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.

For a fiancé to invite another woman to dinner is, by definition, scandalous.

High-society is full of these mine-fields: events or behaviors that are inherently scandalous, yet also occasionally necessary. It is for just these situations that the Listed Proprieties of High Society, vol 3 was written.

When inviting a guest of suitable age and prospects to a meal, (says Chapter 7: the intricacies of pre-wedding society) a series of letters, invitations, and announcements must be used to ensure preparation and propriety from all involved. These include: a letter of formal invitation to dine; a notation of marital status; a letter of affirmation, sent to the fiancé’s partner; a request of permission to the guest’s relatives, if any such letter is required (see footnote on page 324); a signed agreement from the guest; an announcement sent to any and all servants of the guest; an announcement sent to any and all servants of the host; and a written and signed declaration affirming any and all behaviors that will be deemed impermissible by all present, to be notarized no later than the week after said engagement. This is in addition to any and all letters, invitations, and announcements that must be used for a regular meal, such as a notification of the menu, and outline of acceptable dress.

“Hey, Oz.” Cindy waved from the steps where she sat.

Walking, I was. Clear the head. Some day later. How much? Hundred truth I don’t remember. Week, maybe. Probably. Things get fuzzy when you chant. Time, what is time? Doesn’t matter. Chant to chant and sun to moon, you keep moving.

Gone to get a new pack of smokes. Had a lighter in my pocket. Felt good, gripped in my hand. Piece of paper too, just in case. Walking down the street outside Binny’s place.

Edmund waited for a full twenty minutes in the black rain of Brackenburg before knocking on the doors of Scower Mansion. He had expected to be greeted by servants, family members, even Matron Scower herself.

Instead, he had exited his carriage to an empty drive-way, walked up the rain-soaked dirt path to the giant double-doors of Scower Mansion, and waited for someone to open them. It was an unfortunate cruelty, as it gave Edmund a long time to consider; this was his last meeting. When he returned to Moulde Hall from Scower Mansion, the other eight Founding Families of Brackenburg would recognize him as the Patron of the Moulde Family. Not officially — that had been accomplished with a few signatures — but personally.

After twenty minutes, Edmund decided that knocking was his only course of action. As detailed in The Art of Savoir Faire, by Lady Yistemyr, knocking on the front door of your host’s house is a grave insult, as it suggests they do not know how to properly greet a guest. At the same time, to keep an expectant host waiting is an equal, if not greater transgression, and so Edmund decided, on balance, that he would rather be inside than outside.

It is an established fact that when it came to the salvation of the Moulde Family from the shame of history, Edmund Moulde had a plan.

The particulars of Edmund’s plan are, unfortunately, unknown to scholars and historians of our era. This is partially because, as will eventually be made clear, there are several theories as to what his ultimate plan was.

The Model Assembly theory states that Edmund created his plan in pieces, each a separate cog or spring that could be added or removed as his scheme progressed. If Kolb had never ranted and raved during the Brocklehurst Debut ball, Edmund would have found some other way to place Kolb in South Dunkin. Or perhaps he would have built his factory elsewhere, with a different surrogate that suited his purpose.

The In Totus theory posits that everything, from Edmund’s arranging his marriage all the way to the day of the nuptials, had been conceived by Edmund at age eight, underneath Haggard Hill with Orpha Moulde’s skull clutched in his hands. An entire wing of the Brackenburg Historical Society is devoted to the ramifications of European history if this is true.

The Order of Rubbed Sage continues to hold a biannual meeting in secret, devoted to the study and sharing of reputation ruining research hinging on the idea that Edmund’s plan had, in fact, failed.

While the truth of Edmund’s plans may never be known for certain, it is important to note that there were a great many obstacles along the path that he could not have anticipated.

In the timeline of events surrounding Edmund’s marriage, there are several chronological holes. While several events are known to have happened, either through contemporary record or logical deduction, it is not known precisely when they occurred. One such event is the scandalous and complicating arrival of Nausica Brocklehurst at Moulde Hall.

It is assumed, not without evidence, that Edmund was working in his study when there was a knock on the door.

Googoltha never knocks, Edmund’s brain spun into action. Ung only knocks if he thinks I’m hard at work, but he’s spent all his time in the garden recently. Mrs. Kippling always knocks, because she thinks it’s proper behavior. Enga…she only knocks if she thinks I need time to prepare for unexpected news…

After a long enough pause to collect his thoughts and prepare for a coming crisis, Edmund stood from his desk. “Enter.”

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.