The Stockholm Octavo

by Karen Engelmann

  Cassiopeia Returns

  Sources: Louisa G., J. Bloom

  JOHANNA HEARD THE DISTANT tap of heels heading in her direction. It was clear from the gait, almost a gavotte, that The Uzanne knew of her success. Johanna took several deeps breaths, and looked at her shoes, still damp from the snow, until she heard the voice.

  “You are dressed to fit your former name. Do you mean to take it again?” The Uzanne laughed at Johanna’s stricken face.

  “I hope not, Madame,” she answered, smiling with what she hoped was a mischievous gleam. “I meant to disappear.”

  “You are meant to bloom,” The Uzanne said and turned, indicating Johanna was to follow. “Louisa, bring something to eat. Something delicious,” she called to the housemaid as they passed. The Uzanne stopped before a paneled door and took a key that hung on her bracelet, and the lock clicked open. It was Johanna’s first entrée to the heart of the collection, and her heart began to race as she stepped into the airless room. It resembled a dragon’s hoard more than an archive for hundreds of delicate fans—a hodgepodge of bureaus, wooden boxes, and cabinets, maps and letters and bills of sale stacked on every surface. The lower half of three walls was lined with narrow drawers, and above each set of drawers there was a recessed alcove, shaped as a half circle, where a single fan was pinned behind a locked glass door. The center display stood empty, and it was beside this gap that The Uzanne stopped. Her empty hands clasped and unclasped with nervous anticipation. “You have her?”

  Johanna curtsied and handed her the box, tied inside her shawl. “I confess that I am happy to hand her over to you. The fortune-teller told Mr. Larsson the fan was an object of magical power.”

  The Uzanne set the bundle down atop her writing desk and picked at the knot like an eager lover at stubborn ribbon lacings. She brought the ivory guard to her lips, then looked up at Johanna, eyes glistening. “Do you believe in magic, Miss Bloom?”

  Johanna hesitated, wondering if this were yet another test. “What sort?”

  “Any sort—a fan, for example.”

  “There are certainly things that cannot be explained by science. Or the church,” Johanna said.

  “Precisely,” The Uzanne said, releasing the fan, folding and unfolding her over and over. “I would not have admitted it a year ago, but look how Cassiopeia found her way back to me just when I needed her most. She is eager for the task she was created to perform. Just as we are.” Louisa knocked and entered with a tray laden with almond cakes and candied orange slices, setting it down and then hovering just inside near the door to listen.

  “Was it difficult to take her, Johanna?” The Uzanne asked.

  “Not difficult at all, but more time-consuming than I would have wished. He was touched by your charity and talked far too much. He too seemed enchanted by the fan.”

  “And the medicines?”

  “Mr. Larsson took a knife to the blue bottle at once but did not drink in my presence. He felt it would be rude,” Johanna said.

  “He had manners, Mr. Larsson, and pleasant looks. Pity, really. He might have proven useful, and I briefly considered him a match.”

  Johanna was grateful for the windburn on her cheeks that masked the rising color. “For whom, Madame? None of your students would settle for a sekretaire.”

  “No? I thought Miss Plomgren would prefer a mercenary to a fop. And the young Nordén is salivating but has no idea how tart the plum is. Or how old.” Johanna’s eyes widened in surprise, and The Uzanne laughed. She walked to the window to examine her treasure in the flat Northern light from the clerestory windows. She touched both sides of Cassiopeia’s leaf now, running her forefinger along each stick, like a mother feeling for injuries done to a child who had gone missing.

  “I trust that your fan is in perfect condition, Madame?” Johanna asked, a bead of sweat tickling at her hairline.

  The Uzanne turned the verso toward her and the constellations sparkled faintly, the upside-down queen barely visible in the dim light. “Oh, the fan is unchanged. The difference is in my understanding of how powerful she really is, and my willingness to match that power with my resolve. That is where magic lies.” She placed Cassiopeia in the waiting alcove face out, shut the casement door, and locked it. The maid, who had pressed against the wall to listen, failed to suppress a cough, and The Uzanne turned and stared. “Louisa. Have you swallowed Cook’s nonsense and come to spy? Go upstairs and begin the packing.” The Uzanne waited until the maid scurried out and closed the study doors behind her. “And you must head down to your makeshift officin, Johanna. I require an even stronger sleeping powder than I thought: one that will ensure a full day and night of deep repose for a traveler heading overseas. Do you have supplies for such a task?”

