The Last Days of Yesteryear: Chapter 20

Edmund’s announcement ball was held on the 22nd of July, two months before his wedding.

The guest list included every head of the other eight Founding Families,¹ and a collection of dignitaries from various important royal families and elite gentry. The provided food and drink was passable, if traditional, and seasoned with a small chamber orchestra of substandard reputation.

All in all, it was not a particularly memorable evening in itself. Luckily, the only reason anyone showed up was to say they had been one of the first to hear who Patron Moulde was going to marry.

In accordance with tradition, Edmund gave a short speech, making sure to follow the proscribed etiquette to the letter, and announced his betrothal to Googoltha Rotledge, granddaughter of the recently emigrated Tricknee Rotledge.

Those who had come with hopes of seeing this reclusive and mysterious fiancée were disappointed; she made no public appearance that day. It wasn’t a particularly exciting resolution to half a year of whispered intrigues and muttered gossips. Indeed, the majority of the local aristocrats considered it a great faux pas. Uncertainty and intrigue were all well and good, after all, but to purposefully withhold a dramatic resolution was very poor manners.

After the ball, the assembled gentry made their polite farewells, and traveled home in their carriages while whispering to each other that the new Patron Moulde certainly didn’t seem to be particularly interesting. Perhaps all the gossip had been premature? After all, he had barely squeaked by at Grimm’s, hadn’t he? And he did sit out of the war. Yes, I know you heard he fought in the trenches, but a Lieutenant? No Moulde would be caught dead in anything less than a Colonel’s uniform, so it must have been someone else; a Lieutenant Mauve, I heard, actually. We really expected someone more interesting…

When the final dignitary had gone, Edmund pulled his tie from around his throat and let himself breathe easily again. After reassuring Enga that he required no help in undressing, he bid her good-night while she directed the hired servants in their cleaning-up.

When he reached his room, he began to dress in more comfortable evening-wear.

He had only just tied the robe about his waist when he heard the crash.

Darting out of his room, Edmund ran back through Moulde Hall. When he reached the first floor, he stopped a moment to catch his breath before calmly walking the rest of the way to the foyer.

It was filled with priests. Twenty of them, at least. Each wore the same blood-red cassock as Father Bromard, who stood at the front of the throng. Each held a torch or a large sword. Five, near the back, held rifles. Their hoods covered their faces as they stood like statues, weapons held high in defiant aggression.

Edmund’s training rose to his rescue. Act like you were expecting this. His shrewd nature chimed in next. Don’t make him feel helpless. Let him think he surprised you in some way..

“Father Bromard,” Edmund approached with a slow and steady gait. “I was not expecting you this evening, or with…quite so many soldiers. I presume you are not here to congratulate me on my upcoming nuptials?”

“It didn’t have to be like this,” Father Bromard shook his head.

“I disagree,” Edmund glanced at each of the priests in turn. “I can’t imagine this happening any other way.”

“I gave you plenty of chances,” he shifted, the soft click of metal slipping out from his cassock. Armored, Edmund noted. “I offered you friendship, a path forward, even Matron’s body, but you simply wouldn’t accommodate.”

“Your price was too high.”

“You may regret your choice, when you see how you will pay now,” Father Bromard drew himself up taller, lifting his chin. “Patron Moulde, you are suspected of harboring an Abomination unto the Lord. Surrender your fiancée, Googoltha Moulde, to us at once, so she may be burned at the stake and returned to the loving embrace of our Lord, where she belongs.”

“And if I do not?”

The sound of shifting armaments echoed through the foyer, while the hissing crackle of the torches drifted through the air.

“The Founding Families will not stand for this.”

“They cannot stop us,” Father Bromard shook his head. “If the Mouldes were stronger, perhaps, but you are a fading family. Once you are excommunicated for harboring an abomination, our actions will retroactively become justified.”

He took a short breath, and stepped back, calmer and more collected. “I did not want it to end like this, but I cannot bear all the responsibility. I never expected you to forsake Matron’s corpse like that. To turn your back on her so completely…I believed that would be too cold, even for you.”

