The Stockholm Octavo (22 page)

“Mr. Nordén said the Divine Geometry could build the holy city, but Jerusalem is far away. What I see here is the Town, and its future form depends on us both,” she whispered. “That form is an eight, the combination of two parts to make something of greater value, perhaps infinite value.”

I stared at the place where the two spreads overlapped. “So you are saying we
do
share three of our eight,” I said. “You did not think so before.”

“I did not fully understand before. Our two Octavos fit together like the vaults of the Great Church, or better yet, like cogs in a great clock.” Her face was alight with the thrill of revelation. “Look here: Nordén is my loyal Trickster, altering Cassiopeia perfectly and in utmost secret. But like any good Trickster, he kept something hidden from me until,
voilà
!” She opened Nordén's notebook to a page of connected octagons. “Nordén reveals himself to be your Prize. He gave you his notes on a well-guarded secret. That was prize enough for both of us.”

“He has given me more than that,” I admitted, thinking of his warm welcome and generous friendship. “But what about the Queen of Wine Vessels? I thought you said your Teacher was the Little Duchess?”

Mrs. Sparrow drummed her fingers on Nordén's notebook. “The Little Duchess was a way to avoid a truth I did not want to admit: The Uzanne has something to teach me.” Her fingers came to an abrupt halt. “Did you go to Gullenborg for her lecture?” I nodded. “Begin at the beginning. I must learn everything I can.”

I tried to convey the beauty of the setting, the indulgent refreshment, the sensuous swirl of fresh girls and handsome men, and the exquisite orchestration of desire that The Uzanne had conducted with her fan. “It was . . . magic,” I said.

“Really, Emil, are you pulled under her influence by your foreskin? Anyone can conjure lust.” She huffed. “Creating that cardinal sin requires no help from the devil at all, no incantations, not even a dark room.” She sat back with a frown. “Of course it's merely practice for the more significant sins I suspect she has in mind. Imagine what she would have done had Cassiopeia been in her hands,” Mrs. Sparrow whispered.

I considered this for a moment and could not help the wicked smile that lifted my lips at the corners. “I should very much like to be present,” I said.

“Think with your brain this time, please. Everyone knows The Uzanne and her late husband worked secretly to remove Gustav from power, but Henrik fell in battle. Revenge can light the fuse, and
engagement
is a military term.”

“I admit the young ladies were disarming,” I said.

“Was Duke Karl there?” she continued, ignoring me.

“No, but a Mrs. Beech from the duke's household was introduced as if she were noble herself, inspiring speculation The Uzanne covets her neighbor's husband. There is a significant sin.”

Mrs. Sparrow sat back. “Here is further confirmation of my eight, and of the political nature of the event.”

“You should abandon your theories of treason,” I said. “General Pechlin was there and seemed utterly bored at the lack of political intrigue. The Uzanne is only interested in the battles of women.”

“The real battles of women are never written about, and rarely spoken of by men, so you have no idea what they are,” Mrs. Sparrow said. “The Uzanne is not interested in Duke Karl's meager sexual prowess, and she has money of her own; she is interested in power, that most intoxicating of desires. She is placing herself near the throne—the throne of Duke Karl. She intends to give Karl the crown.”

“By fanning Gustav's off his head?” I joked.

Mrs. Sparrow smoothed her skirt and glared at me. “Look at the cards. This is not a game of casual liaisons for anyone.”

Instead, I went to the window and pulled the curtain aside. A lamplighter coaxed a lantern to life across the way, sending a streak of gold down the side of the house and onto the snowy street. “What are you suggesting I do?” I asked.

