It wasn’t until much later in the journal that Edmund noticed Tayatra’s name written in an older and shaking hand:
Dearest Journal, Alas, my beloved son Rotchild has fallen to a curse-ed state of mind. I have long tried to reason with him, explain the state of affairs, but I fear my tongue has tasted from china plates for too long to have much silver on it. He is convince-ed that his siblings are rising against him, attempting to push his favor from my heart. I have even heard him say that only Tayatra truly cares for him –a mad boast, considering no humours abide in her stone frame. I fear my foresight in creating a Cavalcadium of my fortune was not ill-planned. The estate will still fall to him when I am gone, and I hope only my children will not bring more suffering to this family, after my mistakes.
I am afear-ed that my planning was all for naught. My failure is complete. Master Rotchild is insane, ranting and raving in his room for hours about the plots of his siblings to kill him, or me. He spends more time with Tayatra now than anyone else, and he has forbidden anyone to speak with her. I snuck into her study late last night, skulking about like a common street urchin to place my words within her. The future of our family is within her, now. When the madness has passed, The Moulde Family will once again be respected, and ready to take its place among the great families of the city.
And then the last entry:
It is with a heavy heart I pen these, my final words. Master Rotchild has born a daughter, Isaybel, and has demanded I step down as Patron of Moulde Hall. I spoke with all of my trusted allies, and they all tell of a great conflict within the family if I do not. I am an old man, I know, and if my shaking hand is not enough to prove to you I am past my prime, let the spilled soup on my words provide certainty. I hold no hope that my family will survive, as their madness seems complete. No longer shall the Moulde Family hold respect in the world. Perhaps I am lucky to be so old, and die now before my withered eyes can witness the decline. I only hope that some day, some poor soul that bears the name Moulde can find it in their head to understand, though I hold no prayers that they will have the heart to forgive.
Most of it Edmund couldn’t understand, while what he could understand was banal and full of adult drama that didn’t interest Edmund in the slightest. He was only slightly interested to read that Plinkerton apparently thought Tayatra was the key to the Moulde Family’s resurgence–it felt much more important as a personal success.
It was disappointing, frankly, to have access into the minds of one of the old Patrons of the Moulde family, and not be able to comprehend it.
Eventually, Edmund set it aside and returned to his books on history, physics, and chemistry.