Met Darla because of the chant.
Didn’t chant for her, no no. Never chant for Darla, truth. I swear truth. Darla’s special.
About a year ago. Knew it would be her, the moment I saw her. That’s part of it, knowing without knowing. Seeing and feeling and your gut driving your limbs, robot like. Didn’t think about it, thinking just confuses your gut. Our brains shout it all down. Sizzle the brain and your gut takes over. Shows you truth.
Many consider the Great War to be Edmund’s first experience with subterfuge and espionage, specifically the events surrounding the Battle at Harmingsdown. Many consider incorrectly.
Edmund was amazed at how normal it all was. In fact, all of proper society was structured around hiding one’s true feelings and motives. The only difference now was how many things Edmund was hiding.
The first thing Edmund was keeping from his fellow Teapots was who had invited them to Lady Tinbottom’s Villa. This is quite normal and proper; those who had important social business often hid their faces behind an amiable host or hostess. Indeed, if anyone knew Edmund had asked Lady Tinbottom to assemble the Coterie, they would have been curious rather than scandalized.
Leeta and Fairly were reluctant to follow Edmund. Leeta was still weak from her beating, and Fairly didn’t seem inclined to go anywhere Leeta wasn’t. Nevertheless, when Edmund could finally catch his breath and explain what he had found in the dark alley, they both leapt off the sarcophagus where they had been lying and followed him up the steps and out into the streets of Mothburn, Leeta leaning on Fairly the whole way.
When they reached the body, the three of them crouched around it like vultures.
Leeta was in constant motion, though hindered by her bandaged knee and stiff muscles. With a slow and steady pace, she circumnavigated the cadaver, scratching notes on a bound quire she had pulled out of her pocket. She poked the skin, lifted the limbs, and sniffed gently at various parts of the body, making a note each time that she did.
When Fairly Carver opened his door, his face was already set into a harsh frown. “Bloody hell, it’s late, isn’t it.” His irritated face peered at Edmund. “Got nothing better to do than go around and ruin other people’s sleep, do you?”
“I need your help,” Edmund admitted. “Again.”
“Oh you do, do you?” Fairly yawned. “Going to try and blackmail me again, are you? Well, I don’t very well give a toss, do I. You can push off, can’t you. School’s closing next year, isn’t it. Word’s spread all over the school, hasn’t it. Not a damn thing they can do to me now, is there.”
It was true, Edmund’s previous blackmail material had outlived its usefulness; but Edmund was a Moulde, and he never started a conversation without some form of leverage.
Passionate scholars and obsessed fans of history know the Carver family. Their place in history is assured as that of a noble family stuck at the edge of the aristocracy, beating and battering at the gate to be let in, only ever achieving tertiary status as peers. There has never been a Carver more honored than a Marquis, and their most notable family member, Lord Bullion Carver, rarely warrants more than a footnote in the more specific and specialized history books. (This footnote being the recipe for the notorious mushroom and chicken cream presented during King Edvard II’s coronation) There is no other family that married into more royal families and noble bloodlines, and yet never achieved any inherent political worth, as these marriages were inevitably to children no higher than seventh in the lines of succession.
Those fans and scholars need not be told, then, that the Carver Family was originally based in Mothburn before acquiring land outside of Cliffside and uprooting their family tree.
Winter, as the great seasonal poet Kellay Borgrom wrote in her thirty-page poem On Winter, was famed for its ability to freeze things, including time.
Edmund was forced to concur with this sentiment. While he was perfectly aware of time passing between his mornings, his evenings, and every moment in-between; each moment felt much the same as the next. When he was at Grimm’s, his focus was on the Mothburn Graveyard and the shadowy Raven Ressurectionist who stalked between its headstones. When he waited among the stones for Leeta to arrive, he agonized over his recent school-work, hoping against hope it would meet her expectations and she would allow him to remain by her side. When he was with her, he was dumbstruck, able to do little more than return the strained pleasantries she offered.
Now what?
Edmund thought about it all the way back to his room. He thought about it all the way into his bed. He thought about it all night, and when he woke the next morning his notes in the night had been nothing more than Leeta’s name, written over and over and over again.
The first thing he did, upon reading this maelstrom of monikers, was pull out his notebook.
The sun was already fading behind the Mothburn skyline as Edmund left the school grounds.
A distant part of him, quiet and nervous, tried to tell him that he wasn’t ready to return to the streets of Mothburn yet. He didn’t know exactly where he was going.
That wasn’t entirely true, was it? He knew where he was going, he just didn’t know where there was. He knew he could find it; he found his way around Grimm’s, Moulde Hall, and the empty coal mine of Haggard Hill. He could easily find his way through the streets of Mothburn. He understood needing to hide and creating safe-havens on dangerous streets. He knew about pride and the desire to walk with your head held high, even if everyone else thought you shouldn’t. He grasped criminality, having been adopted into a family for whom everyday criminal behavior was considered reflexive.
