine, a difference machine, a multiplication machine, and then a machine that did all four basic mathematical functions.

Math is the foundation of logic. Logic is the foundation of prediction. Prediction is the foundation of thought. Not just a computer or calculator, but a cognitator. An analytical engine.

Cogito ergo sum. Ergo, sum cogitare.

This theory is not new. During my third year at Grimm’s, or perhaps it had been my second, I crafted the theory of Unified Patterns. Machines, societies, even the human brain all operate along logical lines, following the function of their construction. There must be some way to model this mind-machine in the physical world, with gears and mirrors and levers.

No, it will take more than that. It will take grease and electricity. Diesel and steel. Lightning in tiny spheres. Aluminium arms, stronger than brass. It may take my whole life just to create a prototype.

A child. A progeny. A heritage.

/What will you be like, when you are grown, my child? Will you read these words and see your origin? My hopes for you? I may be long dead. Perhaps you only know me as your grandfather, or as a character in a story told to you by your mother."

Know that, if I have ever loved anything in my life, I love you. You are my child, and I gift you a name. A heritage. A place in this world.

Melete. I think this is a good name.

---

Open-air carriage rides were a common form of amusement for the sedate upper-class, and there was no one more sedate than Edmund.

It was almost a week and a half after his visit with Matron Scower. Records state that he had come home shaking, and hadn’t stopped for five full days. He locked himself in his room, staring at the skull of Orpha Moulde on his desk, refusing all food save the stalest crusts of Mrs. Kippling’s bread.² The best efforts of his physician’s skills and mental diagnoses proved fruitless, and he found no cure for his ailments. It was with a little relief and some regret that the symptoms vanished on their own.

Edmund was not about to trust a doctor with the information that he might be sick, so instead he took the common advice of every physician confronted with a mysterious symptom, and “got out in the fresh air a bit more.”

This was, of course, a difficult prescription to follow with the smog choked streets of Brackenburg, but Edmund made an effort all the same.

His first ride had been a dismal failure, for too many reasons to explain here. His second ride had gone better, and his third attempt, on the 25th of June, 1881, was now proving to be perfectly satisfactory.

Googoltha was seated next to him. It had been a bit of a shock, turning the corner the other day to see her standing with a rusty rifle on her shoulder, and he had stammered out an invitation to take her for a ride through the Squatling district on the morrow. She accepted — or rather, she stared at him until he left, only to be found sitting in the carriage when he stepped outside the next day.

Edmund had considered demanding she return inside, as there was no reason to believe the Church was not still spying on Moulde Hall, but she was cloaked in a large green hood, and he had to admit she had managed to remain hidden without any support from him. He decided it was safe enough to rely on her instincts for what was too dangerous. Besides, even if it was a risk, the wedding day was getting closer. It would be an equal risk to keep her so hidden, lest the gossipy upper-class began to suspect there was no fiancée, and the wedding be called into question yet again.

The Squatling district was pleasant enough, though both Edmund and Googoltha spent most of their time reading. He had selected a particularly interesting book about the practical uses of zinc, while she was flipping through a book that looked to be written in Sanskrit.

It was nice. Pleasant, even. He was getting used to the new smells of Brackenburg as they drifted through the borough; diesel and grease were becoming familiar, rather than sharp and uncomfortable reminders. Fashion was becoming simpler. Sleeker. The upper-class had begun to note the change in the winds as sizzling ozone now crackled in the air from distant generator-plants. The sounds of automobile engines were becoming, if not commonplace, at least not as shocking as before. Before long, even the gas-lamps that lit the streets would be changed for electrical.

“I say!”

The piercing pitch of Lady Brocklehurst’s voice broke through Edmund’s thoughts like a lightning bolt. He looked up as Nausica’s car, laden with luggage, pulled up alongside the carriage. The horse, not as accustomed to change as Edmund, reared back at the sleek black machine that purred next to them. The carriage shook, in danger of a break-neck rampage before the skeletal driver reached out a long limb and calmed the horse with a single touch.

“I say, Patron! It’s us!” Lady Brocklehurst leaned over the edge of the car from the rear passenger side, waving a white handkerchief at Edmund.

A loud bang punctuated her salutation, a plume of black smog bursting from the rear of the automobile. The horse reared again, jerking the carriage back and forth while the driver reached out again.

“What a marvelous coincidence!” Lady Brocklehurst sat back in her seat, grinning like a madwoman. “Why, Lord Brocklehurst and I were having a…a lovely little ride out with our daughter, and who should we find but you! Isn’t that amazing?”

“Fascinating, dear,” the old man next to Lady Brocklehurst smiled the bemused smile of a man long since immune to surprises.

“I was just talking about you with our dear Nausica. It seems you ran into each other just the other day?”

