The Stockholm Octavo (17 page)

Lars bowed with a flourish, set the box on a nearby table, and took her hand to kiss it. “A delivery, lovely miss. From the Nordén Atelier.”

“Mr. Nordén? Is that you?” she said coyly, leaving her hand for just a few extra seconds.

“I am,” he said bowing, “the ugly one.”

“I should like to meet the handsome one, then, as you are pleasing to look at yourself.”

“The handsome one is married, and happily, I'm afraid. But a toad and a princess are a fine match, too.”

“I am no princess, and have had a toad already,” Anna Maria said. “The venom has just gone out of me. I
am
looking for a prince, but as a courtesy, Mr. Toad, you might tell me your Christian name.”

“No no, dear miss, Christian is my brother's name—the handsome one. I am called Lars.”

Anna Maria felt a warm flush rise up her neck and into her cheeks, and though she tried to will herself pale she could not. “
Enchanté,
” she said. She held out her hand to take the package, and Lars took hold of her hand.

“And you have yet to say your given name, which is most unfair.”

Mother Plomgren came bustling over, looking pleasantly alarmed. “What have we here, my dear girl, sir, what is it we might be of assistance with here? Oh! Mr. Nordén!”

Lars reluctantly released Anna Maria's hand and took up the mother's to kiss. “It is to your expert hand I am instructed to deliver my package, Mrs. Plomgren.” Mother Plomgren's lips pursed and released a squeak. She pulled her hand away and clasped it with the other. “The package then, the package, yes! Rarities await inside.” She pressed the package to her bosom like a doll and led Lars and Anna Maria to a worktable by the window, where they would have adequate light.

“We have been eagerly anticipating the arrival of these beauties, haven't we, plum, haven't we? Ordered special by Duke Karl himself for the performance. On recommendation from a very fine lady who knows everything about folding fans,” she whispered, carefully removing the lid and peering inside. A perfume of lemon verbena rose subtly into the air. There were three identical blue boxes resting on the blue velvet lining, each with a tiny crystal stone that winked up at them. Mother Plomgren winked at her daughter. “Come, darling, and show Mr. Nordén your art.”

Anna Maria chose one box and removed the fan inside, warming it in her hand. It was delightfully sinister. Closed, it resembled a small scimitar, for the guards were curved and came to a point, and were covered with polished silver leaf. The pivot stop was mounted with a garnet. “I forget, Mother, is there a murder in this opera?”

“They all have a murder in them, silly, all of them,” she scolded.

Anna Maria opened the fan soundlessly, pleat by pleat, a trick that she had practiced for months before mastering. When she had pulled the last fold open with the force of her little finger, she held the fan face out so that her mother could see. Anna Maria kept her eyes on her mother's expression, aware that Lars' eyes were on her. Mother Plomgren leaned in toward the fan, a smile forming on her lips. She was in the presence of something so well wrought, her eyes narrowed for focus, and became shiny with a hint of tears. “Exactly what we had hoped for, Mr. Nordén, exactly,” Mother Plomgren said. “What do you say, my plum?”

Anna Maria brought the fan up to eye level. It had been made to appear old, opening a full 180 degrees. The sticks were ivory, set tight to one another, and visible for only a quarter of the length. The focus of the fan was the leaf. It had a double face, and the verso was painted to resemble a sheet of music, silver sequins marking the notes. She turned the fan over to study the recto, painted with a grotesque mask of weathered stone. The mouth was open in horror and the eyes were pierced with oval openings and lined with black mesh, peepholes through which one might observe in anonymity.

“Her face is that of a monster, Mr. Nordén,” Anna Maria said, and for a moment she lost her flirtatious charm.

“It's
Orfeo,
my dear. She is one of three Furies that guard the gates of Hades,” Mother Plomgren said. “Let's have the trio shall we?”

Anna Maria opened the twin, and then the triplet, and placed them on the tabletop. She picked them up one at a time, pulling each fan open without appearing to move her hand at all, poking at the pleats, twisting the rivet. “One is weighted slightly off center, and the pin is set too tight, so the movement is not what I would wish. But other than that, they are lovely to hold and a fine size.” Lars's mouth opened slightly at this exhibition of expertise. “Tell your handsome brother that he is a great artist, and the ladies of the Royal Opera Atelier applaud him.”

“And what of the artists' ugly brother? May he have a smattering of applause for a fine delivery?”

Anna Maria and her mother dutifully clapped, then Mother Plomgren turned to the fans once again. “Let's put these sweet girls to bed where we shall keep them sealed and safe.” Mother Plomgren took the last fan and expertly closed it with a snap. She placed all three in their boxes and wrapped the case in a cloth.