  “I . . . I am not sure. It is a very long time to sleep and would require testing.”

  “True. Mr. Nordén’s nap at our lesson was far shorter than you expected.”

  “It would help me to know the traveler’s size,” she said.

  The Uzanne grimaced. “He is very like Duke Karl, but older and gone to fat.”

  Johanna hesitated. “Madame you may tell me. Surely you mean General Pechlin. You have long complained of his interference in your liaisons with the duke.”

  “Oh no. This man is much more dangerous than Pechlin.” The Uzanne turned back to her desk and toyed with her gray and silver fan. “His head has grown too thick for his crown. He must be held accountable, Johanna. He is to be sent away.”

  She clasped her hands tight to stop them from trembling. “Madame?”

  “Young Per is not the perfect subject, but he seems fond of you. Offer him a generous dose as a reward for his diligent studies. I want the powder tested before we depart.”

  “Where are we going?” Johanna asked.

  The Uzanne closed the fan and placed her hand on Johanna’s cheek. “You will be coming with me to Gefle. It will be a debut for you alone, almost as if you were . . . my daughter. We leave day after tomorrow at first light. And be sure to pack your prettiest things,” The Uzanne said, as though this grueling journey to engage in high treason was a picnic on the green. “One more thing, Johanna: Cook has stirred up a large batch of slander, and you are the main ingredient. The rest of the household staff is not to be trusted.”

  “I CAN’T DO ANOTHER letter today, Miss Bloom,” Young Per said. He was hunched over the table in the dark cellar kitchen, eating a bowl of yellow pea soup.

  “You’ve worked very hard, Young Per, and it is nearly ten o’clock. You deserve a nice, long rest.” The voice was soft and lovely.

  “Madame!” Johanna said, turning quickly to the stairs. Young Per jumped up from his seat and stood stiffly at attention.

  “Miss Bloom.” The Uzanne looked around and saw they were alone. “I hoped to see you at work with your student, but it seems I have come too late.” Young Per scrambled to find his slate but The Uzanne shook her head. “It’s time for sleep, and Miss Bloom has a new powder she would like to try.”

  Young Per smiled and nodded. “All right.”

  Johanna put her book down on the table. “I . . . I am not quite ready. The proportions are—”

  “Cook told me where the canister is kept, Miss Bloom. Bring it here to me.”

  Johanna took the hearth stool and went into the larder. Reaching up to the highest shelf, she stretched her arm back toward the damp stone wall and felt the smooth side of the jar. She waited for a moment, then gave a loud cry and threw it to the floor. She emerged pale and shaking. “I am sorry, Madame. I am sorry.”

  The boy jumped to life. “Now, now, I will help you, Miss Bloom. Here is a clean bowl and a knife to scoop up your powder. I will do it.”

  “Thank you, Young Per,” The Uzanne said. The two women stood in the doorway and watched as Per cleaned up the mess, picking the shards from the powder, sifting the gray white dust into a clean new crock.

  “Done,” he said, holding the jar out to The Uzanne.

  “Take a generous
portion for yourself first. You will sleep well tonight and are excused from duties in the morning.” The boy bowed and poured a white mound of powder into his hand.

  “Madame, I . . . ,” Johanna said. “It is not fully tested.”

  “That is the point, is it not?”

  He brought his hand to his nose, breathing deep. “It smells very pretty,” he said. “Like you, Miss Bloom.”

  “Not so much, Per, please,” Johanna pleaded.

  The Uzanne put her hand on Johanna’s arm with a firm grip. “Let him have as much as he likes.”

