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.

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.”