The Stockholm Octavo (29 page)

Chapter Forty
Hope

Sources: M. F. L., Louisa G., kitchen girl

“AND YOUR BROTHER LARSSON?”
The Uzanne sat at the opposite end of the room, fiddling with the gray fan that lay open on her desk. Her back was turned and a handkerchief pressed over her nose and mouth.

“He promises to attend on you as soon as the pustules on his face and neck have healed, as they are likely to burst at any moment and spread the illness,” Master Fredrik said gravely from under a large fur hat, the lower half of his face wrapped in dark silk.

“He has procured my Cassiopeia?” She twisted her head around to look at him.

Master Fredrik closed his eyes, as if she were a Gorgon. “Yes, we would hope.”

“Hope is for the weak, Mr. Lind.” The Uzanne turned back to her desk. “I suspected you would succumb and have already decided to employ something stronger. You are no longer quarantined, so go be useful.”

“How might I be of service . . . precisely?” Master Fredrik asked.

“I want three sample invitations for the debut sent to me by the morning post,” she said. Master Fredrik exhaled audibly; paper and ink were harmless enough. “I must choose at once as I will be traveling in a few days time and they are to be ready upon my return.”

“Where are you venturing in this desolate month, Madame?”

“I have business at the Parliament in Gefle.” she said. Master Fredrik tilted his head, as if he had not heard correctly. “Now go, Mr. Lind. You needn't come to Gullenborg again . . . until I need you.”

“I wish you a safe and successful journey, Madame.” He bowed again and exited the room, his stomach grumbling with nerves.

A maid rolled past with a tea tray, trailing the scent of warm rice pudding. “Best head to the kitchen to quiet your belly, Master Fredrik. Cook won't have anyone go hungry in this house,” she said as she disappeared into the study.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “Cook!”

The kitchen smelled of vanilla and milk mixed with the pungent scent of a well-hung rabbit splayed on a large maple block. At Old Cook's elbow was a glass with a finger of clear crimson liquid, a single white blossom drowned and floating toward the top.

“I have been ensorcelled by your culinary skills again, enveloped by the perfume of your pudding as it passed me in the hall. Would you grant me a traveler's portion to sustain me on my journey?”

Old Cook snorted out a laugh. “Have you seams enough to let out?” She wiped her hands on her apron then dished up a large bowl of pudding and house gossip in exchange for the coins that Master Fredrik always gave her. “Madame is in a troll's rage since she heard about the Parliament and quit her vittles, so you may have seconds if you like. She is worked into a frenzy, rushing off to see the duke then storming home at all hours. She has her Bloom concocting all manner of enchantments.” Old Cook was overcome by a thick, hacking cough, and Master Fredrik pushed aside his pudding, his appetite suddenly gone. She drained her glass and then gave a sigh of relief. “I am still wary of the Bloom girl's medicines, mind you, after what happened to Sylten, but Madame will have no slander and made the girl drink this first to show there was no harm in it. The rest of the house will take anything she will give them. I think she gave Young Per a love potion; he would eat horseshit and sawdust if she asked.” Old Cook pulled a clear bottle of red tonic from behind the water barrel, filled her glass, and took another mouthful. “And the whole house begs for her night powders.” Old Cook glanced around again and whispered, “I knows where one or two of her canisters is hidden.” She winked at Master Fredrik. “If you need help in bed, I can be persuaded.”

“No no, I seldom take elixirs, and never inhalants, not even snuff any longer,” Master Fredrik said, standing and backing away. “But I am happy to hear that you will remain in good health, Cook. I am devoted to your cuisine.” He cleared his pudding into the slop bucket while she turned to look for a pan. “Where is our little
apothicaire
now? Mrs. Lind has a case of the gripes, and I hoped she might compound a tincture for me.”

“Oh, the Bloom girl left an hour past with a basket. Meant for a Mr. Larsson on Tailor's Alley.”

“I believe he is a brother from my lodge,” Master Fredrik said, his voice a pitch higher.

Old Cook came over, cleaver in hand, and leaned close to Master Fredrik, her hot breath smelling of elderberry schnapps. “I confess the girl has healing skills if she pleases, but best you watch out for your brother. I have never seen such charity for the sick: crumb cakes, fine pâté, a fat sausage, soft white rolls with a butter crust . . .” She licked her lips and chopped the rabbit with expert strokes. “But then there were the medicines. Miss Bloom took two bottles; Madame oversaw the first, a fine, golden syrup in a blue glass bottle. The second one Miss Bloom filled alone, but for I was spying.” Old Cook put the cleaver down and pulled a copper pan from the pot rack, shoving in the raw meat with one bare hand. “It resembled my own red tonic, but we cannot be too sure, can we?”