  Within a quarter hour, he was dead asleep on the floor. As The Uzanne and Johanna climbed into the coach for Gefle nearly two days later, Young Per was carried past to the stable, unconscious but alive, his features swollen beyond recognition. The doctor was uncertain what his waking state would be, if he did in fact wake up. The Uzanne settled back into the coach and pulled up the fur throw. “Well done, Johanna. Nearly thirty-six hours! He might be halfway to St. Petersburg by now.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  To Love Your Work

  Sources: M. Nordén, L. Nordén

  “CHRISTIAN, LET YOUR FANS speak for the Nordéns, not The Uzanne,” Margot pleaded.

  Christian did not look at her. He pinched a cut crystal in a tweezers and held it up to a magnifier attached to the lamp. “It’s flawed,” he said.

  “Christian, we must have nothing to do with her plans. We must have nothing to do with her.” Margot stood and watched him ponder a replacement for the deficient stone, then slammed the door as she left the room.

  “It is too late for that, my love.” Christian looked up. “And look at the work that’s come in as a result.”

  “Too much work?! Is that what’s vexing her?” Anna Maria asked as she opened the door and stepped into the workroom, Lars trailing after. She stopped at the row of gray silk fans, lined up on a bed of white linen, tight behind their ebony guards. “Copies! At last!” she said happily to Lars.

  “All the young ladies from your Domination class demanded the same fan, my plum.”

  “Copies? No, Miss Plomgren, we do not make copies,” Christian said. “These are not exactly the same.”

  “With three dozen more and an advertisement in What News? the day after the debut we could charge three times what they cost to make,” Anna Maria said, taking hold of Lars by the shoulders.

  Christian looked up from his work, the scowl meant for the uncooperative stud in the guard of the fan. “Three dozen more! I am nearly ruined by these already. Master Fredrik has grown rich on the goose quills alone.”

  “We eliminate finesse!” she said. “Plain but plentiful copies will cause a stampede.”

  “A stampede is not the goal of the Nordén Atelier, Miss Plomgren,” Christian said, concentrating on fitting a tiny, jeweled rivet. “Art is the goal.”

  Anna Maria began to flick open the silk fans one by one. “Few deserve your artistry, and many will pay for less. That is the art of making money.”

  Christian set the final fan upon the linen with the others, straightening until it was exactly parallel and his hands had ceased to tremble. “And what of the soul that goes into the work?”

  Anna Maria opened the fan that Christian had just finished, holding it perpendicular to her face, sighting down the sticks. “The left guard has a tiny medallion inset. That hardly qualifies as soul, and not one of those cows has soul enough to notice.”

  Christian arranged his tools in a neat array on the table, taking extra care with a sharp awl. “Miss Plomgren, you work at the Opera. Have you been to a performance?”

  “I sat the other week in Box three,” she said, tilting her head, as if to receive the footlight’s glow. “Orfeo. With Madame Uzanne.”

  “And did you observe that all the members of the audience captured the nuances in the music? Followed the score? Felt the passion of Orpheus for his Eurydice?”

  “I didn’t.” She shrugged and laughed. “Two or three did, perhaps. Much of the audience was sleeping. Checking pocket watches. Reading the program. Eating candies. Talking. The rest were looking at one another. Looking at me!”

  “And because of that, should the singers ignore the intention of the composer, the poetry of the libretto? Let the high notes pass? Open their mouths and bray like donkeys?”

  Anna Maria turned to Lars. “What in fiery hell do donkeys have to do with fans?”

  Lars caught sight of a blade that Christian was painting for Mrs. von Hälsen. “Is this chicken skin? Christian, are you mad? We’ll be ruined!”

  Anna Maria pounded her fist on the workbench. “What in the name of the boil-covered ass of the devil does this have to do with chickens?”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The Last Parliament

  Sources: Gullenborg footman, J. Bloom, Mrs. S., Captain J*** of the North Town Gate

  A BLACK TRAVELING COACH fitted with runners stood at the north gate of the Town, the horses steaming under woolen blankets. A fat coachman wrapped in a thick winter coat tapped at the window, the outside feathered with frost and fogged from the breath of the passengers inside. The door opened a crack, and he wrapped a hand around the opening to catch some of the warmer air. “Madame Uzanne, they say it may be hours before there is an official reply. Best we go back to the Town and wait for travel papers there.” The door slammed shut and only the fur-lined glove kept the coachman’s fingers from breaking. He howled a string of curses then caught a glimpse of a pale face at the coach window, listening. “The cunt can freeze to death and thaw in hell,” the coachman muttered, tromping back to the soldiers’ hut, “and her bitch with her.” There was a good track cut through the snow already, for the sleds had been hauling men and finery north since the Parliament had been called. The coachman kicked the snow off his boots and went inside, the hut stinking of damp wool and unwashed soldiers, cooked cabbage and caraway seeds. “She claims Duke Karl has authorized her presence in Gefle and the papers should be here.”

