There is no other history of that particular day.
Chapter Seventy-One
A Moment’s Rest
Sources: E. L., guards and palace staff
THE WATCH OUTSIDE Gustav’s palace continued another eight days, but I did not see The Uzanne again; perhaps she was allowed to use a private entrance, for witnesses claimed that she was there every morning, requested to attend His Majesty by Duke Karl himself. I harassed the guards constantly, begging to speak to Gustaf Armfeldt, or Elis Schroderheim, or some other loyal friend to His Majesty, to tell them what I knew: that The Uzanne meant deadly harm. But I was rebuffed and accused of lunacy by everyone: Gustav was moved to tears of joy at her return to his side. She always brought some rare gift; a pineapple caused a near riot in the sickroom. And she always held the same gray and silver fan clenched tightly in her exquisitely gloved hand. “Besides, Sekretaire,” a guard said to me, “the murderer has already been caught—a former page to His Majesty, Captain Jacob Johan Anckarström.”
“How can Anckarström be the murderer if His Majesty is not dead?” I asked.
The guard looked me in the eye. “I have been in the room. It will not be long.” He said there were many who never left; they slept on mattresses spread over the floor, did not eat, wept quietly, whispered. A screen was placed around the king’s bed. On a small table in front of the screen was an oil lamp with a paper shade, the only light allowed in the room at night, casting strange shadows and illuminating in a ghostly light the painted figures watching from the ceiling. A night clock hung from a column. The king asked over and over again what time it was. He coughed incessantly. His wound began to putrefy, and the stench pervaded the air.
On March the twenty-ninth of 1792, His Majesty King Gustav III of Sweden died. His last words were these: “I feel sleepy, and a moment’s rest would do me some good.”
Chapter Seventy-Two
The King’s Mercy
Sources: E. L., Mrs. S., Stockholm Post, execution witnesses, police spy, Pastor Roos, L. Gjörwell
EVERYTHING ABOUT THE TOWN withered as the trees leafed out, and I walked through early spring an invalid, as did many others whose world was slowly ending before their eyes. It was possible now to study the calamity rather than just endure it, and as the details emerged, the darkness triumphed. Just one day after King Gustav’s death, the investigation into the assassination was closed, by order of Duke Karl. Of the two hundred names that Chief Inspector Liljensparre connected with the assassination, only forty were held for questioning. Of the forty, only fourteen were arrested and held. Those who were jailed saw their prison sentence become more like a visit to a country house, with parties and dinners held for family and friends. These fourteen accused conspirators were to stand trial and face the gallows after the man who fired the shot was publicly beheaded and disemboweled.
But King Gustav extended his legendary clemency even from the grave. Duke Karl claimed he had taken a sacred oath at the insistence of his dying brother Gustav: no one but Johan Jakob Anckarström was to be executed for the crime. Amazingly, no one in the crowded bedchamber of the dying king had heard this merciful decree except Duke Karl. Thirteen of the accused conspirators were sent into exile; the fourteenth, General Pechlin, was sentenced to life in Varberg Prison, where Duke Karl could keep him safe.
The gory public spectacle of Johan Jakob Anckarström’s death took place at Skanstull on a beautiful spring day in late April—the twenty-seventh to be exact. I did not attend but heard the details at Mrs. Sparrow’s, where I spent that day and most of the night. The assassin was beheaded and his right hand severed, then the body left to lie until the blood ran out. His head and hand were nailed to the top of a tall pole near the gallows. His body was disemboweled and quartered, lashed to a wheel, and his remains left to rot.
