Edmund Moulde

Outside the door, the man in the white coat was waiting.

“Hallo, Master Edmund,” he stepped forward, hand held out in front of him to shake. “A pleasure to finally meet you, really, a pleasure. I have read so much about you.”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” he shook the doctor’s hand.

“Of course, forgive me,” the man blushed and gave an awkward bow. “Doctor Leginald Hamfish, physician and phlebotomist. I’m the head of Advanced Medical Practices at the Lady of Infinite Jest.”

Edmund nodded. The Lady of Infinite Jest was one of the Moulde’s better renowned hospitals, capable of serving the majority of extreme cases in Brackenburg while maintaining a respectable rate of legal conflict and perfectly reasonable numbers of skeletons in the closet.

Edmund was an orphan from birth, as was fashionable at the time.

Sir Limmingsbald Wonthorpe III, noted writer of the age, wrote a dissertation on the rise of the pennies dreadful, the pulps, and the un-noteables. He documented the professional language of pen-pushers and ink-sots, who were desperate to wring the price of another evening’s spirits out of the downtrodden and destitute. He ascertained the pinnacle of their craft, and called it the Hero Delusion.

“Someone will come to save us all,” the pulps proclaimed. “The horrors of the world are beyond our ken, and new sciences and technologies give us only more mysteries to face. Only someone as mysterious as these new challenges, someone from the same world of intrigue, could possibly hold the answers to all of life’s threats.”

After Sir Wonthorpe’s subsequent dismissal from the Calligraphic Institute of Cliffside, his theories and musings over this depressing sentiment in society were forgotten by everyone.

By everyone, that is, except for Edmund Moulde.

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.”

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.

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.

Leeta and Fairly were reluctant to follow Edmund. Leeta was still weak from her beating, and Fairly didn’t seem inclined to go anywhere Leeta wasn’t. Nevertheless, when Edmund could finally catch his breath and explain what he had found in the dark alley, they both leapt off the sarcophagus where they had been lying and followed him up the steps and out into the streets of Mothburn, Leeta leaning on Fairly the whole way.

When they reached the body, the three of them crouched around it like vultures.

Leeta was in constant motion, though hindered by her bandaged knee and stiff muscles. With a slow and steady pace, she circumnavigated the cadaver, scratching notes on a bound quire she had pulled out of her pocket. She poked the skin, lifted the limbs, and sniffed gently at various parts of the body, making a note each time that she did.