“Indeed, we cannot,” Master Fredrik said, gathering up his coat and scarf. “Thank you, Cook. I am indebted to you as always.” He left a handsome pile of coins and rushed up the stairs to his waiting sleigh. “To the bottom of Tailor's Alley, with all good speed,” Master Fredrik said to the driver, gathering his coat around him in the damp and freezing air of the cab.

The driver turned around. “Tailor's Alley can't run a sleigh to the bottom. The smithy at the top of the hill melts all the snow.”

“Come as close as you can then,” Master Fredrik said. He pulled the coach blanket up and left his hands to worry one another beneath it. The right hand insisted he should go at once to Emil Larsson's, but the left hand pushed him to the stationery shop. Olafsson would bolt the door promptly at half past four o'clock. If he arrived even one minute late, he could not complete his work in time for the morning post; Madame needed little encouragement to ruin him. “Oh, Mrs. Lind, my boys, you have done nothing wrong,” he cried aloud. He leaned out and called to the driver. “If you get me to Queen Street before half past and deliver a message to the Murbeck house on Tailor's Alley by five, I will double your fare.” Master Fredrik heard the whip crack and was pushed back into his seat by the rush of the horses.

Chapter Forty-One
Charity

Sources: E. L., Mrs. M., Mikael M., J. Bloom

THERE WAS ANOTHER QUIET TAP
on the door, but this time more urgent. That Carlotta had gotten past Mrs. Murbeck was testimony of her desire! Glancing first in the looking glass to smooth my hair, I went to the door and opened slowly, smiling in anticipation of Carlotta's delicious honey coloring, the smell of orange pomade, her apricot lips begging for a kiss. And there she stood—but only in my imagination. On the landing was someone altogether different: the girl with a pale oval face, a strand of ash brown hair escaping her cap, her cheeks crimson with the cold. She was dressed all in gray, much more the girl from The Pig than The Uzanne's aristocratic protégée. I felt my eager smile droop into an O of disbelief. “You?!” I said rudely. “I have little time, Miss . . . Bloom. I am waiting for an important visitor.”

“Mr. Larsson,” Johanna said calmly, “I am your visitor.”

“No, there was a note just this morning, signed with her
C
.” My voice rose in disappointment.

“I sent the note.”

I leaned in to her flushed face, “Ah, but I have been told you are Miss Bloom. Perhaps you have another name?”

“You know it already, Mr. Larsson. My name is Johanna Grey, but it is one I left behind for good reason.” She turned her face away. “I wondered that you didn't tell.”

“I am not an idle tattler, but a practical one.” I leaned over the stairwell balustrade to see if anyone else was there, but all was quiet. “What was the purpose of your secretive message?”

“There was a chance the delivery would be made by another. It was crucial you wait for me before indulging your appetites,
Sekretaire
. The note was signed with a
G
—for Grey. It was better that you did not know who was coming, lest you refuse me,” she said.

“I might still,” I said, placing a hand on the door. “What exactly is the nature of your call?”

“It is a charitable one.” Johanna glanced at the market basket she carried, covered with a starched white cloth that could not keep the scent of fresh baked goods from escaping. “The Uzanne has heard of your misfortune and wishes to . . . end your illness.”

“Oh. Well.” I stopped to adjust my course here. Perhaps The Uzanne, inspired by the imminent return of her fan, meant to hurry my convalescence. The plan to buy time was working. And Johanna might have information to trade. I gave her a nod and reached for the basket, but Johanna held tight and did not move. I heard the faint click of Mrs. Murbeck's door downstairs; she was listening. Johanna frowned at this.

“I need a word. In private,” Johanna said.

“I will give you a word, but not so many more. You are a pale substitute for the Miss C that I hoped would appear,” I said, taking hold of her arm none too gently and escorting her inside. Johanna emptied the basket on a sideboard. There were small crocks filled with fresh butter and preserves, a rich pâté and a glistening sausage, two loaves of new bread, and several cakes wrapped in cloth. My mouth began to water. “I appreciate the concerns of Madame for my well-being.”

Johanna pulled two glass bottles from the bottom of the basket, corked and sealed with wax. “This visit does not concern your well-being. It concerns hers.”

“She has sent medicines,” I said, picking up the blue bottle. “But is it the healing arts she has you practice or the black?”