Within a month, the bones were picked clean. Gustav’s son, thirteen years old, was placed on the throne and Duke Karl declared regent. The Royalists were systematically exiled or disgraced. The Patriots and aristocracy returned to power, and The Uzanne prepared to become First Mistress at last.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Powder and Corruption
Sources: Louisa G., New Cook
THE UZANNE “RETIRED” to Gullenborg during the trial and execution of Anckarström, despite an urge to be present on the viewing stand behind Duke Karl. She planned to keep her distance and wait for the political dance, always rough and clumsy after such an event, to settle into a rhythm she knew. The Uzanne waited for word to come to the palace, but Duke Karl never called for her. No one called. One rainy May night, just before Ascension Thursday, The Uzanne sat in her silent study at Gullenborg and stared at the one glass case that would always remain empty. Looking at the blank spot still filled her with anger; it was the only thing she felt now beyond the occasional need to eat and sleep. The mantel clock tolled seven over a faint tapping at the door. “What?” she asked, her voice shrill and high.
New Cook bit her lip, still unsure of her place at Gullenborg. “A warm supper would be a comfort, Madame, and the young stable boy brought me two fat rabbits some days ago. They are well hung now and will make a savory ragout.” New Cook took a deep breath and continued. “If I may say, Madame, you have become too thin.”
“You are right, Cook,” The Uzanne said, catching sight of her reflection in the dark window glass. “And how did you know that I am fond of rabbit?”
“It’s my job to know, Madame.” New Cook curtsied, thrilled with this exchange, and hurried back down the kitchen stairs. “This is the night we will finally bury Old Cook,” she said to the skinned rabbits, hanging from hooks in the larder. “What was it the gentleman said she liked best, boys? Strips of carrots thin as matchsticks. Pearl onions, but not so many as to be cheap. A thick sauce with rosemary and a splash of Burgundy wine. And where are they now?” she muttered, looking through the bins and jars. New Cook took the hearth stool and clambered up, reaching to the back of the uppermost shelf until her hand felt the smooth cool curve of a canister pressed against the wall. She screwed off the lid and dipped in a finger and brought it to the tip of her pink tongue but did not taste. “Here they are! Just as the sekretaire said: the Madame is extra fond of a certain dried mushroom. Morels ground into a fine powder. Fit for a king, he said.”
The two rabbits were transformed into the most succulent of dishes, tender morsels bathed in a rich, dark sauce. The Uzanne requested a second portion, an almost unheard of compliment. “It was exactly what I was wanting,” The Uzanne said, putting down her knife.
“I am learning Old Cook’s secrets, Madame.” New Cook blushed with pleasure. “I found the dried mushroom powder on a high shelf, just as I was told.”
The Uzanne’s eyes were closed and her face still, but she gripped the edge of her desk as if she were falling off a cliff. “Told by who?”
“A sekretaire. He said you told him you were missing something and wanted his help in finding it.” New Cook trembled with excitement at her success. “Would Madame want something sweet now?”
“No, Cook,” The Uzanne said, turning to the empty case on the wall. “I feel a little sleepy, and a moment’s rest would do me some good.”
Chapter Seventy-Four
Stockholm, After
Sources: E. L., various
SO ENDED THE GUSTAVIAN AGE, and another age—my age—began. I spent much time the year following the assassination looking into the histories of my eight. Trawling for information in gaming rooms, kitchens, shops, taverns, manors, archives, churches, and government offices, I gathered, mended, and embroidered their lives into a garment that I wore when I felt my life was of no consequence—which it would have been, without the structure of the others.
Besides the inspired visionary and occasional sharper Mrs. Sparrow, my Octavo consisted of an aristocratic lady, a country girl who wore only gray clothes, a calligrapher, a smuggler, a fop, a shrew, and a fan maker with a French wife. Some of this number had ties of commerce, s
ome had the most intimate of contact, for others the connection was of the most superficial sort—a name they had heard, a face in a crowd. Yet all of them ultimately were connected through me and to me, and brought about my rebirth.
THE COMPANION
Kristina Elizabet Louisa Uzanne
“Jakob’s Church,” Louisa said, taking another petit fours from the tray, “and she is lucky to get a plot, popular as it is.” She popped the lilac and white pastry into her mouth, continuing to talk. “It’s a very good graveyard; the soil mulches quick and her bones will rest next to the best of them. Several bishops await the resurrection there.” Louisa cleared her throat and took a noisy sip of her tea. “Duke Karl sent a very nice wreath; not grand but adequate. Unable to attend, he said. Court neither. Her sister came, though—all the way from Pomerania. And a cousin from Finland. They couldn’t have looked happier.”
