The Stockholm Octavo

by Karen Engelmann

  Johanna placed her palms flat on the chopping block and stared hard at Old Cook. “And keep yours out of mine,” she said.

  Old Cook was silenced for a moment but then began to hack, crossing her arms over her heaving chest. The Uzanne spoke quietly in Johanna’s ear. “Never mind Cook; she is an old dog and true to her mistress. Soon she will love you like one of her own.”

  Old Cook watched this tender exchange with some amusement; she had seen it before. Old Cook gave a nod, then she and the kitchen girl resumed their work and their chatter. The Uzanne took Johanna’s arm as they crossed to the stairs. “Please note that her hearing is excellent.” She lowered her voice to a genuine whisper. “Tomorrow you are to visit the Lion Apothecary on Cook’s Alley, near to Jakob’s Church. Gullenborg has an account there. Fetch the ingredients you need. And begin by quieting Cook’s cough, Miss Bloom. All the house will love you for that.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Johanna in the Lion’s Den

  Sources: J. Bloom, one anonymous employee of the Lion

  THE LION WAS MORE like a filthy pawnshop than any apothecary that Johanna had ever seen. Vials and boxes were stacked precariously, and the bitter smell of opium paste layered over lemon balm and myrtle permeated the air. Despite the clutter, the Lion inspired an unexpected pang of loss for Gefle and fear at the thought of compounding serious medicines without the advice and guidance of her father. She knew the ingredients were correct. She would have to test the amounts.

  The apothicaire’s greasy hair was sticking out from under his wig, and his nose was red and bloated. He studied the scrap of paper with her list, scratching his scalp with his free hand. “Slippery elm, marshmallow, licorice. Someone is coughing.” He looked up at Johanna. “Did you write this list yourself then?” he asked. Johanna nodded. The apothicaire went back to the list and continued. “Valerian root, hops, chamomile flowers, dried moss, Saint-John’s-wort, belladonna, henbane, soapstone powder, oil of jasmine. Who are you sending to their Maker, young miss, for these will make a devious concoction.”

  “No harm will come to anyone,” Johanna said. “I am compounding a sleep remedy for my mistress.”

  “A wise woman, eh? A dram of laudanum would be simpler.” He held up a cobalt vial with a cork stopper. “Just a drop, and she will have a long night of blissful slumber. A very long night, if you put enough drops in her cup.” He half laughed, half choked at his own humor.

  “Dry ingredients only. Powders if you have them, but I can do the grinding if need be.”

  “I don’t doubt it, miss, and I have something you might grind.” He paused for a moment and smiled at her. “Amanita pantherina.” He spoke each syllable in a loud and exaggerated way, as if Johanna were hard of hearing. “It is a rarity and not well known.”

  “The False Blusher mushroom,” Johanna said sharply.

  “Well, well, Miss Latin Scholar. The Indians call it Divine Soma: the narcotic of God. It is also called the Heir’s Assistant; if you wish to offer the everlasting sleep, you need only be generous with your portions.”

  “I am to heal, not harm,” she said. The apothicaire shrugged and gathered the ingredients into pouches and vials and placed them on the counter. Johanna put them into a market basket one by one and covered them with a cloth. “Where is the oil of jasmine?”

  “This is an apothecary, not a parfumerie. Over on Master Samuel’s Street you’ll find Cronstedt’s Parfum.” He gave what he thought to be a seductive smile. “You know that jasmine enhances dreams as well, dreams of a particular nature. Auntie von Platen uses only the finest jasmine oil from Cronstedt’s for her nymphs, but perhaps you knew that, too, Miss Trumpeter?”

  “No, I did not,” Johanna said, and handed him a note of credit.

  He looked down at the note then peered up at her. “Gullenborg, eh? Are you The Uzanne’s newest protégée then? She collects them like stray cats, you know, dresses them up and pets them a time, then out they go,” he said, the light from the magnifying lamp bouncing up into his leering face. “But you look pedigreed to me, one she’ll want to breed. What did you say your name was, my dear?”

  “I did not say.” Johanna, hands trembling, gathered herself and her purchases and turned to go. She paused in the doorway to glare at the man. “I will be sure to tell Madame you suggested the Heir’s Assistant,” she said.