She leaned across the table and picked up the Queen of Wine Vessels again. “You must get closer to your Companion so that you will sooner find your eight. The Uzanne's next lecture is just a fortnight away. Observe every encounter, note every guest, listen in on the whispered conversations. In the meantime, place yourself firmly in her camp. Dangle the key to contraband goods. Offer to investigate the thief Mrs. Sparrow. Promise to find her fan. And be sure to keep Cassiopeia safe. When the time comes for Cassiopeia to return, for she
will
return to her mistress, we can only hope the alteration was enough to neutralize her force.” She noted my expression and shook her head. “You are skeptical still, but the dark magic of Cassiopeia can do far more than parlor tricks. I have done my reading. Much damage was done by the fan's original owner: black magic rituals, poisoning, imprisonment, death. The Uzanne is filled with an energy that complements Cassiopeia's dark provenance. It will be more of the same. She means to take down the king.”

It was clear that this fan had more meaning and power than I imagined. “I have Cassiopeia well hidden, Mrs. Sparrow,” I said returning to the table. In truth the box was sitting in plain sight. Mrs. Murbeck had opened it once when I was out and spread the Butterfly, although she never mentioned Cassiopeia trapped underneath.

Mrs. Sparrow pursed her lips, disappointed. “You have lost your card face. Best you mind your hand, for you are in the larger game, like it or not, and the stakes are higher than you are willing to admit.” I stared at the interlocking octagons and saw my tender forecast of love and connection overwhelmed, as the waves of a storm heave up to crush a small boat. “Emil, you look as if you had been sentenced to hang by the neck,” she said.

“I only intended to secure a beneficial alliance, not engage in political treachery.”

“Aren't those one and the same?” She meant this in jest but noted my distress. “You will have your Octavo. The vision of love and connection was real.”

“But this combination of the two . . . your event is of such magnitude . . .”

“You think of love and connection as small? You must expand your thinking, Emil. These are life's greatest treasures.” She picked up the two Seekers cards, hers and mine. “Don't you see? One Octavo does not cancel out the other. On the contrary; we reinforce each other's aims. Just like the ceiling in the Great Church. Or if you wish a more secular example, like partnering in the push. We succeed together, or not at all.”

Outside on the street, a watchman called the hour of eight, his voice disappearing up the hill toward the Great Church. I stood to leave, claiming business in South Borough. “Shall I call on you for Christmas?” I asked, thinking she would be alone like me.

“Most kind of you, but no. The days around the solstice are potent with guidance. Katarina will bring word when you should come.” She gathered up the cards in two quick swipes and tapped them into a neat deck. “Happy Christmas, Emil. But keep in mind it is the New Year that will be cause for celebration: we will secure our king and the royal house of France besides. And you will find the golden path!”

“Wonderful,” I said with the false cheer I affected at holiday time. I let myself out the front door and trudged slowly down the steps to the deserted street blanketed in white. The winter lanterns sputtered, leading me from pool to pool of light all the way to Tailor's Alley. The Murbecks' rooms were dark and only the house cat mewled a greeting. Upstairs, I stoked the stove to chase out the damp that wrapped the room like a shroud and sat. I drew a number 8 in the layer of dust that had settled on the table. Love and connection seemed unlikely to rise from this form, no matter how divine the inspiration. I wiped a wide swath through the center with the side of my hand and went alone to my bed.

PART II

1792

But another time came. It seemed as if we ourselves, weary of our very happiness, were unable to endure it; as if that secret longing which leads men to desire a change in their condition would not permit us to enjoy our tranquility any longer.

—GUSTAV III,
FROM AN ADDRESS TO HIS FINAL PARLIAMENT,
FEBRUARY 1792

Chapter Thirty
Epiphany

Sources: E. L., Mrs. S., Katarina E., Mrs. M.

JANUARY OF 1792 FLAMED
like a Roman candle in a black New Year's sky. My memory of that time is heightened—perhaps we like to flatter ourselves with having prescient knowledge—but I swear to you, there was no month in memory that had such an exquisite tension. The ice on the many hills was just as treacherous; the snow just as trodden and strewn with refuse; the coughing, sneezing, and fevers just as incessant. But there was change in the air, and whether for good or ill, change always quickens the pulse and sharpens the senses. It was for many of us the last flaring ember of an age before it fell to ash—the empty coach before the fine house, the sparkling dust scattered.

