Edmund opened his eyes to the massive form of Ung staring down at him.
After a sleep brought on by trauma, it is traditional for the sleeper to take a moment to remember where they are and what has happened. Dr. Vendebirk II theorizes in his On Morpheus that this is the brain’s attempt to expunge unpleasant memories of the previous day and being entirely too enthusiastic about it.
Edmund did not have this luxury.
The Moulde estate, Edmund learned later, was everything on top of and inside of Haggard Hill, in the northern part of the Squatling district. Haggard Hill itself was a full twenty acres of hill covered with old trees, tired grass, and a sagging old gazebo with peeling white paint, all surrounded by thorny hedges and a sharp wrought-iron fence. The heavy black gate cautioned MOULDE HALL in a sharp and spidery lettering, and was framed by statues of two large ravens, their eyes sharp and beaks terrible.
Edmund became a Moulde when he was eight years old, after lunch, on a day not otherwise particularly different from any other day.
Spring was coming to a close and the harsh sunlight of summer was struggling to slip through the giant black cloud that filled the sky. Edmund was sitting on his stiff bed, writing a poem about the holes that riddled the warped window shutters.
Edmund had taken to poetry.
Sir Edmund Moulde, a gentleman for whom no introduction could be either required or sufficient, is a mysterious and complicated figure. For one who so singularly affected the destiny of nations, very little is known for certain.
This is not to say we know nothing. While countless documents, diaries, and letters were lost in the Great Brackenburg Fire of 1954, every recovered document written by his hand has undergone years of study and interpretation by the great scholars of our time.