  “She will be touched by your concern, but not surprised at my jests. The Lion has its reputation. Au revoir, mademoiselle.”

  Once outside, Johanna leaned against the facade, breathing deeply, relieved to escape the Lion. Straightening up, she grasped her market basket all the tighter and walked toward Garden Street and the waiting carriage, feeling more confident with every step, the hem of her forest wool skirt brushing the tops of her fine new shoes. She would be traveling in a handsome coach. She was a valued member of a fine household. She was a protegée.

  Her pace slowed when she passed a fan shop; surely The Uzanne knew it well, for it was as refined and beautiful as she. There were two fans on display in a window and an empty shelf where one had been. Johanna thought of Madame’s missing fan, Cassiopeia, and peered inside the shop. She saw a man, a dark-colored fan before him on a desk, a red cloak draped on the chair behind. It was the sekretaire from The Pig, the one with the lace and the coin, and she stopped to observe.

  Chapter Nineteen

  French Lesson

  Sources: Various, including E. L., M. Nordén, J. Bloom, Mrs. Plomgren, neighbors from Cook’s Alley, officers and clerks from the Office of Customs and Excise.

  I HEADED TO COOK’S ALLEY on Monday at eleven, wanting to be done with Sparrow’s errand and get to work promptly at noon; the Superior wanted a private conference and I had prepared a list of Masonic daughters. This neighborhood near the Opera House was a steaming soup of establishments, from an apothecary advertising arsenic whitening creams to a ribbon stall aflutter with color that attracted the ladies like bees. It was a street that promoted vanity, but I was not prepared for the full expression of this lovely vice at the shop of fan maker Nordén. The facade had an extravagant number of glass paned windows and was built from carved wood painted a light gray-green. The transom windows were framed in curving ribbons of wood and carved bouquets of flowers. It was not all feminine frippery, though, for the panels below the display windows were plain and sober, and the columns that flanked the customers’ entryway were classic Greek with Ionic capitals. There were undoubtedly many who came to gaze at the shop front in amazement and then left in a hurry, feeling unworthy to take the doorknob in hand. I have never been frightened by finery, knowing how finery is often gotten, but this exquisite place gave me pause.

  I crossed the street and stopped before the window display. The three shelves behind the glass were lined with charcoal velveteen, dotted with tiny snowflakes cut from paper. Of course, any lady would know that the change of season would require a change of dress, and these snowflakes were a reminder that her fan would need to follow. There was a single fan on each shelf, each lovelier than the next. The top two fans portrayed the imaginary countryside of some idyllic land, where trees were turning to their autumn hue and flecks of real gold made the painted sunlight all the warmer. They would give anyone who gazed on them a sense of fecund bounty: a perfect fan for the maiden seeking a harvest herself. The third fan, placed on the bottom shelf, was laid out flat instead of upright on a stand. It looked as though it had been put there in haste, broad edge toward the street. The blade was the indigo blue of night, scattered with sequins, and a shiver of recognition coursed down my back. I was still bent over, peering into the window to make sure that this was not a trick of light and shadow, when I noticed that someone inside the shop was watching me. I made my way to the entrance with seeming nonchalance and stepped inside.

  “Bonjour,” I said. “I am seeking Mr. Nordén.”

  “Bonjour to a gentleman of the red cloak. Allow me to welcome you, Sekretaire. I am Mrs. Margot Nordén. I apologize to you that
my husband is out, but I am delighted to be of service.” Margot offered her hand, and I could only think to kiss it. She was not a classic beauty but she had arresting features, the most remarkable of which was her rather sharp nose. She resembled a bird, albeit a pretty one, with her dark hair and china blue eyes. Her voice and bearing suggested courtly behavior, so I bowed before I spoke, and looked at the floor as I gave her my name, embarrassed by my poor command of French. She seemed delighted nonetheless and smiled all the more warmly.

  “Please,” she said, motioning to a chair set at a small, feminine desk, “sit down and I will bring refreshment. You are missing your dinner, perhaps, by coming at this hour. The errand must be of great urgency.”