“You see it as cruelty?” Edmund shook his head. “She would have seen it as strength. I will not be bribed, blackmailed, or threatened. Nor will I burn an innocent woman because I am afraid of what the future may bring.”

Father Bromard shook his head. “Then you are a coward. There is no greater hell then that which we might bring ourselves, in our ignorance. I will fight against it with every bone in my body, even if it means the burning of innocents. That is a burden I must bear alone. Now… bring me your fiancée at once!

“Here I am.”

The world slowed around Edmund as he turned. The army of red priests shifted their attention to the woman walking across the floor towards them, her hands twisting nervously at her chest. Edmund himself was at a loss for words, all semblance of training fled. There was no pretending he had expected this.

“Mrs…Kippling?”

“You want an Abomination,” Mrs. Kippling brushed her hands against her blouse, “well…here I am.”

“Who are you?” Father Bromard asked, his righteous fury cooled in the water bucket of confusion.

“My name is Mrs. Kippling,” she drew herself up as proudly as she could. “I don’t remember my first name. Haven’t used it in over…oh, two hundred years.”

“You are dismissed, Mrs. Kippling,” Edmund said, fear slowly gripping his heart.

“Two hundred years?” Father Bromard took a step closer to her.

“I was born in 1674,” Mrs. Kippling nodded. “Served the Moulde Family faithfully, I did, and my old heart gave out in 1699. Only Patron Plinkerton, he were a wily one, and he started my heart up again. Pumped me full of some liquid, I think, and gave me a shock I won’t soon forget. He says I didn’t die on his operating table, but I know what I saw, and what I felt, and I know I was dead for at least a bit. He brought me back to life, and I been alive ever since.”

“Mrs. Kippling,” Edmund felt his hands clench, “return to the kitchens at once!”

“No,” Father Bromard held up his hand. “Let her speak.”

“I will not let you do this,” Edmund protested.

“Begging-your-pardon I already done it, and I don’t expect you can stop them,” Mrs. Kippling sniffed before turning back to Father Bromard. “There. That’s that. I’m the only Abomination under this roof, so you’d better take me and leave this house alone.”

Father Bromard turned to Edmund, and then back to Mrs. Kippling. Edmund could see the discomfort in his eyes. “I know you are not his fiancée.”

“Thank goodness for that, begging-your-pardon!” Mrs. Kippling let out a laugh. “Can you imagine me a Moulde? Ha! Not-my-place begging-your-pardon!”

“This is my maid and cook,” Edmund said, stepping between Mrs. Kippling and Father Bromard, his chest as forward as he could manage. “She is my servant, and I demand that you leave her alone.”

“You heard the father,” Mrs. Kippling elbowed Edmund in the side. “He’s not leaving without an Abomination. Well, I am one, so let’s push off!”

Father Bromard heaved a weary sigh. “I am not impressed with your…misplaced loyalty, madam. I have been begged by royal Kings and Queens to take their lives and spare their loved ones.”

“Loved? Pah! She certainly isn’t loved by me! That little slip of a girl won’t even touch my soup!”

“Then why sacrifice yourself for her?”

“Eh,” Mrs. Kippling shrugged. “I got a couple hundred years of life. That’s more than most people get. That’s practically three lifetimes. That young girl has yet to live one.”

“It is not man’s place to decide when someone’s time has come. Only the Lord has the right to decide.”

Mrs. Kippling shrugged. “If you like. Only you don’t look like the Lord to me, begging-your-pardon, and the Lord’s seen fit to give Googoltha a Patron for a fiancée.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then, like a parliament of owls, the dark hooded priests all turned to look at Father Bromard, waiting for his word. Faced with the unyielding and unforgiving logic of a confidant woman, Father Bromard paused to collect himself.