The nation was splintering in two, Royalists and Patriots forming ranks, the fervor rising with the approach of the Parliament, to be held in distant Gefle. Citizens of the Town were appalled at the choice of this lowly city, but by removing the Parliament from the Patriots' home territory, the king could control participation and guarantee his supremacy. Travel was costly and miserable in January. And half the members of the House of Nobles were denied travel passes on questionable grounds.

There was talk in the taverns and coffeehouses that Gustav intended to restructure the government, restricting the nobility to twenty-four seats and granting the commoners a genuine majority. The Royalists pronounced this enlightened leadership, but the Patriots blazed with fury. They now saw Gustav as a deadly threat to Sweden's stability, to be removed by any means necessary. Treasonous rumors flew.

The citizens of the Town expected revolution or repression to rise up and engulf us, and the view from the edge of the abyss was breathtaking. The Town glittered all the more from the peril, and the card games, balls, billiard parties, concerts, dances, and dinners took on a more frantic festivity—as if each one might be the last.

It was three o'clock on January 4, Twelfth Night, the end of the Christmas festivities and a final night of revelry before the solemn service of the Epiphany. A pale blue light still clung to the western sky, the barest hint of the change of season still several months ahead. The day I was due to speak with the Superior regarding my marriage was upon me, and it would likely be my last day as a
sekretaire
. I cracked the window to let in a breath of fresh air, feeling the draft swirling around me, when I heard Katarina's voice in the hallway downstairs. She was arguing with Mrs. Murbeck that the note could be delivered only to my hand. I opened my front door and came down the stairs.

“I cannot have young ladies going in and out of your rooms, Mr. Larsson,” Mrs. Murbeck said, her arms crossed firmly over her bosom.

“Mrs. Murbeck, you are the last bulwark of my crumbling reputation, but I assure you the young lady is merely a messenger for an elderly friend.”

Mrs. Murbeck gave a scandalized harrumph and slammed the door behind her. Katarina put her hand in front of her mouth, overcome by coughing. Her eyes were veiled with worry, and she pressed her lips together. “The Mrs. asked for you to come dressed as a citizen, not as
sekretaire,”
she whispered, handing me a tiny envelope, then curtsied and left. The note read:
6 o'clock
.

I wore my hair plain, a tatty gray jacket with a high collar, an old wool overcoat in navy blue and a knitted scarf wrapped around my face against the cold. The streets of the Town were crowded for this festive night, but I felt a stiffening in my shoulders the closer I came to Gray Friars Alley. The archway was silent and the stairwell echoed only my own footsteps. No revelers here.

Katarina cracked open the door when I knocked, and had to look twice. “Mr. Larsson?” she whispered. I nodded, and the door was pulled back just enough for me to slip inside before she bolted it again. Down the cold and empty hallway was a feeble gleam from the large gaming room.

“No players tonight?” I asked, my voice echoing in the darkness.

“The mistress says we are done with cards until the spring, and just as well. The duke's company has changed the mood entirely. More threats than bets,” she said, stopping to blow her nose. “The Mrs. says we will host the seekers, though, and I am glad of it. Without customers I will have no work.”

We made our way to the doorway of the salon, and Katarina nodded that I should go in. A woman was seated at one of the tables, staring out the window toward the tower of the Great Church, where the bells were chiming the hour of six. Her back was to me, and the candles on the table made her form a silhouette. Her wig was coiffed in a style I had not seen since I was a child, ridiculously high and white. Her pale cream dress was antique as well, an elaborate
robe à la française
complete with wide elbow panniers and the pleated draping that fell from the back of the neck to the floor. A fan lay opened beside an empty crystal glass and a stack of papers on the table. I thought perhaps a lovelorn actress from the Bollhus Theater sat waiting for an audience with Mrs. Sparrow between acts.