Almost two weeks ago. Had it really only been that long? “We studied the automobile you are now sitting in,” Edmund nodded “A fine machine.”

“Yes…” Lady Brocklehurst’s smile faltered. “I was…so very interested in it…I must say. I simply couldn’t wait to try and…go for a drive? Is that what we’re doing, darling?”

“That’s right, mother,” Nausica winked at Edmund.

Edmund gave a slow nod. “Please forgive my horrific manners. May I introduce to you —”

“Yes, Googoltha Rotledge, isn’t it? Old Tricknee’s granddaughter? Yes, we must have met once, simply ages ago. Perhaps at a ball in Doppersdown? Hello dearie! Nice to see you!” Lady Brocklehurst waved her handkerchief again. Googoltha didn’t move.

Edmund took a deep breath. There was still something he had to do before the small-talk was finished and they could get down to business. Damn you Kolb…thanks to you I must do this for the rest of my life…

“I must apologize again,” he began, “for the behavior of my cousin, Kolb, during your lovely —”

“Oh stuff and nonsense,” Lady Brocklehurst waved her hand. “Think nothing of it. Indeed, the poor man has no doubt been through so much. The trenches, the War…I say, even Lady Knockball’s son has been having a rough time of it. He was a Major in the cavalry, you know. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I hear she won’t even let him out of the house, he’s so nervous,” Nausica said.

“The War was a terrible thing,” Edmund nodded.

“Yes, well, let’s not talk about that,” Lady Brocklehurst swatted the air. “Hardly fit topic of discussion in polite company.”

“You are quite right,” Edmund agreed. “May I ask what brings you three so far north?” His eye drifted to the luggage again.

“Oh, yes,” Lady Brocklehurst spun her fan. “Well, we simply thought of taking a long ride, just to see the sights. It’s been so long since either of us visited Squatling, you see, and it is such a beautiful spot for a picnic, that sort of thing. Oh, Patron Moulde, I do so hope I can ask you a tiny favor…the sun, you see, it’s quite hot today, and I’m feeling a little faint.”

Edmund glanced up at the overcast sky, covered in the black soot of Brackenburg. “Oh dear.”

“Yes, only I couldn’t bear for Nausica to be dragged back so soon. We only just started our ride, you see, and the fresh air will do her good. I don’t suppose you could spare the room for one more traveler?”

Edmund glanced back at Googoltha as she turned a page. Had the introduction of his fiancée not been enough? Did she still think marrying Nausica was in the cards?

“Isn’t she driving?”

“Oh, we’ll find some way of driving this contraption…how hard can it be? We’ll manage just fine, won’t we darling?” She turned to her husband.

“Of course, dear. We always manage.”

“Of course we do! I hope it isn’t too much of an inconvenience? Only she’s so young, and young girls simply must be kept busy, don’t you think?”

“I am currently riding with my fiancée,” Edmund said, by way of polite denial.

“That’s quite alright, she can be your chaperon. Here’s your hat, Nausica — you can’t go on a carriage ride without your hat. And your lace. There. Now off you go! Don’t forget your fan!”

It was a complex process of held hands, open doors, and bowing to transfer Nausica from one carriage to the other; and by the time she had settled down across from Edmund and Googoltha, Lord Brocklehurst had slipped into the front seat of the car and begun the laborious effort of grinding every gear in the machine down to a wheel smoother than the vehicle’s tires.

Nausica closed her eyes in gentle agony as the car exploded black smoke from its tailpipe and leapt down the street with a roar, startling the horse for a third time.

“I’m dreadfully sorry about that,” Nausica opened and rolled her eyes. “I promise you, my mother isn’t as desperate as she seems.”

“Isn’t she?” The faux pa of interrupting another’s carriage ride was bad enough, but to interrupt one between two betrothed was beyond scandal and into absurdity. What else but desperation could justify it? Ah, of course. “She must think I am quite the fool.”

“Very much so,” Nausica smiled. “She thinks you haven’t a clue what you are doing, so she is determined to shove me down your throat. She does have a hard time understanding that anyone might ever make an informed decision differently than she would. I hope you don’t feel too insulted.”

“Not at all.” It was almost the truth. In fact, it was a comment on how well he was managing, for the average gentry at least. If an attentive social-climber thought he was making foolish mistakes, there was hope yet.

Edmund stared at Nausica’s outfit. He had never seen such an awkward combination of fashion before. Lady Brocklehurst had foisted a thin afternoon hat and laced fan onto her, along with a white lace collar that draped over her shoulders. In contrast to this, Nausica’s driving outfit included leather gloves, a loose-fitting jacket, and silk scarf. The affect was at once incongruous and harmonious: a moment of transition between two states…

Poetry! Edmund’s hand shot into his pocket for his tiny notebook. He had to be quick before the moment —

His hand gripped Matron’s letter.