She stopped at my accusation, then gently placed the second bottle on the table. “I am an
apothicaire
. If you follow my instructions, you will be well. The clear bottle holds a tonic that is bitter but will speed your recovery. The blue flask was prepared at the request of The Uzanne. It is delicious and soothing and the end of all cares. I would urge you not to drink it at all.”

I lifted the blue bottle in a salute. “Then I will begin there,” I said, taking a knife to cut the seal. It smelled of honey with a hint of nutmeg, blended in the finest cognac.

Johanna stopped the flask as I lifted it to my lips. “You are known in the Town as a reckless man of the taverns; no one would find it strange if you drank the whole bottle. The Uzanne said that no one would care.”

I smiled. “No one would care if I was drunk?”

“No one would care if you were dead.”

I put the flask back on the table and stepped away. “Won't you sit down and stay for coffee, Miss Bloom?” I went to the door and opened it to find Mrs. Murbeck pressed so hard against it that she nearly tumbled in.

She put down the tray and handed me a note. “Just arrived from your brother Fredrik,” she whispered, “and the young lady, is she the one?” I shook my head furiously and put the note in a pocket. I made hasty introductions, then indicated the door to Mrs. Murbeck with a quick jerk of my head. She raised her eyebrows in alarm, as if this would be most improper, and she set about pouring coffee and slicing the cake, all the while nodding and smiling at Johanna. Eventually she retreated to her listening post in the hall, and I drew the heavy curtains over the entryway to muffle the conversation.

“There is something you and your mistress want, besides news of my demise,” I said.

Johanna was staring at nothing. I could see that she had learned to mask her feelings well. “Madame claims you have an item belonging to her,” she said.

“Word was sent via Master Fredrik Lind that I would deliver this item as soon as I was well,” I said.

“Madame does not wish to wait.”

“And how were you to take this fan from me if I refused?”

“It was only a matter of time once you drank. Your rooms are not so large or overfurnished.”

“A stupid errand, Miss Bloom. You would be blamed for my death and sent to prison.”

Johanna looked up at me, her calm face a cipher. “There would be no need for blame; you would have brought death upon yourself. And The Uzanne wants me at Gullenborg, for I am useful. But eventually, I will be forced to leave.” She put a lump of sugar in her coffee and stirred it slowly, the chink of the spoon on porcelain suddenly loud as she paused.

“Why leave a nest so exquisitely feathered?”

“It is still a cage.” She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and removed the woolen scarf that was wound around her neck.

“And what will you give to be set free?”

“I have given you your life, Mr. Larsson. I think it is my turn to ask for a favor.”

I looked closely at Johanna. Here was a face I wanted to read but could not. I stood and opened the window a crack, thinking that a breath of frigid February air would help to clear my thoughts. “So? What price have you set?”

Johanna came to the window and stood beside me. She smelled of jasmine, and the tips of her fingers were stained a faint red. Her shallow breathing finally betrayed her nerves. “I understand you work in Customs and know the shipping business well. I need passage away. I have the money.”

“You will pay the ticket yourself? My life comes cheap.”

“And I may need a place to hide until the ship can safely sail.”

“Is that all?” I turned to find her face close to mine.

“Do you have the fan?” Johanna asked.

I hesitated, but there was little harm in showing her. It remained my intention to confer with Mrs. Sparrow regarding Cassiopeia before she went anywhere. I went into the bedroom and returned with a folded muslin shirt of no particular merit, handing the garment to Johanna. She did not hurry but sat down and unfolded it carefully, as if she were a housemother inspecting the ironing. When the blue fan box lay before her, she wiped her hands on her skirt before removing the lid. Johanna opened the Butterfly and studied her, happiness crossing her face. Then she looked up at me. “She is lovely.”

“The Butterfly. She was meant for my fiancée.”

I said no more and she did not probe, but closed the fan and placed it on the table. “Any woman would cherish such a fan. Any woman but one.”

I picked up the box and gently eased the velvet lining up along one side with the tines of a fork, letting Cassiopeia drop into Joanna's hand. She opened her, studying the face with its solemn scene of the empty coach. “Such a sorrowful thing,” Johanna said, then turned the fan over to study the verso, the indigo blue silk with its glittering sequins and crystal beads. She stared at this for some time before she spoke. “
Here
is Cassiopeia, under the North Star,” she said, tracing her finger along five crystal beads, a look of pleasure on her face. “The fan maker was quite careful with her stars. Here is Cassiopeia's husband, King Cepheus, and at the very bottom is her daughter Andromeda. The belly of Draco, Camelopardalis, Triangulum, and here is Perseus, the daughter's rescuer.”

