The Chant. The Chant. The Chant.

Chant freed me. Chant showed me the real world. Chant sang to me. Chant carried me. Chant gave me everything. Chant brought me home. Chant gave me home. Chant was life. Chant was real. Chant was clear and crisp in a world of fuzzy moldy brown. Chant helped me talk. Chant gave me a direction, and that direction was every direction. Chant gave me the world. Chant opened doors. Chant closed windows. Chant tore down the curtains. Chant gave me me. Gave me them. Gave me. Gave.

Chant is everything.

And with that, we finish the second book of the Edmund Moulde Quadrilogy. On Monday, I will start posting the third book: Edmund Moulde and the Battle of Harmingsdown. Among other things, Edmund’s story has always been about transition, either from orphan to heir, from shame to pride, or from peace to war. From a Meta persepctive, I myself was always interested about what the transition from Steampunk to Dieselpunk might look like.

Dear diary, Edmund wrote…

“Yes,” Lady Tinbottom frowned. “I cannot say it surprises me. Lord Dashington was always very…open, with his boudoir.”

“He hid it from everyone,” Edmund continued, sipping his tea, “by killing anyone he had slept with.”

“How shocking,” Lady Tinbottom closed her fan. “I hope this hasn’t reached the papers yet?”

“No,” Edmund set down his tea. “You are the first person we’ve told.”

“We?”

“Me and the Raven Ressurectionist.”

Darla had a shit family in the subs. Hated them, trying to make her like things she didn’t like. Told her who and how to be, like everyone does. Forced her into college. Didn’t like the culture, she said. Full of people trying to change themselves, weren’t happy with who they were. Try on different kinds of people like different clothes. Made her feel bad. Stupid. Not good enough. Decided to leave.

Has a room of her own. Tiny. Good to stay, though. No flop nor couch for Old Oz, long as Darla’s his squeeze. She still has green, still has glitter. Took it from her mother’s box, she said. Sells it for cash when she needs it. Doesn’t always need it. My Darling Darla, she’s got fingers. Takes books from the library. She knows how to take back what’s been taken. Mall’s a good spot. We all spend a lot of time there, watching the dusted shamble by like zombies.

Little is known about what exactly happened during the time that Edmund spent with Victrola and Professor Whiskfield. The only available evidence comes from two sources: the events that occurred afterwards, and a small note in the margins of one of Edmund’s surviving notebooks:

I have done it! After much study, experimentation, and inspiration, I have concluded that it is possible to perform a post-encardiocephelographic revivification on a corpse of indeterminate duration of death, by adjusting a few ingredients and procedures involved in the creation of my ancestor’s Mechanus Vitae.

I have discovered a truly marvelous recipe for this, which this margin is too narrow to contain.

Scholars and medical professionals have struggled for years to discern exactly what this recipe is, to no avail. Many have used this lack of success to posit that Edmund was a bit of a prankster at this young age, while others suggest that, at its simplest, Edmund decided it was safer that no one knew the recipe apart from himself.

Edmund barely noticed the city of Mothburn as he walked towards Grimm’s, his fevered brain churning like a machine. He didn’t even notice the distant clock-tower ringing half past seven-o-clock in the evening.

He did not duck and hide, as was his usual wont, but carved a path through Mothburn as straight as an arrow. Perhaps it was not the wisest course of action, nor the most prudent, but Edmund was not concerned with such matters at the moment. He was far more concerned about a single task that simmered in his mind, growing stronger with every passing second.

Madness, as a subject, has been studied to varying degrees of precision throughout the ages. Grimm’s School for the Erratically Gifted was established, in fact, as a means to both examine and focus the creative energies of the more erratic and uncontrollable members of the gentry.

Jail — among the many other horrors it bestows on its victims in an effort to punish, rehabilitate, or segregate — is the perfect place to think. Edmund became acutely aware of this fact remarkably quickly, if for no other reason than he had nothing else to do.

In an odd way, it was strangely liberating: he had no school-work, could not attend classes, and was free from needing to read or write letters to his landed kin. He couldn’t leave to see Leeta, couldn’t explore, couldn’t do anything. He was free only to think, unfettered by societal obligation.

In a far more practical, fitting, and accurate way, it was everything Edmund had ever feared come true.

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.