  “The duke passed by two days ago and the Little Duchess with him.” The captain spat in the fire, creating a hiss in the coals. “There’ll be no Satan’s papers. The Little Duchess tolerates the ballet girls, but not a baroness.”

  “You go and tell her, my friend. I want to keep my head and go home,” the coachman said, warming himself at the stove. “She is made of ice and will linger without a hot stern hand to turn her away.”

  There was arguing then about who would deliver the message. Straws were gathered and about to be drawn when the bells of another sleigh signaled more travelers that needed to pass. “God’s wounds, who is it now?” the captain grumbled. He took on his gloves and hat and made his way to a small sled, more useful for short trips in the Town than a twenty-hour trek. A pale, slender hand reached out through the gap in the barely opened door and handed the captain a letter, sealed with red wax. He stared at it for a moment, then cracked it open, his posture improving as he read. When finished, he looked up and handed the letter back with a bow. “You are free to go, Mrs. Sofia Sparrow. Godspeed.”

  The driver of Mrs. Sparrow’s coach shook the reins, and the mismatched horses, one black and one brown, set off toward Uppsala and then on to Gefle. The jingle of the harness bells made a merry echo in the cold air, but the cry that came from the open door of The Uzanne’s black traveling coach was enough to make even the captain and his men turn with a start. The Uzanne stood on the lower step of the coach.

  “Why is that commoner’s coach allowed to pass and not mine?”

  “The traveler had a letter, stamped and sealed by King Gustav himself,” the captain called, not coming any closer.

  “And what was the traveler’s name?”

  “That is the king’s business and not yours,” he said. The Uzanne stared at him as if she did not understand the language. “Best you return to your fine house and your fans, Madame Uzanne. Parliament is no place for a lady.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Masks and Gowns

/>   Sources: L. Nordén, M. F. L., Louisa G.

  LARS HURRIED TO THE UZANNE and kissed her hand with the manners of a courtier, overjoyed to attend this intimate gathering in her boudoir. It was a sure sign of his ascendance over Christian. He was pleased he had worn his new brocade jacket and polished his boots to a gleam. “Madame, I am your devoted . . .”

  “Devoted,” Anna Maria echoed from her place on the settee.

  “. . . servant. Your journey, Madame? I trust it was rewarding?” Lars said.

  “Rewarding? No, Mr. Nordén, it was far from rewarding,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “Duke Karl and I had a courageous and merciful plan to bring the nation back to its senses. But I was denied my right to travel.” She paced from her dressing table to the window and stopped to observe Young Per, hobbling across the pink gravel, dragging one leg behind him. “I have heard many reports from Gefle. Spineless nobles. Unholy clerics. Infantile burghers. Drunken peasants, vomiting their bribes up on every corner. Gustav has returned to the Town triumphant again and plans even more radical so-called reforms, a complete evisceration of the First Estate. It will be the end of Sweden.” She walked slowly to her dressing table and picked up a white sequined mask. “And so my journey was ultimately . . . inspiring. I am ready to act decisively where four hundred Patriots and Duke Karl could not.”

  Master Fredrik stopped fiddling with the pale green fringe of the curtain tassel and bowed. “Madame, I wonder if you would tell us—”

  “Remain silent, Mister Lind. You are here on probation,” The Uzanne said, sitting at her dressing table. “Your offer to make retribution in the form of the debut invitations does not ensure your continued presence here.” The three visitors watched silently as The Uzanne placed the mask on her face and inspected herself in the mirror. “The young ladies debut at the masked ball would have become a celebration of historic events in Gelfe, but the debut will be the historic event instead, as I first intended. And a more dramatic one than originally planned.”