The Stockholm Octavo (38 page)

Chapter Sixty-Five
Auntie von Platen Takes in a Stray

Sources: Captain H., Auntie v P.

THEY LOOKED DOWN
at the girl passed out on the floor, chalk white, her lips still blue. Her exquisite dress was torn at the bodice and hem, and she was missing one white kid leather shoe with a coral pink heel.

“She fainted in the street outside the palace. There was a panic, and she was near to being trampled, or frozen to death.” The man dressed as a fox looked sideways at Auntie von Platen. “She came to for a moment, after I pulled her indoors to warm her. She said to bring her to the orange house on Baggens Street.”

“Were you planning to fuck her or sell her to me?” Auntie von Platen modestly adjusted the robe of peacock blue Chinese silk she had hastily thrown on.

The fox removed his ears. “I am a Christian, and do not trade in flesh.”

“I thought that was the Christian currency of choice.”

“The young lady said a name: Hinken.”

Auntie opened the hidden center door of the foyer and yelled up the stairs, “Captain, there is someone here for you.”

Hinken's heavy tread could be heard on the stairs, his singing echoing in the narrow stairwell. He stopped when he saw Johanna laid out on the floor. “Holy Christ, not another corpse to bury.”

“No, no. Only fainted. Don't give the gentleman the wrong idea,” Auntie scolded, leaning over Johanna to inspect her earrings. “She asked for you by name, Captain. Were you expecting someone tonight?”

“I was, Auntie, I was indeed, but not a
girl,
” Hinken said. “And one in need of nursing besides.” Hinken stroked his chin, cursing and muttering to himself, then turned to Auntie. “You know you are good with mending strays.”

“I am not madam of a convalescent home,” Auntie snorted. Hinken reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy gold coin. She smiled and gave Hinken a playful slap. “Flatterer! But no more than a week. She'll be taking up space.” The fox turned to go, his rescue complete. “What? You really mean to leave without a visit to the ladies? We have decided to open the doors tonight after all.” The fox put his mask back on and shook his head. “Well at least help to carry the girl up the stairs,” Auntie said. “And let no one see you. It will spoil the mood.”

“You know the king has been shot, Auntie; what kind of mood can it be?” Hinken asked.

The madam shrugged. “It seems to be good for business.”

Chapter Sixty-Six
Art or War

Source: M. F. L.

MASTER FREDRIK STOOD AT
the front window of his shop and watched as people ran pell-mell through Merchant's Square. The news had spread like a spark in fatwood through the Town—up and down, fed by the air of a thousand panting and crying mouths. The Lundgrens, who rented the third-floor rooms, claimed they were leaving for Gothenburg as soon as travel was permitted, as if the end of the world had a geographic boundary.

He took a crystal glass from a breakfront and opened a bottle of port he had been saving. The wine splashed over the edge of the glass, his hands trembling despite the calm he forced upon himself, leaving dots of deep red on the forty white envelopes he had just addressed. The Uzanne had demanded they be sent the morning after the masked ball; she was hosting a celebration. The stains looked like meteors, like the destruction of heaven and earth. The second coming. The invitations should be consumed by the fire. He laughed at his newfound piety, but the laugh was brief. It was, in fact, the end.

Master Fredrik tossed his work into the grate and watched them blacken and burst. Then he called out to Mrs. Lind, but there was no reply. She had gone in search of her boys and had not yet returned. He walked calmly to the armoire that stood in the hall and took out his rabbit-lined coat and ivory-topped walking stick, but left his fine kid gloves on the shelf. He set off for Castleback, where the crowds were gathered, but when he reached Crow Alley, he turned east toward the water and then south. Across the Sluice was South Borough and the Lynx Tavern. “Those wine splashes—they were not meteors but music. I must find Bellman.”

Chapter Sixty-Seven
The Royal Suite

Sources: E. L., Captain H., J. Bloom

ON MY WAY BACK
to Tailor's Alley from Mrs. Sparrow's for a few hours' sleep, I went by Auntie von Platen's again. There was a cluster of lively gentlemen outside, a large cluster given the hour. Hinken was barring the door, exchanging jests, a wicked iron implement at the ready should things get out of hand. I caught his eye and he nodded that I should go around the back. “My room,” he said.

“There is a queue here!” a man called out angrily.

“I know your habits, Magistrate. You wouldn't want what's in my room,” Hinken said, leering at the man, who backed quietly away.