Finally, he clasped his hands in front of him, the clink of armor under his cossack providing a grim underscore to the sound of burning torches and his coming response. “We will have to bleed you with holy leeches,” he said, his firm authoritarianism tempered only slightly by his uncertainty, “and your status confirmed through the holy codex. Once we are certain you are an abomination, you will be burned at the stake. You understand this?”

“That I do.”

“Very well. Take her away.”

Edmund took his opportunity. “I must protest!”

“It will do you no good to do so,” Father Bromard’s gaze was pure steel. “If you wish to say goodbye, you may. No other words will avail you.”

Mrs. Kippling spoke before Edmund could even open his mouth. “I know what you’re going to say, begging-your-pardon, and I say; don’t you worry about me, Patron,” Mrs. Kippling waddled over and patted his shoulder with a knobbly hand, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you know how many times I’ve burned myself on that infernal oven? It stopped hurting about seventy years ago; I reckon they can tie me up and burn me all they like; it won’t mean nothing.”

“The Church is nothing if not persistent. They’ll find some way —” Edmund began, but Mrs. Kippling waved his concerns away.

“Maybe, maybe not. Maybe they won’t want anyone to think their torches can’t burn everything, and they’ll just lock me away; hide their embarrassment. Then, who knows? Maybe in another hundred years they’ll forget why I’m there and let me out. Or maybe they’ll change their mind about burning folk who just want to be alive. I can be patient. I’ve got the time. Besides,” she fixed her watery eyes on Edmund’s, “I wasn’t lying; two hundred years is a long time, and if it’s my time to go then so be it.”

Giving Edmund a final pat on his arm, she turned back to the army of priests, the perfect picture of a defiant old lady in front of a divine juggernaut. Two priests broke ranks to gently usher the old woman outside; those who remained lowered their weapons as Father Bromard and Edmund stared at each other, saying volumes with their eyes.

“I am sorry,” Father Bromard said, “but there are things more important than my comfort with the situation.”

“You’re leaving?” Edmund asked.

“We are,” his face was thoughtful, “and I do not think you shall see us again soon. If we leave now with your cook only to return again later, uncomfortable questions about the Church’s infallibility might be asked.”

Edmund nodded. Nodding was safe enough. He was still reeling from the shock. The world was shifting about him, as intangible as a dream.

“I should warn you,” Father Bromard continued, “My fellow priests have less restraint than I. Rumors and speculation, Patron Moulde, as I said. The price of safety is eternal vigilance. Until the Church is satisfied that your fiancée is no abomination, one of us will always be nearby.”

“The Church does not hound others like this,” Edmund pleaded. “Brackenburg is filled with thousands of scientists, alchemists, and engineers who could do what you deem an abomination. Why do you focus your efforts on the Founding Families?”

Father Bromard’s mouth twisted into a small smile. “It is not exclusively the Founding Families who occupy our attention, but you are correct; my brethren demand many things of the Founding Families. Foremost, they demand that they recognize that they are not given dominion over the earth and its people. They seek to remind the Founding Families that the Lord is greater than they are. For myself, I am more concerned that they accept there is something more powerful than them. More important than their own petty concerns for more power or prestige.” He paused. “Why do I think that perhaps…you already think this?”

Edmund didn’t know. His mind was sorting through all the things he could shout at Mrs. Kippling before she was gone forever. Apologies. Gratitude. Praise and a promise to never forget her. But his tongue remained as still as stone.

Father Bromard clapped his hands, and the priests began to file out of Moulde Hall. When the last priest vanished, before Father Bromard stepped outside, he paused to share a final look with Edmund.

“The Church will be watching you very carefully, now,” he cautioned. “Me as well. I can’t be certain, you understand, but you might have made a very powerful enemy, today.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Edmund nodded. “I would deem it a great favor if you were to fight me with all the passion and vigor you can muster. I wouldn’t want to ever become lazy.”

Father Bromar’s face split into a magnanimous grin. “Patron Moulde, it would be a pleasure.”

With that, Father Bromard stepped out of Moulde Hall, and into the inky night.