“
Pardon
. . .
Mademoiselle
?” I said. In the dim light, it was impossible to know the lady's age. The woman turned with the stiff, slow movements that stays and stomachers demanded. She wore a white scarf over her chest and bosom. Her face was heavily powdered, cheeks brightly rouged.

“Please sit down, Emil. We have little time,” Mrs. Sparrow said, her teeth gleaming inside the oval of her reddened lips.

I stared at the face, looking for my friend beneath this mask. She resembled an aging courtesan whose dress and manner were stuck in a bygone time; either that of her glory or her ruin. Finally, I sat down. “I confess I am startled, Mrs. Sparrow, to see you in this . . . unusual garb.”

“I do not doubt it. Katarina helped me to prepare, and still cannot recognize me.” She brushed a crumb from her bodice, the layers of lace from her sleeves trailing after her hands. “I am going to meet my Companion.”

“So Gustav has answered your letters at last,” I said, leaning in with a smile.

“No. He has not. But I have taken a lesson from my Teacher, The Uzanne. I will use the weapons of gender and seek him out at the Opera. The king is there nearly every night, and if a lady of his acquaintance approaches, good manners demand that he greet her. He has always been partial to feminine charm if not the sex. I need only a few moments to press my point.”

I nodded my approval of her strategy. “What point is it that you will make?” I asked.

She rose from her chair, remarkably graceful for a woman unused to such extravagant and confining clothes, and began to navigate the tables. “That he must act at once to save the French king. I have been listening to my clients and those friends I still have in the police. Gustav works tirelessly to raise an army from all of Europe and plans to march on Paris in the spring; Austria and Prussia signed an agreement last August to join him. He has sent spies to map possible routes from the invasion point of Normandy. But he may not live to see this happen. The forces of opposition in the Town grow stronger and more desperate every day.” Mrs. Sparrow grasped the back of her chair. “If Gustav is to survive, he cannot wait until the spring. Axel von Fersen is poised to act, haunted by the failure at Varennes last summer; he is in Brussels and has the ways and means to enter the Tuileries and free the captives. Gustav must sanction this plan
before
he departs for Gefle, send von Fersen to Paris at once, and rescue the French king before the Parliament ends.”

“But how does this save Gustav from harm?”

“Such a heroic act will make Gustav a legend, his name immortal. His enemies will shrivel in the blazing light of his glory. Europe will be stabilized, the monarchy and order restored. And millions of French francs will roll into the Town as thanks. It is this last point that will be oil on the waters here and restore Gustav to favor with the nobles.”

“Ah,” I said. “So it comes down to money.” Mrs. Sparrow gave a pouting shrug that reminded me of Margot and sat down opposite me once more. “So the event at the center of your Octavo is now . . . to save the French monarchy?” I felt my face warm as I said it, so overheated was this statement.

“The central event of my Octavo is the same as before: to save my dear friend Gustav. The rescue of Louis XVI is a glorious means to that end, is it not?” She picked up her fan. “Until that happens, we both must guard Gustav from harm.”

“But why me?”

“Because our Octavos are interlocked; one event will shift the other. It cannot be otherwise. You have the golden path ahead of you and will get there sooner if we work in tandem.”

I suddenly felt dizzy—her grand ambition seemed to shift the very floor under my feet, and the creeping illness that had haunted me for days enveloped my whole body. “I think I need a glass of brandy,” I said, tugging at my collar.

“Yes, a brandy. You have been clearing your throat all evening, Emil; it may be inflamed.” She called for Katarina, who brought two clean glasses, a carafe of water, and a dusty bottle of cognac.

“May I go now, Mrs. Sparrow?” Katarina asked.