  “I am due at Customs, but this is a task I am eager to complete,” I said. She gave a knowing smile and exited through a curtained doorway into the back of the shop. If one were obliged to miss their dinner, or be late to work as I was now sure to be, it could not be in more pleasant surroundings. The room was painted in broad horizontal stripes of cheery lemon and cream, and the white crown moldings were like sculpted meringue oozing against the ceiling. The ceiling itself was draped in a yellow-and-black-striped silk, pulled into the center and tied with the broad grosgrain ribbons that held a large crystal chandelier. The shop smelled of verbena, lemon oil, and beeswax. Bronze sconces with glass globes held thick yellow candles, illuminating the framed fashion plates of the latest Parisian styles. There was a tall locked cabinet against the back wall that was beautifully painted with pastoral scenes, a desk identical to the one at which I sat, and four additional chairs, all of them carved and gilded. The furniture was surely French, as delicate as Margot herself, and no doubt served to indicate the financial commitment required to possess such works of art.

  I removed my scarlet cloak and hung it over the back of my chair, then sat to watch passers-by on the street, placing my satchel on my lap. Soon Margot returned, a smile on her very pretty mouth, carrying a tray laden with a porcelain teapot and matching cup and saucer, a plate of crusty white rolls, a slice of pâté, and several triangles of aromatic cheese. There was a late plum, glistening like the rare gem it was. She lit the lamps and busied herself in the shop while I enjoyed the repast. It was not until she bit her lip as I savored the fruit that I understood I had probably just eaten her midday meal. Such are the impeccable manners of the French. I felt both charmed and indebted now, and was unsure of how to tell her that I had only come to deliver a letter to her husband. “Mrs. Nordén, you are a gracious lady indeed. I must tell you that I am here . . .”

  Margot had been waiting for her cue. “. . . to choose a fan for a special lady, of course. A fan is a gift fit for royalty, sir, a queen’s gift. Perhaps you have a lady you think of as your queen?” I allowed my thoughts to wander briefly to Carlotta—but perhaps someone even lovelier was waiting for me, and my Octavo would lead me to her. This brought a flush to my cheeks, and Margot laughed merrily. “What kind of a lady would she be, then? Flirtatious? Educated? Shy? I am sure she is as charming and good-looking as you are, no?”

  My cheeks were now red as a cockscomb, and I shook my head. She laughed again and took a key hung around her neck on a black cord. She unlocked the cabinet against the wall, all the while expounding on fashion, new colors and shapes as she ran her finger down the rows and stopped midway, opened the drawer, and pulled out half a dozen boxes, which she brought to the desk. “These are perfect for the new season: the three-quarter circle à l’espagnol. The length is shorter by several fingers, too, so it is easy to handle and your friend will find that the messages she wishes to convey to you will fly even faster.”

  One by one she opened the boxes and spread the contents before me. I was accustomed to fans from a distance, but up close such delicate beauty and handiwork made me almost afraid to touch them. And yet I had seen them thrown, snapped, tossed aside, and used to give an angry whack.

  “These are remarkable, and I can see that the Nordéns are accomplished artists indeed. But I was most taken by a fan that you have placed in your window—dark blue, with spangles.”

  She frowned for a fraction of a second, and then smoothed her expression into a smile. “You display your own discriminating taste, Sekretaire. What a pity, she is spoken for already. She probably should not be in the window at all, but I could not help myself. Such a fine fan deserves to be seen.”

  “What makes her so fine?” I asked.

  “She is French, and from the last century’s end. But she has been well taken care of; the skin is remarkably supple, the face is unlined, all the ivory sticks are whole, the crystals and sequins on the verso are set precisely as a map.”

  “Then why is she here?” I was very curious to see if Mrs. Sparrow had sold her, because if she did, I was owed a percentage. If she hadn’t, Master Fredrik meant to take Cassiopeia by devious means, and I would need to play the game if I was to get anything at all.

  “She was brought to us for a repair.” Margot leaned toward me and lowered her voice. “I will share this small secret with you: it was in fact an alteration. The client wished for the sequins to be rearranged. I have sewn them myself,” she said. “You cannot see it, but you can feel it.”

  “Like magic,” I said.

  “Like love,” Margot replied.