---

“And they simply left?”

“Yes,” Edmund stared into the roaring flames of the sitting-room’s fireplace. “I rather think several of the priests were relieved. It was hard to tell, of course, with their hoods, but the manner in which they shouldered their blades and rifles…”

Junapa pursed her lips in amusement. “I must say, I am impressed. You aren’t concerned about the rumors of a priestly host descending on Moulde Hall?”

Edmund sipped at his tea, more out of reflex than any actual desire. Ever since that night, the tea didn’t taste right. Enga must have been making it wrong.

“Well, what’s done is done,” Junapa fanned herself ever so gently. “She was…interesting as far as servants go, I’ll grant you, but to think that she had survived for so long, under our very noses…Well, I suppose a lifetime of two hundred years in Moulde Hall is reward enough.” She reached out to pat Edmund’s hand. “She will be at peace very soon, I am sure.”

Edmund set down his cup with a clatter. Mrs. Kippling would survive. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. Perhaps he knew because the alternative was unbearable.

“I keep asking myself if it was worth it.”

Junapa set down her tea. “Do you? Hardly appropriate behavior for a Patron, much less a Moulde. I must say. If you are asking for comfort, I’m afraid I cannot give it. You know as well as I do how many problems your marriage to Googoltha will cause, never mind how many it fixes.”

“Hopefully, this will help the Moulde Family grow stronger,” Edmund hid his discomfort behind his teacup.

“Yes, once you marry Googoltha, the Blood Feud is over. Now the Rotledges and the Mouldes are practically family, and as you and I both know quite well, family never fights each other on anything. Speaking of the family,” Junapa closed her fan again. “If you are well enough to discuss it, I did wish to speak with you about this recent…disagreement. I imagine you have heard about the Locklears and the Sinnesfetches? It seems there is quite an argument brewing between them. The Locklears are discussing whether the family should hold a seance to contact Matron’s spirit from beyond the veil.”

“Are they?”

“While the Sinnesfetches are, I believe, asking for an exorcism.”

“I see.”

Junapa smiled behind her fan. “The Charters, I hear, have fallen behind the Locklears, and the Sinnesfetches are courting the support of the Poppomuses. I’m afraid a decision will have to be reached soon, as more families take sides on the matter.”

Edmund closed his eyes.

“Being Patron is not an easy job, Edmund. Nor is it empty of responsibility. Your days will be filled now with petty squabbles and nonsense to drive sane-folk mad. Are you certain you are quite capable?”

Edmund didn’t answer. His eyes remained closed.

Finally: “When I was young, I thought I understood why Matron adopted me. I thought it was for legal reasons, or perhaps financial. Maybe political necessity that said she needed a child or else the estate would be taken from her. Then, I thought it was because she was lonely. Perhaps it was many reasons. I will never know now.”

“What I do know is this; what my adoption meant to everyone else. It told the other Families that the Mouldes would not die. It told our family that we would survive. It showed the people that when Matron Moulde died, the Family itself would continue on, as strong and fierce as it ever had been. I was an Heir, but I was also a promise; a promise to the future that it would exist.”

“And exist it does. Do you think you are finished?” Junapa leaned forward. “It is not too late. There are alternatives. Loopholes. You can still salvage a great deal from this mess.”

“I spoke with the Brocklehursts a few days ago.”

Junapa sipped at her tea.

“Did you?”

“Yes. They decided that Nausica was not the right sort of girl for their Patron to marry.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because I’m poor,” Edmund shrugged. “And a fool. I had a fortune and I lost it. I had power, and I gave it away. I risked the Moulde name and I failed. I was a great man, and now I’m dependent on employment from my cousin-in-law for my income, which is in the form of a salary. I lost. At least a dozen times, I lost.”

Junapa stared at Edmund, her gaze like a gimlet. Then: “You did this.”

Edmund didn’t say anything.

