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.

Up next, I will be posting a very experimental piece of work, Ozzie Fitch.

Ozzie Fitch is a tale of hope, of struggle, of friendship through the trials of life, but mostly about pain. The pain we carry, the pain we share, and the pain that could cripple us if we are not careful.

Some hide their pain, turn from it in an attempt to maintain their veneer of adulthood. Some succumb to it, turning bitter and cynical as they see any joy or passion for life as a morbid lie. Some turn their pain into power. Some call it magic. And some feel their pain is the only thing that makes them worthwhile.

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.

Edmund’s day was ruined.

This is a turn of phrase often bandied about without due concern to its proper meaning. Indeed, the optimist might say that Edmund’s day was freed from routine, and therefore he was — for perhaps the first time since arriving at Grimm’s — able to act as he wished, rather than was required.

Indeed, many have made the argument that, had Edmund’s day not been “ruined,” he would never have made the discoveries which led to the Great British Empire being what it is today. (Whether this is a good or a bad thing has yet to be resolved)

For his own part, Edmund did not allow himself to think too far about the ramifications of his spoiled schedule. What was done was done, and he couldn’t go back and fix it now.

After a suitable mourning period for his lost bent-key,[^fn:1] Edmund refocused his efforts.

He needed a new bent-key. A better one. One that could easily circumvent the lock on Tunansia’s chest, and even more besides. To that end, Edmund resolved to research everything he could, from engineering and metallurgy to the newest locksmithing theories. Once he was well-educated, there wouldn’t be a lock in the world that could keep him out.

By lunchtime that day, he paused to make a new bent-key from a hat-pin he had found on the hallway floor. Even though it was lighter and flimsier than his old broken bent-key, it made him feel better to have one in his pocket.

For two more days he spent his time in the Grimm’s library, pulling books and papers on locksmithing down from the dark-wood shelves. It was a long and arduous process, as most of the books he could find were devoted to theoretical lockery, as opposed to the practical application of the physics and mechanics involved.

With that short batch of Cliffside Short-stories finished, I am now forced to look at what comes next for my Saturday postings. Of all the writing I’ve done, what fits best in a sidelong once-a-week format? I have more short stories, but not enough to outlast the weeks of books I have to upload. Do I write more short stories? Use Saturday to upload drafts and show my process? Only post personal bloggings about how I feel or what’s going on in the news today?

Edmund’s remaining silent, however, did not mean that he understood. Tunansia’s behavior confused him greatly and occupied much of his mind as they walked back to Grimm’s from the train station. They parted without a word at the entry, Edmund continuing towards Altmore house, Tunansia towards her own room at the other end of the school.

When her footsteps finally faded, taking her melancholy airs with her, Edmund was able to focus on one fact that now swam about his head.

Edmund had won!

It was almost disappointing. As far as Edmund had been concerned, he had expected the salvation of the family to take him into his late teens, perhaps early twenties at the outside. If nothing else, he had thought he would have needed to put some effort into it. Instead, he had merely accepted an invitation, and in return they had accepted him into the highest ranks of society.

On the day in question, Edmund was sitting quietly in the Library, working through a curious contradiction in two separate editions of a book on Aqueous Vitaes in the brain, when a voice made of meringue and steel wool broke through the silence.

“Edrum!”

“Edmund,” he reminded Victrola as she bounded through the stacks towards him. “Edmund Moulde.”

“That’s what I said,” Victrola smiled with saccharine glee as she tossed her curly hair behind her ear. “I have wonderful news! I got a ten on my paper on Advanced Acrimony,” pride shone off her pale face. “She said it was inspired!”

“If you say so,” Edmund said. He had thought it a fairly obvious observation.