True to her first prediction, after a year in Mrs. Sparrow’s tender nursery, I had made enough money to purchase a position as a sekretaire in the Office of Customs and Excise, a nearly impossible rise in station for one who came from nothing. I had for family only some cruel and sanctimonious farmers in Småland, but we had parted ways long ago and for good. The only group that had a hold on me was that unofficial brotherhood known about the Town as the Order of Bacchus, a generous and soulful bunch, rushing from tears to laughter and often inclined to song despite being too drunk to stand and too poor to pay for their drink. Membership required a great deal of time in Stockholm’s seven hundred taverns, and being found facedown in the gutter drunk at least twice by their high priest, the composer and genius Carl Michael Bellman. Eventually this brotherhood proved far too taxing on both my person and my purse, and so I spent my free nights playing cards. When not at the tables, I sat before a looking glass at home, practicing their handling. My dedication bound me tight to Mrs. Sparrow and my fortunes continued to improve.
By the spring of 1791, I felt that I knew everyone in the Town, at least by sight—from the whores of Baggens Street to the nobility that gave them custom. They, however, did not know me, for I made certain that they did not. It was in my interest professionally and personally to be utterly forgettable—escaping entanglements, obligations, and occasionally revenge. My sekretaire’s red cloak opened doors and purses and a decent number of soft, pale thighs. Besides my salary, I received a percentage on the sale of all confiscated goods and was able to “import” an excellent wine collection, very fine Italian boots, and other household goods for a new suite of rooms I engaged on Tailor’s Alley in the center of the Town. I reported to the office at noon to file paperwork and receive assignments, went for coffee with my colleagues at the Black Cat at three, then home to a small supper and a nap before heading out. My main assignment was uncovering smugglers and inspecting suspicious cargoes, work done mostly at night on the docks and in warehouses. I spent a great deal of time gathering information in the coffeehouses, inns, and taverns that dotted the Town like so many cheery lanterns, mingling with ladies and gentlemen of every station. My interrogative skills were interpreted as rapt fascination. It was the perfect job for a bachelor, and even better for a card player, astute at reading faces and gestures and sniffing out a feint.
Then a crack appeared in my perfect life.
It was a lovely June Monday, the day after Pentecost. The Superior at Customs, an overly pious man with sour breath, called me into his office first thing. Although I observed Sunday service (since one might otherwise be fined), the Superior claimed this was not enough for a man whose time was spent in the company of drunkards, thieves, gamblers, and loose women. I noted that this was part of my duties, and added that the Savior himself had kept such company. The Superior frowned. “But it was not the only company He kept,” he said, folding his hands upon the desk. “Mr. Larsson, there is a human antidote to the poison that surrounds you.”
I was utterly confounded. “Disciples?” I asked.
He turned a peculiar shade of red. “No, Mr. Larsson. Through holy matrimony.” He stood and leaned over his desk, handing me a penny pamphlet titled An Argument for the Holy Bonds. “The government encourages young girls through the Virgin Lottery. I will do my part in this office via a new requirement for sekretaires: marriage. Bishop Celsius approves one hundred percent. Mr. Larsson, you are the only sekretaire without even an intended. I require the announcement of your banns by midsummer.”
I opened the pamphlet and pretended to read, considering a hasty resignation. But while I was profiting from the cards, gains made could be lost in one heated hand, and prison awaited sharpers who lost their edge, which every sharper did. No, I would not give up my red cloak, my title, my newfound comfort, my rooms in the heart of the Town. With luck, I would win a decent dowry and a permanent housekeeper, too. At the very least, wedlock would bind me to the life I treasured.