“You did this?” Her certainty faded to incredulity. “You chose Googoltha over Nausica? The Rotledges over the Brocklehursts? But there was…” Junapa bit her lip, and then continued with a steadier voice. “Forgive me if this sounds impertinent, but from the outside it looks like you are trying to fail.”

“My time ran out,” Edmund shrugged. “If there hadn’t been any riots in South Dunkin, or if I hadn’t accrued so many debts so quickly, my plans might have worked.”

“That’s no explanation!” Junapa hissed. “It was all right there —”

Edmund waited while Junapa fumed. Then: “Yes. Very well, you knew it was me. That doesn’t change the fact that it was all there for the taking! It was all perfectly planned out! Marrying Nausica, seizing the aluminium, the marriage offers, everything since Grimm’s…the crown was in reach, Edmund! The Brocklehursts were the clinching move! A Moulde…your own grandchild could have been crowned Monarch over an Empire! You saw it, I know you saw it! I was helping you, guiding you to save the Moulde Family once and for all!”

Edmund took a sip of his own tea before setting it aside. “Do you remember the seventh chess game we ever played?”

Junapa blinked, her confusion and anger slowly ebbing in the face of his placid demeanor. “I’m afraid my memory is not so precise. Perhaps I do, but you will need to explain what was so memorable about it.”

“How you won,” Edmund said, closing his eyes. He could see the game-board so clearly. “Queen to g3. You moved your queen to a place where I could take it three different ways; two pawns and my own queen.”

“Ah, yes,” Junapa smiled. “I did so enjoy the look on your face.”

“It was a powerful lesson,” Edmund opened his eyes. “I had to resign, because no matter what I did, I would lose. All because you sacrificed your queen in an inestimably foolish manner.”

“A sacrifice is never foolish if it gets you what you need, or want,” Junapa said, her sentimental smile softening.

Edmund nodded. He took a deep breath. It was time.

“Bishop to f7,” he said, taking her pawn.

Junapa blinked, and then settled back into her chair, a suspicious frown playing about her lips. She sipped her tea, slowly, and set the cup back in her saucer as her eyes focused on her own board in her mind. “Rook to f7. A fair trade, I think.”

“Rook to h8. Check.”

Junapa cocked her head. “King to h8.”

“Knight to f7. Check.”

After a moment, her frown deepened. “King to h7.”

“Knight to d8,” her queen fell to him.

There was a long pause as she thought, sorting through every possible move, the steps ahead, the path forward, the possibilities…the dangers…

Junapa’s eyes focused again on Edmund’s.

“Shall we continue?” he asked.

Her mouth opened, astonishment in her eyes. “How did you…”

“I’ll admit, I may have missed something,” Edmund shrugged. “You may find some way out.”

“You…your queen…you sacrificed your queen during Matron’s wake! You’ve been losing ever since!”

Edmund didn’t say anything.

“I was positioned perfectly,” Junapa’s amazement was fast shifting to anger. “I had more pieces than you, and they were…How did you manage to pull off such a…I was beating you the entire game!”

“Were you?”

Had it been anyone else, Edmund knew, they would have doubled down, proclaiming that Edmund had tricked them or had just gotten lucky. Junapa, for all her overconfidence, was not so foolish. She closed her mouth, and sat back in her chair, her eyes narrow. Her brain was continuing to spin, finding every angle with which to look at Edmund from. He waited patiently.

Finally, her eyes widened as she leaned closer, her mouth tight. “What game were you playing?”

“It was different every time,” Edmund admitted, “You only wanted to checkmate me, but I wanted you to checkmate me on the twenty-fourth turn. Or a checkmate from your king-side knight. With your queen on a5 or my rook on g2. I wanted to decide when the game ended. I wanted to decide how many pieces were taken. I wanted to choose which turn saw you sacrifice your queen, or I was forced to take your rook.”

“You weren’t learning how to win,” Junapa muttered. “You were learning how to lose.”

Edmund faced the fireplace. “In less than two years, this new “middle class” will rise. Science will unleash its monsters across the world. Automatons will take over our factories, our fields, our wars…maybe even our strategies. Do you know, I’m inventing a machine that could play chess?”

