Week later. Two weeks. We chant. We all show, ‘cuz we’re a circle.

Darla dresses to the nines for it. I laugh at her, it’s only Cindy. She sticks out her sexy tongue at me. I imagine my lips wrapped around it.

Go to the digs. Door opens and I flop on the couch. Darla reclines, as always, letting silky silk fold and slip up her leg. Dressed to nines, but no care. Sexy that. Binny is sitting there in his cloud, Leon on the floor, facing the ceiling like it’s painted.

It is a failure of imagination to assume that all criminals are poor. While it makes a crude sense — why be a criminal if you don’t need the money? — it fails to account for the fact that any criminal worth their shackles will not remain poor for very long.

It is therefore far more logical to assume that the majority of criminals are rich; indeed, their criminal enterprises were undoubtedly what provided their fortune.

This perfectly rational state-of-affairs means, inevitably, that whenever there is profit to be made, there is value to be stolen. With these opportunities, the rich criminals of society will pay — often handsomely — to steal even more wealth out from under another person’s nose.

In the entrepreneurial spirit of the age, wealth came in many forms. The invention of futures markets meant that knowledge had become as profitable as gold, and oftentimes more so. Legal Proof of Ownership was as valuable as the asset itself, and anything that could be owned could be sold, coveted, and eventually stolen.

The next morning, Edmund sat in the large dining room for breakfast, a poorly cooked egg floating in weak broth. The stale bread that was a staple of Moulde Hall cuisine had been burnt on one side, and then — in a display of Mrs. Kippling’s insistence on getting it right — burnt slightly more on the other.

Even considering the blandness of the meal, Edmund didn’t taste a thing. He was too busy staring at the paper in his hand, too preoccupied with the implications of what he had written in his sleep to bother with simple things like flavor.

It was rare in Edmund’s life that there were no options. He was an educated man, both from university and from the War, and he had learned quite quickly that there were few situations in life that did not have at least three possible paths ahead. Edmund stared at the page he had written in his sleep. He had been very clear. This time, there were no options.

Scandal.

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.

When my sizzle is done, I climb right back into the kitchen off the escape. Stick half finished, pocket for later. Grab a drink of water on the way, dry mouth, no pop. No clean glass. No dirty glass. Use my hands and slurp like thirsty.

Walk into the room. Kid’s gone, everyone else sitting around, looking at the ceiling.

They’re all silent. Not moving. Not speaking. Rude.

I look up. Nothing there. Cracks and plaster. Nothing.

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

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

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

Not half an hour after Wislydale left, Edmund made his way down the Moulde Hall elevator to the abandoned coal mine deep under Haggard Hill.

It had been almost seven years since Edmund had crawled through the tunnels under Moulde Hall. When he was eight, his cousin Pinsnip Sadwick had locked him away in the tunnels to starve; vengeance for Pinsnip’s failure to claim the fortune of the Moulde Family for himself.

But that was only his first foray into the depths. When he was older, and not under immediate threat for his life, (At least, not by entombment.) he spent a good length of time learning their twists and turns, and returning periodically to the tombs of the Moulde Family.

Now, he had a destination. With a speed born of curiosity, it took only a quarter hour for Edmund to climb his way through the empty tunnels. Turning left and right, he made his way through the mines to the place on the survey map where the tombs and the iron vein were closest.

As has been repeated consistently, there is very little that we have of real factual record regarding Sir Edmund Moulde, the majority of his personal writings having been destroyed in the Great Brackenburg Fire.

There is, however, one exception.

Most everything we know about Sir Edmund Moulde and his ways of thinking comes entirely from a single surviving diary. Called by historians the Sir Edmund Codex, the entire journal was saved mostly unscathed from the ashes of Moulde Hall, the only damage being a blackened cover.

It is from this single diary that the majority of theories regarding Sir Edmund and his life have arisen. Indeed, there are several years of Edmund’s life that would be complete mysteries if not for the few pages or tangential references discovered in this journal.

What follows is an excerpt from this diary, dated the 28th of March, 1881, the day of Matron’s wake:

Dear diary,

Week later? Two weeks? Don’t remember. New Kid walked into my room like tentative. Cagey. Nerves all tingling. “Hi.”

Cindy gave him the up-and-down and pointed at Binny. Sage was sitting there, eyes closed, smoke to the top. Leon wasn’t watching, the nut. Should have been, but didn’t. I brought the kid, least he could do would be to pay attention.

Kid walked up to Binny, held out a hand. Binny kept his eyes shut. Took a slow breath, like wise old frog. “You new in town?”

“Ain’t seen you before,” Ribber giggles. “You hiding from us?”

The Wake of Matron Mander Moulde, held on the 28th of March, 1881, was, in a word, awkward.

There were multiple reasons for this, each enumerated and detailed in large numbers of historical and heraldic texts. While it would be prohibitive to explain at length here, with entire chapters devoted to the food and drink, it is simple enough to say that emotions were mixed.

This is often the case when dealing with the death of someone important, and there was no one of more importance than the Founding Families. Matron was, after all, a fellow peer. In spite of the distressing behavior of the Moulde Family, coupled with their steady descent from grace, she was still due the same honors given to every head that died of natural causes: a solemn wake filled with a lingering sense that they had beat the odds.

At the same time, there were few among the guests who did not feel the world was better for having one less Moulde in it. Matron’s cutting tongue and razor-sharp mind had not won her many friends among the nobility of England, and her knack for foiling schemes of grand design seemingly by accident was uncanny.