I pushed past two girls in the kitchen doorway, wrapped in thick blankets and smoking clay pipes, asking the fastest way to Hinken's room. They pointed to a passage that connected to the central stairway. I hurried through this fetid tunnel smelling of rose water, jasmine, and piss, then climbed the three dark flights to the royal suite, two steps at a time. I knocked softly on Hinken's door, then knocked again when there was no reply. The attic floor was quiet and dark, warmer from the heat rising through the rest of the house, and I feared that she was deep asleep or sorely injured and would not wake. Then I heard her voice. “This room is taken for the night.”

I pressed myself into the door, as if I could melt through the planks. “That is what I hoped, Johanna Bloom.” The click of the bolt and handle's squeak were like the opening notes of a song, and then she stood before me, the faint flame of a rush lamp illuminating her face. Her hair was tangled and damp, a long gash marred her pale unwashed cheek, and her form was swallowed by men's drab garb, no doubt from Hinken's duffle. But the gaze that fell upon me was flawless, open blue. I stepped inside, and she closed and bolted the door. Daybreak sent a gray wash into the room, cold and unflattering. A seagull cawed a greeting to the bakers, on their way to start the morning bread.

“She succeeded then, in the end,” Johanna said.

“No. She failed, and a gunman tried. But Gustav has bested them all,” I said. “He lives.”

Johanna placed the rush lamp on the nightstand table and stood stiffly, hands clasped together. “She will try again.”

“I have been to Gustav's sickroom this night, Johanna—a press of admirers and friends. She would not dare.”

“I am her protégée. I know what she would dare.” She looked down at the floor, shaking her head, then back at me. “I will try again, too.”

“Johanna, leave it. She will not reach Gustav, but she will reach you.” I pried open her clasped hands and took them in my own. “Remain here and hidden until Hinken sails.”

“And where will you go?” she asked. “Do you really think you lie outside her web?”

I did not answer for a moment; I had never thought of going anywhere. “I am a man of the Town,” I said finally. “There is nowhere else.”

Her hands slipped from mine and I felt them warm on my face, palms soft on the stubble of my beard. “There is a world, Emil.” And in the kiss she gave me was a glimpse of it.

Chapter Sixty-Eight
Attending the Living and the Dead

Sources: E. L., Captain H., M. F. L., L. Nordén, M. Nordén, Mrs. S., Mrs. Lind, Red Brita, various mourners and neighbors

I ARRIVED WELL AHEAD
of the agreed-upon hour and took a seat in the back of the near-empty Pig. When Hinken entered, I stood so fast that the bench toppled back with a crash. “Calm yourself, Emil. Your cargo is quite safe,” Hinken said quietly, righting the bench and sitting down beside me. “You might have told me he was a she.”

The innkeeper came up, and we ordered beer and the day's offering. When the man was out of earshot, Hinken leaned over the table. “You are getting a good return on your favor to me,
Sekretaire
. I will include the additional costs I have incurred. I like the girl.” He laughed when he saw the pained look on my face. The mugs of beer arrived, and steaming eel in lemon balm sauce with black bread to wipe the bowls.

“I need to see her,” I said.

“She has informed me of her predicament. And yours.” He raised his glass to me. “Steer clear of Baggens Street; you are probably being watched.” I argued hotly that this seemed unlikely—the Town was focused only on Gustav. Hinken shook his head at my naïveté. “
Sekretaire,
my life is a constant game of chase, capture, and escape. I know the rules well.” His experience trumped my conjecture. “Keep an eye on your cards, and I will keep my eye on the goods,” he said, forking a large white chunk of eel into his mouth. “And take up your gaming again. It will keep your mind off Miss Bloom.”

 

I TOOK HIS ADVICE,
painful as it was, and stayed clear of the orange house. That night I played cards at Mrs. Sparrow's, and next morning took up watch again on Castleback, outside the palace. The scene took on a cautiously festive air, as news from the bedchamber was that Gustav was mending. Peddlers roasted chestnuts and skewers of meat on braziers, and the trinket sellers moved up from the quay, doing a brisk business in pennants with the three crowns and portraits of the king. Uniformed guards stood by as coaches streamed through the Outer Courtyard, protection for the nobility within. There had been many acts of violence against aristocrats since the shooting, the citizenry placing the blame for the shooting squarely in the House of Nobles.