“Not terribly difficult. I’ve seen them at fair-grounds.”

“Yes, but mine will actually think about chess.”

“Ah,” Junapa thought for a moment before nodding. “That would be something to see.”

“The whole world will be worth seeing,” Edmund let his eyes seek out the future. “Electrical machines will become smaller. Telegraphs into people’s homes, the instantaneous transmission of sound and light, Whole cities held aloft by spinning blades and leather balloons. Diesel and electricity powering a vast machine.”

“Society is a machine,” Junapa frowned. “I don’t see what that has to do with throwing away a fortune.”

“When I was young, I saw the machine as something wonderful; something warm and comfortable. It was security. As long as you were a faithful cog, you had purpose. A functioning society required everyone to be the best cogs they could be.”

Edmund closed his eyes as memories started to surface. “I learned in the war that the Machine is not our friend. It can be tight, and cold, and cruel. It doesn’t care for cogs, which is all we would be. We can’t simply press forward like mad scientists, fighting to shape the world in our own image. Scrapnel didn’t care if it cut into soldiers or officers. On the grave-digger’s cart, we all look the same.”

“What on earth are you rambling about?”

“We need to work together. We need to make a place for those who find virtue in their own choices.” Like Leeta and Fairly Carver. Like Major Schtillhart. “We need laborers, we need scientists, and we need poets.”

“Do you mean to tell me that your foolishness was a practiced and studied decision?” Junapa frowned in incredulous suspicion.

Edmund nodded. “I did see the crown was in reach. Our family could have conquered Britannia without a single shot fired, in two or three generations. But then what? Would the other families simply sit back and watch, or would they fight even harder to topple us? Generations ago, we fought over Brackenburg. Now we fight over Britannia. Tomorrow, all of Europe. Eventually the world, and then where would we go? When would the rich and powerful finally stop, and what would they do then, when there was nothing left to fight over?”

“What is your alternative?”

“Stop fighting. End the feuds and squabbles, and work together…only the upper-class can’t ever do that. Not really. After so many generations of fighting and scheming and daggers and poisons and letters…we need to step aside and make room for those who know how to create a world that will work forever. The people who lead must be those who already know how to serve.”

Junapa’s eyes closed in the despair of revelation. “So you failed Matron on purpose.” She opened her eyes again, a look of abject disappointment in their depths.

“I did,” Edmund nodded. “She needed me too.” Even though she could never have said so.

“When did you come up with this…absurd little scheme of yours?”

Edmund had wondered the same thing. He could have said its origins were in the muddy trenches of Harmingsdown, seeing good men and women die because of the empty words of people who were leaders simply because they said they were. Perhaps it was when he looked deep into Leeta’s eyes and saw that the upper and lower classes had more in common than not.

He could have even gone all the way back to when he was eight, sitting in the darkened tomb of Orpha Moulde, the first Moulde, staring at the ever-wound watch that Plinkerton Moulde had created. That moment when he realized that any fortune and prestige that he could grant the Moulde Family was destined to pass. When he decided that — if the right goal for a Moulde was transient wealth and power — he needed to look closer at the wrong goals.

But if he thought even harder, he remembered the old sagging boxwood tree in the tiny yard of Mrs. Mapleberry’s Orphanage for Wayward Lads and Ladies, and the strong winds which blew in the autumn. He remembered watching the tree bend almost sideways in the gusts, while great oaks were uprooted. The orphanage was always on the verge of collapse, and yet Edmund knew it would always be there.

Perhaps there wasn’t a moment. Perhaps his plan had grown like he had, and would continue to grow. Perhaps the only seed he had ever planted was that he was Edmund, and he needed to find a place in the world that he was comfortable with.

“Well?”

Edmund turned to Junapa. “I don’t know, to be honest. All I know is the Moulde Family must find its place in the new order of things.”

“We could have shaped the new order of things.”