Her eye for detail was impressive. “I never did well with the classics,” I muttered.

She laughed. “Do you imagine I studied the classics, Mr. Larsson? My father was an
apothicaire
and needed an assistant he could trust. My mother's only concern was prayer, and my brothers dead, so he was left with me.” She closed and opened the fan. “He told me the ancient Greek myths sometimes when we were working in the shop and then showed me their counterparts in the heavens at night.” Johanna traced her finger along the W again. “Queen Cassiopeia sacrificed her daughter Andromeda to a horrible serpent. She chained her to a rock.” Johanna shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “The queen was a cruel mother, and the father did nothing.”

“It is not uncommon,” I said.

“No,” she said, frowning down at the open fan resting in her lap.

“And so you ran,” I said.

“Yes. I will not be sacrificed, or chained.”

“And how does the story end?” I asked.

“The daughter was rescued.”

“And Queen Cassiopeia was given a throne in the heavens.”

She looked up at me, and the furrow in her brow disappeared. “So many people believe, because maps of the stars are static. But the queen was punished for her cruelty and arrogance, chained to the North Star, where she circles endlessly around the pole. Perhaps there is hope even for me.” She gazed again at the starry fan, the pleasure of discovery once more lighting her face. “There is a mistake in this heaven. Deliberate, I would say. Cassiopeia is reversed.”

I realized now that Mrs. Sparrow had intended this reversal to break Cassiopeia's magic and show the queen hanging upside down and powerless. But I wanted to hear what Johanna might say. “Why would that be?” I asked.

She pressed her lips together in the most charming way, releasing slowly into a smile as her thoughts became clear. “It is a subtle insult, I would say, to have the fan's namesake hanging upside down. Perhaps it was a ladies' game.”

“And so it is, but not the sort of game that I imagined.” I reached for the fan, but Johanna did not release her. “Nor the sort I would have agreed to play, had I known.”

“Nor I,” she said simply, looking into my eyes.

“And The Uzanne, what does she make of this heavenly sky?” I asked.

“Only that it is blue and spangled and holds a dark secret. She may not have done well with the classics either, Mr. Larsson.” Johanna touched the empty quill that ran along the central stick. “She intends to make her own history. She is traveling to the Parliament in Gefle,” she said, her calm manner now betrayed by a subtle shift in her shoulders, which had crept up in fear. “She wants her fan when she meets the king.”

“I witnessed her lecture on Engagement. It seems no harm was done, except perhaps to conjure sinful thoughts. And Master Fredrik described the demonstration of last week. He was frightened, too, but it seemed more like the magic of a quacksalver's traveling show.”

“She will not be so entertaining in Gefle, Mr. Larsson. I don't yet know the details, but she is a conspirator with the perfect disguise: no one would suspect an aristocratic lady of anything but trifles.”

“And you intend to act as The Uzanne's accomplice?”

“Act, yes,” she said. “If I do not play my part, how can I hope to learn more? That is why you must give me the fan.”

I could hear the scrape of Mrs. Murbeck's shoes outside in the hall as she adjusted her position. “And if you return without Cassiopeia, what will happen?” I asked.

Johanna stared at the painted black coach, the orange sky, then folded the fan shut. “The serpent will devour the girl. The queen will come for you. And deaths will follow sure, deaths of much greater consequence than ours.”

I thought of the Stockholm Octavo, two interlocking forms, one shifting the outcome of the other, and more powerful when combined. “Is there a death whose consequence is small?” I asked. She made no reply but placed the fan back in the box. “Miss Bloom, if you go back with empty hands, the outcome is certain to be dark,” I said. “Might we conclude that Cassiopeia's return could have the opposite effect?”

She looked at me curiously, her head tilted so that the low sun made a line of gold on her hair. “What would that be?”

“Hope,” I said, “of a rebirth.”

“There is always hope.” Johanna spotted the slip of paper resting under Cassiopeia, cream colored on the blue velvet lining. She drew it out and read aloud: “ ‘
Keep her safe. I will tell you when to send her on her way
.' What does this mean?”

Suddenly, I saw the Ace of Printing Pads: a cherub's face above two regal lions, ready to do battle on a coat of arms. And close to the angel's face, a small bird, whispering a message. An exhilarating heat coursed through me—my Prisoner! “It means a Sparrow has sent an urgent message,” I said. “You are one of my eight.”

“Eight what?”

“Eight people. It is a form of divination called the Octavo.”

“I remember this word. You spoke of it that night in The Pig,” she said. “You were engaged to be married.”