“Mind, Mr. Nordén, we'll have a lengthy look at all three later, and bring them personally if they require adjustment,” Anna Maria said to Lars, her lips forming a smile that was her mother's double, but much younger, much moister, and much, much redder.

“The Nordén shop is just a pleasant stroll from here. We would be honored if you would call.”

“Next Monday, then, for tea,” Mother Plomgren blurted out.

Lars bowed to both ladies and left, stopping at the door for one last look.

“A second act, my dear, and a handsome one as well,” Mother Plomgren said, nudging her daughter in the ribs.

Chapter Twenty-Three
En Garde

Sources: M. Nordén, L. Nordén, Mother Plomgren (inebriated)

THE PLOMGREN LADIES
made their way up Government Street, clutching at each other's sleeves and hugging the buildings, desperately trying to maneuver over the layer of ice that had formed during the night. When they reached the Nordén shop, candles illuminated a window display of silk fans in red and gold, embellished with tiny feathers tucked inside the pleats. Mother Plomgren squeezed her daughter's arm. “He has the beeswax out for you, he does. Be sweet, now, be sweet.”

“Are my lips too rouged?” she asked. “I don't want to look like a tart.”

“A delicious plum tart you are, my dear, delicious, and nothing wrong with that. You smell nice as well. Lily of the valley. Very innocent,” Mother Plomgren added, and knocked discreetly on the glass pane of the entrance door. Lars welcomed them with bows and flowery greetings, and the scent of lemon and baking on the warm air of the shop. He ushered them in and took their wraps and hats, careful to shake off the snow. The striped yellow room was dim at this hour, and the ceiling was lost in the gloom. Their shadows leapt up the wall as the lamps fluttered from the draft of an interior door opening and closing silently, and there stood Margot and Christian, laden tea trays in hand.

“You are here already?” Christian asked.

“Ah, but of course he means to say, you are so welcome in our shop, ladies, and we apologize that we are delinquent in our preparations for your visit. We are enchanted,” said Margot in French. The faces of the Plomgren ladies held frozen smiles.

“Would you mind terribly if we conversed in Swedish, ladies? Mrs. Nordén needs to practice. Is that not so, my love?” Christian said, setting down the tea tray and wiping his hands on his trousers. “As Mrs. Nordén said, we apologize, for we are late.” He went to Mother Plomgren, kissed her hand, and introduced himself.

“So you are the maestro?” she asked.

“Yes, yes and this is Mrs. Nordén,” Christian said. “We have been in France for some time and so are not always sure what manners or language we should use. I hope that we have not offended you.”

“Oh no, we work in the theater so we are well used to manners and language of the most outrageous sort, aren't we, my plum?” Mother Plomgren said cheerfully.

“We are great admirers of your fans, Mr. Nordén,” Anna Maria said. “We wanted to see for ourselves the source of their magic.” Christian and Lars bowed at this compliment, much to Margot's shock, and she spilled a drop of cream as she prepared the tea.

Lars went to take Anna Maria's hand. “I have already told my brother of
your
magic, Miss Plomgren. We don't often see our fans manipulated with such skill, and it hurts when our art lies dead in the hand. Perhaps you would give my brother and his wife a demonstration.”

Mother Plomgren cooed her approval. Christian took a fan from the case and handed it to Anna Maria. “She is called Diana. She is made for swiftness.”

Anna Maria opened her slowly, noting the heft of the guards and the parchment blade with lace inserts. The face was painted with a hunting scene, a female archer poised to shoot. She closed the fan to half, then a quarter, then an eighth. Her audience waited for the final snap shut, but instead she opened her wide, with a sigh of air, like a bird unfurling its wings. Then Anna Maria fanned with dizzying speed, creating a breeze that fluttered the lamplight, stopped, and handed the fan to Margot. “Lace is an unfortunate choice for a huntress,” she said, “but Diana can take down any stag, even surrounded by nets.” Mother Plomgren and Lars applauded, but Christian stood, looking up at the ceiling.

“Who is your teacher,” Christian said finally.

“I am self-taught,” Anna Maria said.

“Opera taught,” Mother Plomgren corrected, sitting down with a thump and helping herself to a petit four.

“There is a renowned teacher here in the Town. Madame Uzanne.” Christian continued to study the chandelier. “I am engaged to give a lecture at her home in mid-December.”

“I have had the exact same thought, Christian!” Lars stood next to his brother, turning his gaze to the chandelier as well. “I imagine Madame Uzanne would be interested in someone with Miss Plomgren's abilities. I imagine Miss Plomgren would give your lecture some dramatic flair that would further engage the young ladies.” Margot turned to Lars in disbelief.