Chapter Three
The Octavo
Sources: E. L., Mrs. S., A. Vingström, Lady N***, Lady C. Kallingbad
THERE WERE MATCHMAKERS and meddling neighbors on every street who could name a dozen eligible girls, all of them poor or well into spinsterhood. I dutifully compiled a list to show the Superior but bought time by voicing trepidation at a marriage devoid of true feeling. He offered to inquire in his more “exclusive” circles on my behalf, but I had no doubt those maidens would be chaste and plain as well as dull. Just when it seemed I must choose from this sorry lot, Carlotta Vingström appeared. It was a chance meeting while I was doing business with her father, a successful wine merchant buying up a confiscated shipment from Spain. Her hair was honey colored, her skin a warm peach, and she had the voluptuous figure that comes from an indulgent table. The sight of Carlotta surrounded by all those bottles and barrels inspired me to purchase a nosegay for her that very day. I might keep my red cloak and find wedded bliss besides!
Carlotta’s mother was no doubt grooming her daughter to move up the social ladder a rung or two, but Carlotta offered me a flirtatious glance within minutes of our introduction. I rushed home to begin a correspondence, but no words came: I had no idea how to court. So I walked to the Sparrow house that summer evening for a game of Boston and some decent Port, thinking the cards might inspire me. It was Sunday, a popular night for balls and fetes, and I could hear the distant blast of a waldhorn signaling a bacchanal. The sound lifted my mood, and I climbed the winding stone steps two at a time. Mrs. Sparrow’s house girl, Katarina, met me with the chilly neutrality appropriate for gamblers, and I joined a table humming with rich and inexperienced players. I was about to lay a winning queen when Mrs. Sparrow leaned in and whispered, “A word, Mr. Larsson, of import.” I rose from my chair as manners required and followed her down the hall.
“What is wrong?” I whispered, noting her hands, grasping each other tight.
“Nothing is wrong. I have had a vision, and when it concerns another I am sworn to tell it at once.” Mrs. Sparrow stopped, took my hand, and stared intently at my palm. “The indications are also present here.” She looked up and smiled. “Love and connection.”
“Truly?” I asked, taken utterly by surprise.
“Truth is what I face in my visions. It is not always so tender. Come.” She turned to climb the stairs and I followed to her upper room. Like the gaming room, the curtains were heavy and the carpet thick, but it smelled less of tobacco and more of lavender, and the temperature kept deliberately cool. It was intimate and simply furnished, with only a round wooden table and four chairs, a sideboard set with brandy and water, and two armchairs pulled up beside a ceramic stove of moss green tiles. I had been privy to a half dozen of her fortune-telling sessions with the cards, usually when a lone and timid seeker wished to have another mortal present. All but one of these readings I attended seemed frivolous. But that one time, Mrs. Sparrow announced a vision was upon her, and she asked us not to look at her. I pressed my eyes shut but felt an energy in the room and a gravity to Mrs. Sparrow’s voice that made the hair on my arms rise in alarm. A certain Lady N*** was informed in the most bloodcurdling, biblical terms of her fate. She was trembling and pale when she left the room, and never returned. I convinced myself it was all theatrics, but not long after, these dire predictions came to pass. After that, I was more wary of Mrs. Sparrow’s abilities (and less inclined to be part of her readings). But a vision of love and connection was an undeniably positive omen. “Your vision, then,” I said. “What was it?”
“Your vision, Mr. Larsson. It came this afternoon.” Mrs. Sparrow took a sip from a glass of water on the sideboard. “I never know when a vision will come, but after these many years I can feel the signs of its arrival. A curious metallic taste begins in the back of my throat and crawls up my tongue like a snake.” We sat down at the table and she placed her hands flat on her thighs, closed her eyes briefly, then opened them and smiled. “I saw an expanse of shimmering gold, like co
ins that danced to a celestial music. Then the many merged and were one, and created a golden path. It was upon this road that you traveled.” She leaned back in her chair. “You are lucky, Mr. Larsson. Love and connection come to few.” I felt the pleasant tension that comes with the convergence of questions and answers and told her of the Superior’s decree: that I must be a respectably married man in order to keep my spot at Customs. “Then this vision was no coincidence,” she said.
“And yet I have no desire for serious entanglements.”