Edmund’s head sagged. Perhaps she would never understand how the rain never shaped the puddle, but instead conformed to the shape of the hole. “If you need a more pragmatic excuse: The coming changes will not be easy ones. There will be revolutions greater than France’s, than the Americas, than even South Dunkin’s. They will be more ferocious than any we’ve ever seen before. Not just industrial, or social, but global.”

“The Founding Families have outlasted revolutions before.”

“The Great War was larger than any war before it, there will come a Great Revolution too.” Edmund shook his head. “We are too emblematic of the old way. If we are no longer aristocrats…”

Junapa sat back, a thoughtful look on her face. After a moment, a single twitch of her jaw told Edmund that cold and pragmatic survival had won out over her gentrified upbringing.

“After all,” he provided a suitable denouement, “there are far more common folk than there are Mouldes.”

“You will have to work on that,” Junapa’s grin was all teeth, “won’t you?”

The flames continued to burn, while Junapa paused to take a sip of her tea. When her cup lowered again, her breathing was under control again, her mouth firm and precise. “You have grown since Grimm’s.”

“And since the war, too,” Edmund admitted. Indeed, he wasn’t sure he had ever really stopped.

“For the life of me, Patron, I cannot tell…did you in fact plan everything like a Machiavellian mastermind? Or did you simply lose your gamble, and now want me to believe failure was your plan all along?”

“I am a Moulde.”

Junapa barked a quick laugh. “Indeed, what is the difference?” Rising from her chair, she cocked her head, slowly opening her fan like a knight drawing her sword. “Indulge my curiosity. When did you know I was your adversary?”

“Adversaries? I hope we never truly were.”

“I told you many years ago, a family saved by me would look very different than one saved by you. I don’t think we ever weren’t adversaries.” Moving to the door, Junapa paused at the doorway, her fan fluttering in her hand like a flag in the wind. “Playing to lose…I would be interested in learning the skills you practiced during our games.”

Edmund linked his fingers in thought. “Are you asking me to teach you? Chess…but you win if your king is captured?”

“It would be fascinating,” Junapa smiled. “What traps could be laid, what bait could be set…We shall have to discuss further.”

“Some other time, perhaps.”

“Yes, some other time.”

---

Edmund sat in his Laboratory, working. He had a lot of aluminium to make.

In the coming months he would open one of the many empty rooms of Moulde Hall and turn it into a smelting plant, spilling over into the adjoining rooms after knocking holes in the wall with a pick-axe. A network of electrical tracks would be installed, along with automated carts and clockwork machines to expedite the process. At the height of his productivity, it was estimated he was able to mass-produce three tonnes of aluminium a day.

But that would come later. For now, it was only Edmund and the bauxite, alone. The process was slow, but effective. It gave him time to think.

And what he thought was this: the age of the Founding Families was done.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps they would simply change; become something new. If they did, it would be on their own terms, and Edmund would not be responsible for it. Or rather, he would be as responsible as everyone else.

No, if the Founding Families ended, it would happen after the next Great War. There would be another, Edmund was certain, far more terrible and horrific than the last. The world had grown smaller, and people’s reach had grown longer. Fish-merchants in Prague could change the fortune of bankers in Madrid, without ever knowing each other’s names.

The next Great War would be terrible. It would be fought with weapons only touched on in the trenches: Trench-crawlers and aeroplanes would be commonplace, perfected after years of study and experimentation. Metal machines and rifles that spat fire and steel. The air would become as much of a battlefield as the earth and the sea. War would become as unfamiliar as the rest of the world.

Setting the separated aluminium aside, Edmund stirred the remaining gray ooze with a small glass rod. The wealthiest family in Brackenburg. It was usually the Wyldrichs. For a while it was the Broodains. Even the Cromleys had been the richest for one week in 1723. Now it would be the Rotledges. Things changed. They always did.

Father Bromard had been right. Life was precious, and if it is given freely to those who squander it, its value will only cheapen. Aluminium was worth more than gold, but once it became plentiful it would be cheaper than steel.