“We don't have the same thought.” Christian looked perplexed. “I will speak on the geometry of the fan and meant to ask Miss Plomgren her theories on it.”

“Pfffft!” Mother Plomgren waved her hand in the air, dismissing his plan. “Young girls want Venus not Apollo.”

“Perhaps Miss Plomgren might accompany you, as such?” Lars suggested.

Mother Plomgren's eyes opened wide, as if the doors of the future had been unlocked by these words. “Yes,” she whispered. “My plum will make a wonderful addition. She will do whatever she is told.”

Anna Maria turned to Lars. “If it would benefit the Nordén Atelier . . .”

Margot watched the two of them with narrowed eyes. “I am not certain of the etiquette in this invitation. Only Christian was invited.”

“The Town resembles Paris in that artists are encouraged, Mrs. Nordén,” Anna Maria said. “An entourage would be welcomed. Expected, even. We have
égalité
without the rioting and blood.”

“Is this so, Christian?” Margot asked.

“Believe her, Mrs. Nordén. My plum is well versed in the ways of the Town,” Mother Plomgren said, then frowned. “Oh my dear, we will have the expense of a sled.”

“Of course the ladies Plomgren will travel with us,” Lars said.

“You are going as well?” Margot asked.

“Naturally! And Mrs. Nordén will keep you company,” Lars said to Mother Plomgren.

“I was not planning to go,” Margot said, casting a panicked glance at her husband.

Christian shrugged and smiled, as if he had lost a small wager that could set him up for a larger win.

“Madame Uzanne will not like this,” Margot muttered, shaking her head. “I do not like this.”

“Why ever not?” Lars asked, pulling out a chair for Anna Maria. “Bring a cup for me, Mrs. Nordén. The Plomgrens and I must become better acquainted.”

Chapter Twenty-Four
An Invitation Accepted

Sources: E. L., M. F. L.

MASTER FREDRIK HURRIEDLY PUT DOWN
the papers he was holding and came around the desk to shake my hand. “Madame will be so pleased to have you present at her lecture!”

“Words cannot express my gratitude, Master Fredrik,” I said. “I feel this visit will have enormous consequence for me.”

“For the both of us, Mr. Larsson.” Master Fredrik had received me into his workroom, a rare intimacy, and introduced me to Mrs. Lind as his brother. He seemed breathless and disheveled when I entered, but when I made a comment he claimed he was always “utterly transported” by his work. I had expected more refinements in this space, but the only objects that belied a serious tradesman were a handsome looking glass in an ornate gold frame that hung opposite his writing desk and a large, locked armoire standing beside it. On the built-in shelves were neatly stacked boxes of fine paper, bottles of ink, pens, quills, knives, sealing wax of every color, bone folders, and various instruments of his trade. The room smelled vaguely of
eau de lavande
.

“You will be an invaluable asset for Madame, I am convinced. I will make certain you are properly introduced, but let me do the talking at the first, to smooth the way.” Master Fredrik leaned onto the desk and sighed. “She is like the sun in the summer firmament, true, so I comprehend your fear of being burned by her brightness. But have none, Mr. Larsson. I will be your celestial guide.” He took a knife from a drawer and picked up a long white feather and began to trim the quill. “Have I told you? Madame has accepted my proposition that her first gathering illuminate the mysterious geometry of the fan, guided by our Brother Sirius.” Master Fredrik caught my puzzled look; I was terrible with our Masonic pseudonyms. He rolled his eyes at my ignorance. “Mr. Nordén of Cook's Alley. An artisan of the fan-making trade. A third- or fourth-level Mason, too. Quite accomplished. But the Madame's colloquium led by a tradesman: is this not daring? Yes! Does this not capture the esprit of the epoch? Yes! Do you think the assembly of young ladies would anticipate this erudition? No! They will be expecting the language of the fan, all Eros and Aphrodite, but Madame aims for Athena and Apollo. This should only increase your eagerness to attend.” I confessed that I had bought new clothes. He laughed with glee. “And to top it off, there will most likely be cards!”

“Cake upon cake!” I said.

“Indeed, the young creatures would never sit for studies all afternoon, and it will be high stakes, too. These girls have generous bottoms and fat purses,” he said, reaching across his desk and tickling me under my chin with the end of the feather. “And Madame sets a table the likes of which is seldom seen by those of your station.” Master Fredrik offered to share his sleigh for Gullenborg. Never has there been such a first day of school.