When the seasons began to change once more from the cold season to the planting, the fair maiden Mala at last consented to be Padarom’s wife.

This was an event of great portent, for Mala’s family had lived in Souran Village for many centuries, while Padarom had arrived only two years ago, with nothing more than a cart full of wood and a tired old horse. The old women of the village were not warm to him, and they wasted no time in whispering among themselves at what would bring such a young man to such a small village that lay half-way between civilization and nowhere.

The End The Macabre Tale of Edmund Moulde took me more than a decade to write, and I still can’t honestly say “I’m done.” Art is never finished, only abandoned, and I could continue to tinker with this and that for decades more. I certainly can’t say it’s polished. Only the first book really reached that level of “completeness” for me, I’d still call the last three “second drafts” at best.

Edmund set down his pen, and closed the book.

“Enough. A good place to stop. Because that’s where things started, you see?”

I walked home from the hospital. Didn’t want to take the train. Didn’t have the green, didn’t bother to chant. Just walked. Wandered up from Downtown. Nothing special. Done it before.

Walked past old stores locked up for dinner. Office buildings with guards out front, standing still and watching life flow by. Saw restaurants with people inside, eating together, their minds on the day past or the day ahead. I saw lots of things, but people didn’t see me.

I didn’t feel good. Wrong kind of not good, too. Wasn’t sick, or needed a sizzle. Not hungry, not dizzy, nothing like that. Don’t know why I felt so bad. Never felt like it before. Something about seeing Ribber in the hospital bed. Don’t know.

The Wedding of Patron Edmund Moulde is regarded by historians as one of the most significant events in the history of Europe. By means of demonstration, one need look no further than the story of Her Honorable Grace, Lady Milkquise of Donturry.

After accepting the invitation to Edmund’s wedding, Lady Milkquise of Donturry chose to dress in a thick crinoline and bustle, frilled with thin lace and pearl beads. Her hair was done up with a delicate lace of birch twigs, all in all creating a picture of elegant, if ever so slightly dated, fashion.

While most onlookers considered this a somewhat daring commentary on the speedy social changes that had come about since the Great War, several other gentry made similar choices with their own dress, wearing styles and fashions that were haute couture not a year ago.

However, Lady Milkquise of Donturry had not chosen this dress out of sociopolitical anxiety, but because she had worn a dress of similar design and color three years ago, during a particularly lovely picnic alone with the then eligible bachelor Lord Grumsworth of Tent. The spring rains had come early, and the two of them had been forced to separate from their chaperons to seek shelter under an old fishing hut on the edge of the lake.

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, (All of whom declined to attend) 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.

As he crested Haggard Hill, the rhythmic beat of Ung’s spade hitting the earth of Haggard Hill reached his ears. It was soothing to Edmund, slow and steady like a heartbeat.

“Tea’s ready, begging-your-pardon.”

Edmund nodded his thanks while Mrs. Kippling curtsied again and again as she slipped back inside Moulde Hall. He glanced at the tea-service. Two cups; perfect. “I will meet with her now,” he nodded to Enga. Turning his gaze back to the garden, Edmund watched as Ung toiled away, scraping and pushing at the earth.

“Is it worth it?”

Ung paused to brush his thick hand across his brow. “Sir?”

Edmund clasped his hands behind his back. “You have been working in the garden ever since the war. You’ve toiled for months, and I cannot help but wonder…are you getting what you want out of this effort?”

You know what I got?

I got no apartment. I got no green. I got the chant and the emptyspace and a circle who chant with me. I get hungry, I get lucky. Chant for green, sometimes, chant for food. Darla, she buys me food, share the spoils. I got a roof to sleep under, and if Darla ever shove me out, I got flops and couches, couches for days.

You know what I got? I got self respect.

Edmund read the document, slowly.

He had almost forgotten he could. Ever since Matron had died, he had been given so many papers to sign, and they all had been so important, that he had relied on the skills he had honed during the war. He had read countless legal briefs, contracts, and affidavits in the time it took him to sign his name.

Technically, if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t really have the time to read slowly now, either. There was a wedding to plan, a meeting with the Brocklehursts, a letter to Junapa, he was expecting Father Bromard to stop by…

But after all of it, after all the time he had spent planning and fighting and struggling to save the Moulde Family, this moment needed to be savored.

Edmund picked up the pen.

It had all started with pens. The first invention Edmund had ever made. He knew, even at such a young age, that pens were important. Would be important. He wanted to make them better, and he did. Then he leased the patent, and gathered enough of a fortune that he could pay of a hefty portion of the Moulde Family debt.

Edmund was not one for pacing. Even later in life, he found the idea that expending energy to move with no particular aim in mind an unreasonable, if not absurd, notion.

Composure. Stillness. Calm. Pause. These were the words of one focused on thought.

Edmund was pacing.

He had thought already. He had made his decisions, focused his efforts…things were in motion. There was little point in more thought when he could do little to affect the coming course of events. He knew what Wislydale would do, he knew what the Church would do, he knew what the Founding Families would do…

But even the wisest cannot craft perfect plans without all the information.

Edmund paused in his pacing to stare at the single sheet of note-paper he had written during the night. The problem was spelled out in plain and perfect language. A moment more of thought was all Edmund needed before he resumed his steady pace, burning away the excess emotion that threatened to hinder his efforts. He needed to stay calm.