We sat in a small front parlor at Gullenborg, the only downstairs room not under renovation. The new owners of the house were absent, and Louisa took full advantage, having New Cook send up a lavish tea when I came to call. “And where will you be going now?” I asked brushing at the crumbs she had blown my way.
“Going?” She wiped her mouth daintily on a starched linen napkin. “Nowheres, Sekretaire. The sister sold the place, contents and all; I am hired by the new mistress. She is just married, and sweet and plump as a honey cake. As common, too. Her father is a wine merchant, but she snagged a Finnish lord in Åbo and very much wanted Gullenborg for herself. Apparently she spent time here, training under Madame.” Louisa sighed and bit her lip. “I pretended to remember her, but there were lots of girls passing through. What’s strange is that Lady Carlotta tore out the study and sold the fans to a man from St. Petersburg.” She winked at me in the most lurid fashion. “They say for Empress Catherine the Great.”
THE PRISONER
Johanna Bloom
The letter lay before me on the pine table at The Pig, folded up with a white face and sealed with indigo wax that had no mark. Hinken turned away, as if respecting the privacy of a physical reunion. I forced myself to move slowly, fingering the paper and lifting it to my face, smelling the burnt sealing wax and feeling the deckled edge tickle my upper lip. I kissed the front of the letter that bore my name in her script and slipped my index finger under the flap to break the seal. The soft paper yielded up its creases and opened to show the round, clear writing inside.
Johanna claimed to be well and described Charleston as beautiful beyond telling, the citizens warm and charming. But the letter was like the face of a fan hiding the human face behind. This face I could read. “She is unhappy,” I said, looking up at Hinken. “She says she cannot tolerate the trade.”
He noted my quizzical look. “The slave trade, Sekretaire. She talked of going north.”
There was, in the pit of my stomach, a chrysalis that gave a slight tap against the wall of its cocoon. I refolded the letter and put it in my breast pocket. “The Town is north,” I said.
THE TEACHER
Master Fredrik Lind
“The Lind House on Merchant’s Square seems unchanged by the event,” I said to Master Fredrik.
He looked up from his desk, pen poised in midair. “Would you mind not speaking to me until I finish this line?” He was dressed as a military officer today and had maintained his place as preeminent calligrapher in the Town, serving as the hand of every person of note save those in the inner circle of Duke Karl. When he was finished, Master Fredrik cleaned the nib and climbed off his stool.
“Everything has changed,” he said simply. This included his exaggerated vocabulary and the constant use of gloves, both of which disappeared the day after the assassination; he proclaimed his own skin good enough and in need of airing after so many years under wraps. “But now, I have a surprise for you!” he exclaimed. “I have been studying the Octavo. It adds up to more than eight.” Fredrik took several rolls of paper from a cubbyhole on his desk and brought it to a table near the window where the flat northern light was best. “The work of Nordén and Sparrow has opened a new world to me; ink on paper is how I map it.” He unrolled one of the papers and pressed it flat with his hands.
“If we choose to look at patterns, then the eight can be considered an interlocking mechanism, like so. And we can expand it, as Mrs. Sparrow did.”
“This pattern of the Octavo expands infinitely outward, like a tile floor in a boundless room. I have begun to make such a chart, Emil, beginning with your Stockholm Octavo. And since the event at the center has already occurred and rippled out from there, I have taken the liberty of adding names. You might help me to fill it in further.”
“Mrs. Sparrow should participate in this, Master Fredrik,” I said. “It is really her invention.”
So we took the chart to Gray Friars Alley and asked to see her in the upper room.