And it would become plentiful. Edmund had paid attention when Mr. Shobbinton explained the problem with selling off large amounts of gold all at once: prices dropped. Value decreased. The inefficient Waller process kept aluminium expensive, but once Edmund’s process turned the half-million tonnes of bauxite beneath Moulde Hall into a quarter-million tonnes of aluminium, its price would drop substantially.

This would attract the attention of the whole world. Scientists everywhere would devote themselves to discovering his process. Based on what he could glean from the Dilettante Trust; he estimated it would only take fifteen months, maybe two years, before some other enterprising experimenter found the secret. The cost of aluminium would plummet, and there would still be tonnes of the stuff buried under Haggard Hill. The Rotledges would be wealthy, but for nowhere near as long as they expected.

He hadn’t lied to Junapa. Not really. But there was always more truth, if you paid attention. If you searched for long enough, you would always find something new.

Edmund placed the small glass saucer over the oil-flame, and stared at the spiraling smoke, waiting for it to curl in exactly the right way…

Even with the improvements, it wasn’t a particularly fast process.

Edmund carefully retrieved the saucer, and placed it in a cooling bath. The gray ooze drifted apart, slowly spreading through the water as Edmund sprinkled Potemkin’s Powdered Solution over the top. Any moment now…

He could have demanded more from Wislydale; a factory, a trade agreement that gave him more control over Haggard Hill, or at least what came out of it…but that was the old way. Ancient Mouldes who picked and pecked at agreements, truths, and promises until they could mean anything at all.

Edmund picked up a small sieve from next to the bath, and began scraping it through the water, collecting the tiny granules of a different metal.

It was too easy, really. If you could make your own loopholes with a clever turn of phrase, or turn on your friends without ever breaking your word…where was the skill in that? Any humbug with a clear understanding of how the human mind worked could do it. That wasn’t where true genius lay.

Before long, Edmund had a small pile, no more than a teaspoon’s worth, drying on a handkerchief. Selecting the largest granule with a pair of tweezers, Edmund carefully began to run his tests, marking off the steps in his notebook.

True genius was to win while being honest. Genius was coming out ahead through a fair deal. Alchemists had tried for years to turn lead into gold, but the true magic was turning a loss into a win, simply by looking at it differently.

When he was finished, Edmund collected the granules together and placed them in the palm of his hand.

As he watched, the tiny metal granules slowly began to melt.

He needed to name it, this new element he had found. He already knew everything it could do; the Elemental Table that Tunansia had invented worked perfectly. He knew — because it sat next to aluminium and zinc — what its properties were, or close enough at any rate. He knew what it could do.

When the metal had completely melted into a shimmering silver liquid, he tipped his hand and poured the metal out onto a cool porcelain plate. As he watched, the metal slowly solidified again.

A new element. Now it was useless; no better than garbage. It transitioned so easily between states, desperate for some way to be valuable. And no one but him even knew it was there, hidden in the bauxite. It wasn’t particularly useful, or better than aluminium on its own, but that wasn’t the point.

The point was that Edmund could see a time when this element would be vital. When it was purified, it would do wonderful things for electricity. If he could spin it thin enough, he could replace whole sections of Melete with new and tiny metals, lighter and faster than steel or aluminium. She could be faster and smarter than the human brain.

It would take a whole new kind of science; the study of electricity in mechanical devices. In mechanical beings. Mechanicology. Perhaps he would have to invent this science himself.

The wise knew that there would be a time when garbage could be gold. When a win was really a loss. Genius was no more than a willingness to change.

He picked up the solid piece of metal off the plate, and watched it slowly begin to melt again. The audacity of it all; to think that this tiny lump in his hand wouldn’t change the world, but was simply waiting for the world to catch up to it. It had been there, waiting to be found, and Edmund had found it. Now they were waiting together. The brass boldness of it. The shear gall.

Gallium. It was a good name.