“Not yet.” She watched Katarina curtsy and hurry back to the kitchen. “She is afraid. And no wonder. Empty rooms and empty pockets are nothing to what will come if the monarchy falls.” Mrs. Sparrow poured herself a glass of water. “You wonder at my fervor for the monarch, Emil, but I am born to it.” She took a long swallow from her glass. “Our family name was really Roitelet, which means ‘wren.' The wren is known as the king of the birds, the little king. I would have liked my name to be king's bird here in Sweden as well, but a careless bureaucrat mistranslated it when we arrived from France, and so Sparrow it became. But I will always be Wren in my heart.” She closed her eyes. “My father believed in the monarchy above all else, even more than the church, and taught that creed to me. He said all the good that had come to us in this world had come from two kings—Louis XVI and Gustav III, the Sun and the North Star, the guiding lights of our world. These twenty years of Gustav's reign have seen a blossoming the likes of which we may never see again. He deserves to live out his vision, and his legacy cannot be the fall of the great House of Wasa. And my legacy cannot be that of a charlatan.” She opened her eyes and picked up the card that lay between us and turned it slowly between her fingers. “Gustav promised to protect me always, but it seems he has forgotten of late. I need to remind him that it's unlucky to harm a wren; you know that, don't you? Misfortune follows sure. Everyone knows the St. Stephen's Day wren brings blessing for the New Year.”

“But on St. Stephen's Day the young boys set out to kill the wren, and bring it round to every house, staked up on a pole with its wings spread wide. The king is sacrificed for the common good.”

“The Stockholm Octavo changes that. We will keep the wren
and
the king alive in this new year.”

I finished my brandy in one large gulp. I saw a cage, or worse, a madhouse for the wren. But Mrs. Sparrow did not seem to notice my silence. Rather, she stood and took a taper, beckoning me to follow her down the main hall. She lit a mirrored wall sconce opposite a side table covered with a heavy damask that reached the floor. Mrs. Sparrow pulled the fabric off with a flourish and revealed a wooden bureau inlaid with oak and maple and topped with marble. She removed a key hanging around her neck from a chain and unlocked the bottom drawer. I peered over and saw neatly folded linens and what was beneath them. “So much money!”

Mrs. Sparrow took my chin in her hand and brought her face very close to mine, her eyes glittering like the coins in the drawer. “Yes it is. I have worked hard all my life, and mean to keep it safe. Once Gustav is away at Parliament, the Patriots will be in a mood to tear the Town apart. They will hunt down every ally the king has, even a small bird.”

“But you can play both sides,” I said. “Ask Duke Karl for protection.”

“Duke Karl would nail me to a pole if it hastened his coronation.” She pulled a chair close to one side of the bureau and removed the linens from the drawer—they were in fact drawstring sacks. She sat and began to fill one. “Will you help me or no?”

More than a dozen loaded sacks, a fortune in coin and currency, made their way into a wooden trunk we pulled from a scuttle in the back hall. Mrs. Sparrow placed a thick fur-lined traveling cloak for camouflage on top then locked the lid. “What am I to do with all this money?”

“Come now, Emil, did you think
you
were to keep it? It is enough that you keep Cassiopeia in your rooms.” She closed the empty drawer and locked it, then drew the cloth over the bureau. “Before long you may find yourself a target of inquiry, too. Your rooms will be no safer than mine.”

“Target of inquiry? On what grounds?”

“You are my friend. And there is the matter of the fan.”

“No one knows about the fan,” I said, having second thoughts about the snooping Mrs. Murbeck. “Do they?”

She looked at me intently. “Cassiopeia knows and will find a way back to her mistress if she can. This is the way of such magical things. Look at what has transpired since I took her.”

We lugged the box to the door of the servants' stairs and Mrs. Sparrow called to Katarina to fetch a coach for me. For some minutes we waited, listening to the muffled tap of hail on the shutters. Finally I heard the sled arrive.

“I need you to deliver the trunk and see it safe inside. Keep your mouth shut,” she whispered, then handed me a small sack of coins. “Payment for the coach and some for your trouble.”

“Where am I going?” I asked.

“To Cook's Alley, to my Trickster.” I could feel the questions work their way into my face. “The Nordéns are my best and only choice. They live on the top floor, over the shop, and will keep my money safe until Gustav has returned.”