She reached over and put her hand on mine. “They can be difficult to avoid. People come into our lives without our bidding, and stay without our invitation. They give us knowledge we do not seek, gifts we do not want. But we need them all the same.” She bent down to a narrow drawer hidden below the lip of the table and took from it a deck of playing cards and a rolled muslin cloth. “These cards are used for my highest form of divination: the Octavo. Given the brilliance of your vision, this is the spread I wish to lay for you.” She shuffled carefully, cut the deck in three piles, then stacked them into a single pile. I asked Mrs. Sparrow why she needed cards; surely her vision was enough. She turned the deck over and with a single sweep spread the cards in a broad arc on the table. “The cards are grounded in this earth, but they speak the language of the unknown world. They serve as my translators and guides and can show us how to realize your vision.” She leaned toward me and spoke in a whisper. “I began seeing patterns in my readings, and patterns in my own life that involved the number eight. I have come to believe that we are ruled by numbers, Mr. Larsson. I believe that God is no father, but an infinite cipher, and that is best expressed in the eight. Eight is the ancient symbol of eternity. Resting, it is the sign that mathematicians call the lemniscate. Raised upright it is man, destined to fall into infinity again. There is a mathematical expression of this philosophy called the Divine Geometry.” She unrolled the cloth. In the center was a red square surrounded by eight rectangles the exact size of a playing card that formed an octagon. The square and rectangles were numbered and labeled. Over this diagram were precise geometric forms drawn in hair-fine lines. Mrs. Sparrow traced the shape of the central circle and square with her index finger. “The central circle is heaven, the square inside of it is earth. They are intersected with the cross, formed by the four elements. The points of intersection form the octagon—the sacred form.”
“What is the source of this geometry?” I asked. Mathematics and magic were very much in vogue.
“You will not find it in a pamphlet at the trinket stalls. This is the knowledge of the secret societies, ancient knowledge reserved for an elite. I am forbidden to tell you my source, but there is an occasional gentleman willing to educate a woman. I never received more than basic instructions, but this philosophy is written everywhere for us to study. Go to Katarina Church in South Borough; the tower there sends a prominent message. Go to any church, Mr. Larsson. The baptismal font is nearly always an octagon. This form represents the eighth day after the creation, when the cycle of life begins anew. It is the eighth day after Jesus entered Jerusalem. The Octavo is the spread of resurrection.”
“And what is the small square in the very center?” I asked.
“That represents your soul awaiting its rebirth. You cannot help but be utterly changed by an event that inspires an Octavo.” Mrs. Sparrow reached across the table and put two fingers in the middle of my chest. I felt the two connected circles on my breastbone. “You must traverse the loops of the eight to come to the end,” she said.
My mouth was suddenly dry as straw. “But there is no end to the eight.”
She gave me a dazzling smile and drew her hand away. “Like there is no end to the soul.”
Mrs. Sparrow continued: “The cards we lay represent eight people.” She touched each of the rectangles on the cloth. “Any event that may befall the Seeker—any event—can be connected to a set of eight people. And the eight must be in place for the event to transpire.”
“I never like more than three people at a time, Mrs. Sparrow, and those facing me across a gaming table,” I said.
“You cannot have less and you will not find more. The eight can easily be seen in retrospect, but by laying the Octavo, you can identify the eight before the event occurs. The Seeker can then manipulate the event in the direction he chooses. You only need to push the eight. Think of it as destiny, partnering with free will.”
“And what sort of event inspires laying this Octavo of yours?”
“An event of great significance, a turning point. Most have one or two in their lives, but I have known people with as many as four. The love and connection I have seen for you is one such event. A vision is often the catalyst.”
“This gives me hope that I might truly walk this golden path! But I have been privy to your readings and never seen you lay the cards in an octagon before.”
“Correct, Mr. Larsson; it is not for everyone. I must offer to lay the Octavo, and the Seeker must accept. They must take an oath that they will see it through to the end.”
“Were these Seekers able to influence the events that were foretold?”
“Only those who honored the oath they had taken. For each of them, the world changed, and I would dare to say in their favor. The rest were ruined by the storm they chose to ignore. I can tell you that the knowledge from my last Octavo brought me great security and comfort.”