“We appear to be stuck with each other,” Nausica spread her fan, covering her chest with its span. “I do apologize.”

“Not at all,” Edmund said, regretfully pulling his hand free. “I hope this will not be too unpleasant a sojourn for you.”

“I’m certain it won’t be,” Nausica smiled. She extended her hand towards Googoltha. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Googoltha looked up, and smiled.

“How long are you staying in Brackenburg?” Edmund asked.

Nausica withdrew her hand, her smile fading as rapidly as she recovered. “My mother told me to tell you that we are leaving in two days. Just enough time for you to invite me to dinner, and if all goes well — which she demanded it will — she would find some excuse to stay longer.”

“Does that suit you?”

“I’ve learned to deal with my Mother’s schemes much as I imagine you must deal with your family’s. I simply lie back and think of Brackenburg. There is nothing I can do about any of it, after all.”

Edmund had thought similarly when he was eight, but he had grown out of that opinion in less than a single season. “Your mother thinks you are useful. There must be some power in that.”

“I’m afraid not. You are incredibly fortunate to be Patron; your title commands respect, if not the fortune that comes with it.”

Edmund glanced at Googoltha. She was still reading silently. “Being made Patron bestowed title and land upon me, but my finances were not similarly bolstered.”

“My mother is actually quite worried,” Nausica said, an apology hidden in her tone. “I think she is putting a lot of stock in some rumors about your financial situation.”

“There are a great number of debtors who have no reason to complain,” Edmund said.

“True,” Nausica smiled, “Mother doesn’t care much about them, though. She puts more stock in the ladies of her Flower Club. They’re spreading rumors that you’ve been mortgaging a large number of your holdings in Brackenburg.”

Edmund waited before he realized she wasn’t going to ask if the rumors were true. “I don’t think that it would be proper to discuss —”

“Oh, bother,” Nausica huffed. “I don’t care about what’s a proper subject for discussion any more than you do. If you want to talk about money, then talk about money. I won’t tell anyone. Oh! I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”

Edmund turned as Googoltha tossed her book on the seat next to Nausica and vaulted over the side of the carriage, vanishing into the air like a startled deer. Edmund stared at the empty seat for a moment before turning back to Nausica. “Not at all. She is simply done with our ride. She will likely explore on her own a bit before returning to Moulde Hall when she gets hungry or tired. She is quite independent.”

“So I see,” Nausica recollected herself, a winsome smile back on her face. “I wouldn’t expect such an independent soul to consent to marriage. May I ask, why are you marrying her? I know about ending the feud between the Mouldes and the Rotledges, but is that it? You can’t be marrying her for her money.”

“My financial situation is tight at the moment,” Edmund admitted, “but once the factory is open in South Dunkin, I will not have any more financial burdens.” If I have planned everything correctly, I won’t have to worry about anything, ever again.

“Oh?” Nausica frowned, settling back into her seat. “What will your factory create?”

“I’ve invented a new method for creating and refining aluminium.”

“Oh?”

“I call it the Moulde process. It creates oxidized aluminium from bauxite.”

“I see. Is that impressive? I’m dreadfully sorry, but as interested as I am in automobiles, I know nothing about metallurgy.”

“It is,” Edmund said. “Aluminium is currently very rare. This process will provide a new and plentiful source. I’m afraid it’s currently a secret, so I would be eternally obliged to you if you were to keep this fact a secret from everyone. Even your mother.”

“I see,” Nausica nodded, smiling widely. “Of course I will. I’m well versed in being a part of other people’s plans.”

Edmund recognized the smile. It was the smile of a woman doing her duty. It was the smile of a woman who didn’t want to be where she was, but had no other place to go. It was the smile of someone who didn’t need to smile, but smiled anyway, because that was what you did.

“May I ask, and I speak only out of concern…are your parents well? Your mother seemed more impassioned than usual.”

Nausica shrugged. “She has seemed more tense lately, but that’s not unusual.” She paused, and then frowned. “Father…yes, I would say before we left he seemed getting quite…agitated.”

Oh no. “Tell me,” he asked, leaning forward. “Can you remember if there was anything particular about what your father was worried about?”

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Nausica winked. “So of course, I only know what I overheard through the keyhole of his study. Apparently, there’s some sort of noise coming from South Dunkin. People in pubs, sort of thing. He’s worried they might spill up towards North Dunkin.”

Damn! Edmund leaned back in his seat, whipping out a handkerchief, and wiping his face. “Forgive me, but I think your Mother may have, inadvertently, been correct. I am feeling quite hot. Could I impose on you for us to return to Moulde Hall?”

“Of course,” Nausica smiled. “Am I invited to dinner?”

“If you like. I believe it will be soup.”