Novels

After a suitable mourning period for his lost bent-key,[^fn:1] Edmund refocused his efforts.

He needed a new bent-key. A better one. One that could easily circumvent the lock on Tunansia’s chest, and even more besides. To that end, Edmund resolved to research everything he could, from engineering and metallurgy to the newest locksmithing theories. Once he was well-educated, there wouldn’t be a lock in the world that could keep him out.

By lunchtime that day, he paused to make a new bent-key from a hat-pin he had found on the hallway floor. Even though it was lighter and flimsier than his old broken bent-key, it made him feel better to have one in his pocket.

For two more days he spent his time in the Grimm’s library, pulling books and papers on locksmithing down from the dark-wood shelves. It was a long and arduous process, as most of the books he could find were devoted to theoretical lockery, as opposed to the practical application of the physics and mechanics involved.

Edmund’s remaining silent, however, did not mean that he understood. Tunansia’s behavior confused him greatly and occupied much of his mind as they walked back to Grimm’s from the train station. They parted without a word at the entry, Edmund continuing towards Altmore house, Tunansia towards her own room at the other end of the school.

When her footsteps finally faded, taking her melancholy airs with her, Edmund was able to focus on one fact that now swam about his head.

Edmund had won!

It was almost disappointing. As far as Edmund had been concerned, he had expected the salvation of the family to take him into his late teens, perhaps early twenties at the outside. If nothing else, he had thought he would have needed to put some effort into it. Instead, he had merely accepted an invitation, and in return they had accepted him into the highest ranks of society.

On the day in question, Edmund was sitting quietly in the Library, working through a curious contradiction in two separate editions of a book on Aqueous Vitaes in the brain, when a voice made of meringue and steel wool broke through the silence.

“Edrum!”

“Edmund,” he reminded Victrola as she bounded through the stacks towards him. “Edmund Moulde.”

“That’s what I said,” Victrola smiled with saccharine glee as she tossed her curly hair behind her ear. “I have wonderful news! I got a ten on my paper on Advanced Acrimony,” pride shone off her pale face. “She said it was inspired!”

“If you say so,” Edmund said. He had thought it a fairly obvious observation.

When Edmund awoke, he knew exactly where he was. This was in direct contradiction to expected behavior of any child thrown into a new world over the course of a single night, but he didn’t have the time for such formalities.

Instead he engaged in his usual morning routine: first, he looked at his notebook.

Sure enough, during the night his sleeping brain had tried to wake him with any number of sudden thoughts, concerns, ideas, and the like; but his hand had caught them all, trapping them in ink before his rest was disturbed.

For six hours the train traveled through the countryside, stopping at various towns to pick up and drop off passengers.

Edmund left Moulde Hall on the thirty-first of August. In proper British fashion, it was raining.

Edmund was an orphan from birth, as was fashionable at the time…

Opening each Edmund book with an excerpt or quote from a fabricated biography of Edmund Moulde was the plan for a long time…but when I first decided to post the book on a (now defunct) blog, I needed something to separate each chapter. So, I decided to write more of Edmund’s Poems. What resulted was a mix of parodies and absurdities. At first, I attributed each quote to a different scholar and book, but soon the rivalry between Sirs Kohlm and Krink took shape, and eventually they became the only scholars I cited.

A pin falling on a carpet from the height of an ant’s back could have broken the silence. The air itself froze, not daring to cross the room for fear of disrupting the stunned tableau. Tricknee had no such restraint. “WHAT?!” His lanky body unfolded in a flurry of black limbs, rushing towards Edmund like a wrinkled thresher machine. “Please forgive me, Mister Tricknee,” words tumbled from his mouth in an avalanche, desperate to slow his meteoric advance, “I know we agreed to reveal this later, but I simply cannot in good conscience keep such important news from our honored guests.

Edmund stood in front of Moulde Hall, dressed in the finest fitting suit he had been able to purchase in town, watching the carriage driver drive up the hill. Ung had been waiting in his room to help him dress. Edmund was no expert, but Ung had assured him that the suit was well made and a perfect fit. The collar was broad and tall, and the vest was a thin leathery gray with Plinkerton’s watch tucked neatly into the pocket.