“Security and comfort . . .” I gestured to the brandy set out on a side table. Mrs. Sparrow nodded, and I poured myself a glass. I could use the Octavo to bring Carlotta Vingström to my marriage bed. This would secure my position at Customs, and no doubt bring a generous dowry, not to mention the pleasures of Mr. Vingström’s excellent cellars. A golden path, indeed! I sat down and rubbed my hands together to warm them, as I did before every hand of cards. “I should like to play this game of eight,” I said.
“Then you ask for it? It is not a game.”
“Yes,” I said, folding my hands in my lap.
“And you swear to complete it?”
I took another sip of brandy and set the glass aside. “I do.”
It was suddenly dead still. Mrs. Sparrow pressed the deck between her palms, then handed it to me. “Choose your card,” she said. “The one that most resembles you.”
So it was that all her readings began: when a seeker had a query, Mrs. Sparrow would ask them to choose the card that most represented them in light of the question they were asking. Needless to say, mostly kings, queens, and an occasional knave were chosen, and during Mrs. Sparrow’s standard readings, one could hardly see the cards at all, what with the darkness, the flickering candles, and the distracting gasps of the seeker. But this was not her usual deck. The cards were old but not overly worn, printed in black ink and hand colored. They were German, and instead of the usual suits of hearts, diamonds, clubs and spades, these were marked with Cups, Books, Wine Vessels, and what looked to be mushrooms but were actually Printing Pads. The court cards were made up of two Knaves, the Under and the Over, and a King. The Queen was relegated to the number ten. Court cards and pips alike were decorated with intricate designs of flora, fauna, and human figures from every walk of life. I was tempted to pull a card that showed three men overindulging in a gigantic vat of wine, thinking fondly of the Order of Bacchus.
“Remember, Mr. Larsson, be neither a flatterer nor a detractor in this game. Take your time. Find yourself.”
I looked through the entire stack three times before I chose. The card showed the figure of a young man walking, but looking back over his shoulder, as if someone or something were following him. A book was on the ground in front of him, but he paid it no mind. A flower bloomed to one side, but it, too, was ignored. What truly caught my eye was that he wore a red cloak like a sekretaire’s. Mrs. Sparrow took the card and smiled as she placed it in the center of the diagram.
“The Under Knave of Books. I think you have chosen well. Books are the sign of striving, and I know you have wor
ked hard for your cloak. But this man has resources all around him—the book, the sword, the flower—and yet uses none. Not yet.” There was a tingle of gooseflesh on my neck. She nodded toward the diagram. “The chart shows the roles that your eight will play. They may not appear in exact order, and their roles are not always evident at first; the Teacher may appear to be a buffoon, the Prisoner may seem in no need of release. The Octavo requires that you take a third or fourth look at the people around you, and be wary of hasty judgment.” She reshuffled the cards and asked me to cut, then closed her eyes and pressed the deck between her palms again. She carefully placed a card below and to the left of the Seeker. “Card one. The Companion.” Then she laid seven more cards clockwise around to form an octagon:
2—The Prisoner
3—The Teacher
4—The Courier
5—The Trickster
6—The Magpie
7—The Prize
8—The Key
She stared at the cards for a long time, mumbling the names of all eight.
“So, who are they?” I finally asked, my eyes drawn to the lovely Queen of Wine Vessels. Carlotta?
“I don’t know yet. We repeat the spread until a card shows itself twice; that is the sign that they have come to stay. Then they are placed in the first open position on the chart.” She gave me a moment to memorize the spread, then gathered all but the Under Knave of Books and began to shuffle. “Second pass. Pay attention.” She laid another set of eight cards.
I was watching intently for the Queen, but this was an altogether different crowd. “Where is my lady love?” I asked.
She slid the eight cards back into the deck and started the process once more. “If no one comes again this round, I use a chalk and slate to make note.” Mrs. Sparrow took a long time pressing the cards between her palms this time before she dealt. I watched very closely but detected nothing strange except that the room felt overly warm. “May I open the window a crack?” I whispered.
The Stockholm Octavo Page 2