I never entered the bedchamber again after the sixteenth, but those who came and went were generous with their reports: extravagantly dressed visitors came bearing extravagant gifts; longtime enemies came seeking to make amends and left in tears at their folly; the three finest surgeons in Sweden were on call around the clock; the bullet had not been extracted, but Gustav was alert; Gustav sat in an armchair and felt much improved; Gustav laughed with the Russian ambassador; Gustav ate a hearty dinner followed by a dessert of ices; Duke Karl was a constant visitor, but the queen was seldom seen. When I asked about The Uzanne, no one could say.

The weather was leaning milder now, a boon to those on watch. It was on a sunny day with a brisk wind that Master Fredrik ran up to me, looking utterly distraught. “Can it be you have not heard the news?”

I looked around, but the crowd appeared calm. “What?” I asked. “Is the bullet removed?”

“No, Emil, it is Christian Nordén. He has passed over.” It took several moments before this dire news sunk in, and then my knees nearly gave way. Master Fredrik caught my arm and pulled me upright. We walked together to the relative privacy of the vast colonnade. “Miss Plomgren claims that Christian fainted the night of the masked ball, overcome by the notion of harsh questioning postshooting. Or the shock, perhaps, from the brutal attempt on the king.”

“Those are not fatal blows, Master Fredrik,” I said, grateful for his arm to lean upon, overcome with regret that I had so neglected the distraught Christian.

Master Fredrik stepped out of the sun and lowered his voice. “Miss Plomgren claims to be grief stricken, and unable to recall specifics.” He paused, his brow furrowed with concern. “They say it was as if he fell asleep and did not wake up.”

This statement was not lost on me. “The Uzanne,” I whispered.

“I confess to drawing a similar conclusion.” Master Fredrik stopped and stared down at something crushed into the cobblestones. “I feel in part responsible.”

“We all are,” I replied.

“You know that Miss Plomgren is now Mrs. Nordén?” he said. I shook my head, eyes wide. “She will take charge of the Nordén Atelier, together with her new husband, Lars. She vows the shop will flourish.” Master Fredrik stooped and picked up a trampled lady's glove. “But I fear it will be on terms that hardly suit the widow and her coming child.”

Margot.

 

THE WINDOWS OF THE NORDÉN ATELIER
were draped with black crepe bunting, a single votive lighting a display of black fans. Neighbors stood in clumps outside, whispering. A wreath of boxwood hung on the door, but Margot had refused the chopped-off pines that Anna Maria suggested, calling the practice barbaric. The front room was drained of its elegance and charm, the pine coffin resting on the two slender desks. Half a dozen mourners sat on gilt wood orchestra chairs borrowed from the Opera, courtesy of the Plomgrens. Margot seemed to have shrunk in size and lost all color, despite her advanced pregnancy. Mr. Plomgren looked at his daughter, an undisguised happiness on his face. Mother Plomgren's gaze took inventory of the room, her feet tapping restlessly. Master Fredrik sipped coffee with Mrs. Lind, and the neighbor Red Brita wandered into the back room, where refreshments were served, and emerged with a saffron pretzel. Anna Maria, veiled and tearful, clung to the grieving brother, Lars. But then she raised her head and looked at me, and I read panic behind the black net of her hat.

Margot was Catholic and Christian a Lutheran, so no priest or minister from either church would say the prayers. Master Fredrik agreed to read Psalm Twenty-three, and the men followed the hearse all the way to the Sluice. We did not cross to South Borough but returned for the funeral luncheon; the ground, just starting to soften, was not ready to receive the coffin, and so the box would be placed with the other winter dead, waiting for spring.

It was after most everyone left that I finally sat beside Margot. She gazed at a distant, invisible spot and shook her head. “Gone. All gone. My husband. Our shop. My country. My new king. My future. I have only to think of the child, and I cannot think what,” she said. I had no words, so we sat together in silence. I looked down at Margot's feet, crossed at the ankle; her shoes were polished and clean, the toes pointed and with an upturned end. I could see that the heels had been repaired, and newly painted a deep blue. They were not the shoes of a woman who was to be left alone. Eventually her focus returned to the room and she said, “I have lost all connection to this place.”

I leaned toward her, and could smell the lemon verbena scent that was a trademark of the atelier. I looked at her face, drawn and pale, the lips with a line of dark red where they were chapped and bitten, the crease between her eyebrows deep and troubled. I held my breath and took her hand, turning her palm up and tracing a line with my finger. “We are connected, Margot. You are one of my eight.” She focused on me a puzzled look. “I will help you. That is all you need to know right now.”

She gave me the faintest of smiles and turned her hand to twine her fingers through mine. “Thank you, Emil. I will need my friends.”