The Stockholm Octavo (30 page)

I lifted the coffee cup to my lips and drank, despite it being cold and disappointing. “Things did not go as I planned.”

“What future outcome did the Seer predict?” she asked.

“A golden path.” I did not say love and connection, thinking it sounded foolish, fearing I had said too much already. “What is curious is that my Octavo began with a demand that I should marry, despite my wishes.”

She leaned forward, nodding, her eyes filled with sympathy. “As did my flight to the Town. We hold that abhorrence of matrimony in common as well, it seems.”

“Yes. Was that what brought you here?”

She told me of her gray life in Gefle, of her betrothal to the widower Stenhammar, meeting Master Fredrik, working at The Pig, and then becoming Miss Bloom. She told me how Gullenborg had been a paradise of color and sensual pleasure at first, then a place of industry and usefulness. “But nothing is as it seems, and soon I will be trapped.”

“You are the Prisoner of my Octavo, and I am meant to free you,” I said, gently taking her warm hand and bringing it to my lips.

She curled her fingers around my hand. “But what of the others The Uzanne will soon hold captive?”

“I will need your help, Johanna, but together, we can change the course of larger events to our favor, and push The Uzanne from the game entirely.”

Chapter Forty-Two
An Alliance of Adversaries

Sources: M. F. L., J. Bloom

Now or never, without further ado. HE must be held accountable! HE has mismanaged the nation and let the people be destroyed. The First of the Realm, who instigated a war of thieves and sold our people to the Turk, bound them to dictatorship, the Cowardly Arrogant Scoundrel!

MASTER FREDRIK PICKED UP
the trampled notice from the pavement, then dropped it as if it were a glowing coal. “God in heaven, The Uzanne is papering the Town with sedition!” he said. The treasonous notice was grabbed by a passing gust and sent twisting up over the rooftops, to drift down and burn another reader on another street. Master Fredrik hurried on with his package of crisp notepapers and envelopes with their sharp triangular flaps, heading for Tailor's Alley, praying that the driver had done his honest duty. He stopped short by the window display of a bakery, filled with perfect rows of Shrovetide buns, golden brown domes of sweet cardamom bread dusted with a flurry of powdered sugar. Master Fredrik felt in his pocket for a coin and was moving toward the door of the shop when his eye caught a reflection in the glass, a girl in a gray cloak carrying a market basket. “I have been waylaid by the devil, disguised as a cream-filled pastry,” he said to his mirror image, then turned and called out to the girl. “Miss Bloom!”

Johanna quickened her pace, and Master Fredrik trotted after her as quickly as he could. “It is Miss Bloom, is it not?” he said, out of breath, catching hold of her cape. “I understand you have been to see Mr. Larsson.” A look of fear flashed briefly over her face, then she nodded. “Did my note arrive?”

“The landlady brought a note, yes.” Johanna pulled her hood lower.

Master Fredrik exhaled loudly with relief. “So you were there on an errand of charity?” Johanna nodded, and Master Fredrik pulled her closer. “She sent you to get her fan.” Johanna did not reply. “I was to deliver the fan myself, together with Mr. Larsson.”

“Madame could not wait for a man to do a woman's job,” Johanna said, trying to pull free.

“Your gloves are lovely,” Master Fredrik said, releasing his hold on her cloak. “Practical and beautiful. The dark green hides the dirt, but the embroidery announces a fair hand. They are hers are they not?”

Johanna looked at him as though he had gone mad. “I must return to Gullenborg, Master Lind.”

“You are nursing the sick, Miss Bloom. It takes time.” He gently took hold of her hand, tracing a line of embroidery on her glove. “Our mistress collects what is both practical and beautiful. Her folding fans are the preeminent example of this. But Madame collects other things as well, persons of both use and beauty—like us. Well, I am useful, but can hardly call myself beautiful. Lord knows I try.” He laughed but stopped when he saw the pained look on Johanna's face. “But I
create
the useful and beautiful. I wonder if you feel collected, too—living in her rich house, wearing her lovely gloves, looking more and more beautiful and being of such . . . crucial service.”

“I was in need of a position. It was not my intention to be collected.”

“Ah, but you are. I know it, for I have been pinned there long myself.” Master Fredrik leaned in toward Johanna, speaking in a whisper. “We become so tightly pinned that we believe we cannot act as creatures with free will. But we must.” Master Fredrik tightened his grip on her hand. “What of the medicines The Uzanne had you bring to Mr. Larsson?”

“How do you know what I was told to bring?” Johanna said.

“The kitchen of a great house is the larder of secrets, Miss Bloom,” Master Fredrik said, “and Cook spoons them out when she pleases.”

“I promise you he will recover, despite what Cooks spills. I would never . . . ,” Johanna said.

“Never what?”

Johanna faced Master Fredrik squarely. “I would never cause harm to the innocent. It is my intention to prevent it.” Her skin began to blotch with approaching tears.

Master Fredrik loosened his insistent fingers but did not let go of her hand. “It is freezing, Miss Bloom, and it is Wednesday. Mrs. Lind will have a bowl of hot pea soup and fresh pancakes waiting for supper. We need a chance to speak in confidence. Even the bitterest enemies can form alliances in time of war.”

Chapter Forty-Three
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.”