“Mrs. Sparrow,” Master Fredrik said, unrolling the paper with an extravagant flourish, “you have revealed a key of the Master Builder. Had you been born a man, you would be named Grand Master of the Freemasons Lodge.”
Mrs. Sparrow wept when she saw it, and said that the Eternal Cipher was more real to her than ever; at last the reach of the Octavo had been mapped on paper for anyone to see and understand.
THE COURIER
Captain Hinken
“America is a dark continent, Sekretaire,” Hinken said, waving for the serving girl. “Quite interesting to visit, though. And profitable!” He whistled, long and low. “There is excellent money to be made. Excellent money. I hauled a shipment of Virginia tobacco to Denmark and made as much in three months as I did in nine plying the Baltic. I sail again this coming spring. There is a berth.”
I toyed with a plate of brown beans and he waited for me to jump aboard, but the autumn storm cried through the cracks in the window frames, and I could not imagine an ocean voyage so arduous and with such an uncertain port.
THE MAGPIE AND THE TRICKSTER
Lars Nordén and Anna Maria Plomgren Nordén
“I liked her very very very very much,” Lars confessed to me one drunken night in the Peacock. He was not ready to go home, even though last call had been made and he would be in the rainy street on his backside before long. “Miss Blooooooom.” He was near to falling off his chair by now. “A plain flower but a flower still, what? She had her flower still, it seems.”
If he had not been so pathetic I might have done more than pull him upright with undue force. “But you have won the hand of the lovely plum,” I said. “Half the men in the Town would follow her to Kiruna and back for a glance.”
He scowled and pawed at the smoky air with one hand. “I have a whole tree of rotten plums. Her mother and father moved in and work in the shop, now the Opera is dark half the time.”
“Are you still making fans?”
“No, no. Well, not Fans with a capital fancy fucking F. We sell scores of cheap printed ones from England that we tart up with lace and feathers. And we do a good trade in knickknacks, shawls, ribbons, and trinkets. The plums don’t want the shop to be so French.” He leaned over to me. “Do you know someone who would buy the facade? We are tearing it off next week.”
The sorrow I felt at this finale was too much, and I stood to leave. “Lars,” I said pulling on my coat, “does Anna Maria still own the gray and silver fan? The one she carried to the masked ball.”
“Noooooo, she sold it and all the others she could get her hands on. For a fortune, Mr. Larsson. Assassination souvenirs,” he said proudly, then tried to focus more clearly on my face. “Were you there? I didn’t see you.”
THE PRIZE
Christian Nordén / Margot Nordén
Margot and her newborn son moved into a set of rooms on the top floor of 35 Gray Friars Alley, with Mrs. Sparrow’s trunk full of money in tow. Mrs. Sparrow made a splendid auntie and spoiled them like they were kin. “The upper room is alive with the perfect sort of spirit at last,” Mrs. Sparrow said, although she knocked on the ceiling with a
broom when the noise of the baby’s crying grew too loud for her seekers. I visited the Nordéns often and tried to be what I had never been in my life before the Octavo: a consistent and thoughtful friend.
On All Saints’ Eve of 1792, I came for a dinner of roast duck with prunes and crackling potatoes. We drank the better part of a bottle of Sancerre and talked of the news from France. It was as if the shock waves from Gustav’s assassination had pushed south to France with such force that civilization was toppled there, while Sweden remained calm. There were bizarre and blood-soaked stories of theater patrons tripping home over body parts in the street, the September Massacre, the king and queen humiliated in the Temple tower—their young son taught to revile his parents and call his mother a whore, the lunatic dance of “La Carmagnole,” the severed heads paraded through the streets on wooden poles, the new instrument for efficient execution—La Guillotine. King Louis XVI would stand trial.
“I am so happy you are here instead,” I said.
“Thank you, Emil. I am happy to be here as well,” Margot said. “I screamed and cried against coming to the Town. I did not wish to be saved if I could not live in Paris. But what did I know then of love?”
The Stockholm Octavo Page 37