  “But why would anyone bother with such invisible work?” I asked, hoping to glean Mrs. Sparrow’s intentions.

  “It may be a jest of some sort, or a more subtle mystery at work.” She affected a stern and masculine voice. “You see, Sekretaire, minute details affect the geometry, and thus the personality and abilities of a fan. The slightest alteration can cause a shift in the innate power that she carries, and so the hand that holds her loses or gains power as well.” She shrugged and gave a guilty smile. “My husband is a passionate artist and studies sciences of every kind. He claims that a well-made fan can be much more than a pretty bagatelle—that the geometry can align with the hand to make . . . something perfect. Something of power.”

  No wonder Mrs. Sparrow thought so highly of Mr. Nordén: they were indeed kindred spirits. “So it is about magic. Do you believe this?”

  “Truthfully? I am not sure. What do you think? Have you not been enchanted by a fan in the hand of a lady?”

  “I would love to see it—see her,” I corrected myself. Margot unlocked the window case and brought the fan to me. My fingers felt like sausages as I lifted the delicate object for a closer look. The scene on her face suddenly seemed somber; a funereal coach and empty manor that were at odds with the pleasant atmosphere of the shop. I turned the fan to the spangled side. “I wonder at such a haphazard pattern, given the detail of the face,” I said.

  “Pardon me, sir. There is nothing haphazard in a truly fine fan. The artist leaves nothing to chance,” Margot said, a hint of pride in her voice. “This is a map of the sky, and the origin of her name. Our client’s focus was here.”

  I peered down at the fan, and indeed there was one sequin that was larger than the others, the Pole Star, several fingers down from the center top of the blade. Above and to the right of Polaris was the Little Dipper, Ursa Minor, and below and to the left was the seated queen. “Cassiopeia, the Celestial W. Although here she is the Celestial M.”

  Margot pursed her lips and paused. “Cassiopeia sits on her throne in the heavens for all time. But you see, now she hangs upside down on the fan that bears her name. It is a most undignified fate.”

  “To whom does she belong? Perhaps someone whose name begins with M who wished to see their initial writ in the heavens as a queen.”

  “That I cannot tell you. Mr. Nordén maintains strict confidentiality with his clientele. You can understand why, I am sure.” She watched my face for a display of understanding. “Jealous lovers, social rivals, gossiping matrons, cuckolded husbands . . .” It was the same at Mrs. Sparrow’s. Margot reached for the fan, but I was not ready to give her up just yet. I leaned in to look more closely at the stars and was rewarded with the sce
nt of flowers.

  “How can it be that I smell jasmine?” I asked.

  “All fans have at least one secret.”

  “And I am sure your husband would not want you to tell me this one either,” I said, handing her the fan. “It is remarkable work, Mrs. Nordén. There is not a single pinprick to be seen in that heaven.”

  Her face made it clear that she was pleased with my praise, and probably had little of it. Margot closed the fan with an expert snap and looked at me closely. “I see that you are drawn to this fan, and connection is important when considering a purchase. Let us return to you and your lady friend.” She took Cassiopeia and placed her inside the cabinet, then returned with an armload of fans in autumn hues of russet, umber, and ochre. She placed them on the desk and brought a chair to sit opposite me, opening the fans one by one. “Happiness is the meaning of our business here, sir, happiness, beauty, and romance. What else are fans good for, if they cannot give you that?”

  “I cannot think what,” I said and nodded for her to go on. I suspected that I was the first customer to converse with her in some time.

  “When we were in Paris, there was never any question of these motives until suddenly our work became a symbol of injustice.” Margot’s face flushed.

  “Dear lady, you fled the revolution?” I asked softly. She squeezed her eyes shut. “And were you in grave danger, or was there good time to prepare yourselves to come . . . so far?”

  “It seemed a hasty departure to me. But we were lucky that Mr. Nordén had a country to return to.” She looked at me and shrugged in that charming, pouting way of the French and sighed. “We will see if happiness follows.”

  She looked so lost that it was all I could do to stop myself from reaching for her hands in support. “Please, Madame, if there is any way that I might help you, I hope that you will call upon me. And your husband, of course,” I added quickly.