The Stockholm Octavo (28 page)

“This is better than any psalm,” I said.

“One of my companions whispered to me that this man was in fact the king's own troubadour, the great Bellman. I stood up to shake his hand and said: ‘
I hope to hear your music in finer company someday.
' He looked up at me curiously and said,
‘You are with friends. That is the finest company there is
.' Then he told me he would sing a song for me as promised.” Master Fredrik cleared his throat:

 

A drunk musician in a boat

Wondr'ing if a snob would float

Shoved him in and said, I quote:

Heed the lesson I can teach . . . toot toot:

Grasp the hand that you can reach.

 

Then he pushed me out of the boat. I was sure that I would drown, but Bellman and his companions pulled me quickly from the inky depths. This is what I have been pondering these three days.”

“Drowning?” I asked, noting that my sheets were as damp as if I had been overboard myself.

Master Fredrik brushed a speck of lint from the hem of his coat. “I had believed that Bellman meant that I should grasp on to my chance at advancement. He was a model of this behavior himself, always chasing after King Gustav and various aristocrats for favors and money. So I did heed the lesson, and spent my life climbing the tower of social superiority—from the outside, unfortunately, as I did not have access to the stairs. Talent was a wedge in the wall, as were usefulness, flattery, a veneer of education, a quick tongue, large ears. I used the tools that I could sharpen easily and climbed quite high, too. But I have followed Bellman ever since that baptism. Up and down the Town, to inns and taverns rank with pissed-on straw and pockmarked girls sticky with rancid sex, the crowds drunk and unruly. I felt perhaps there was something I had missed. Whenever I heard Bellman perform, I would go again to that summer night sea, and find a deep sense of connection. These three days at your bedside, I realized that was the message he meant for me.”

“Love and connection,” I said.

“I am not sure what hands I might still reach. There is Mrs. Lind and my boys, thank God. And I hope yours, Emil.” I noticed the blue fan box, sitting out on the nightstand. Master Fredrik followed my gaze and blushed. “She is not the one The Uzanne seeks. Do you wonder that I made a search without inquiring?” I shook my head, knowing full well I would have done the same but probably sooner. “A fan is no good to a dead man, unless he plans to head for hell, and last night both Mrs. Murbeck and myself thought you near to passing.”

“I have decided to make other plans,” I said, eyes closed, thinking. “But I need to know what The Uzanne is planning first.”

Master Fredrik leaned forward, speaking low. “The Uzanne is planning some dark event, that much is certain. I witnessed the rehearsal of this treachery at her recent lecture; she called it Domination. Lars Nordén played the part, but you were intended as the recipient. And Ms. Bloom used her apothecary skills in the creation of a treacherous ladies snuff.”

“Me? And what of Miss Bloom!” I felt a prickling along my scalp.

“More about the false Bloom anon,” Master Fredrik said, his face dark with warning. “A potent inhalant was packed inside the sleeve of a folding fan and blown into the face of the victim, causing him to fall into a dead sleep. The Uzanne has been testing this powder on her servants, and Cook claims that her beloved Sylten was killed in the process. But The Uzanne aims much higher than a feline.” His voice dropped. “I fear she means to cripple the king, alter his mind, or cause him to be dependent on some drug. Duke Karl is in her sway. She will take the reins, and is fond of the whip,” he said.

“And no one has called the police?” I said.

He rolled his eyes, as if I were an idiot. “Who would dare? And no one would believe it, least of all the king. Gustav would welcome The Uzanne with open arms, so eager is he for reconciliation with his aristocracy. That embrace would be the end of Gustav, and the end of what little stability we have in Sweden now.”

“But what can
we
do?” I asked.

“I would like to pretend that I do not know, to say this is in God's hands. But we must choose to be those hands, Emil. The devil thrives on our indifference.” Master Fredrik stood, his clothes stained and rumpled. “We need to learn exactly what she plans to do and when. Perhaps we can continue our alliance, but now it will have a more . . . noble goal.” He smiled at his own joke.

“It is true one has better odds with a partner,” I said.

“It would be prudent to buy time and favor, but there is only one currency The Uzanne will accept.”

I felt that same need to buy time; I needed time to contact Mrs. Sparrow to ask when the fan should be sent on its way and where. And Master Fredrik's sincerity seemed genuine, but there was no guarantee of its longevity. He might be more inclined to follow the teaching
God helps those who help themselves
.

“A promissory note, perhaps,” I said to Master Fredrik. He furrowed his brow. “Send word to The Uzanne that you sat with me these last three days, at great risk to your person of course, and obtained my promise to secure her fan at once. But finding you at my bedside, the great Doctor Pilo imposed a brief quarantine on us both, for fear of spreading the contagion. Tell her you will come to Gullenborg as soon as it is safe. Meanwhile I will recover the fan, and you will try to learn more of her dark matters.”

“Excellent! Even The Uzanne will not cross the quarantine this winter; the dead are stacked like a barrier of icy faggots out in South Borough, waiting to be buried.” He took on his overcoat and gloves, and wound a scarf around his neck.

“One thing more,” I said, taking hold of his sleeve. “What of Miss Bloom?”

He looked at me askance, as if my question held a tone he had not heard from me before. “Well, she is not Johanna Bloom, but Johanna Grey, and while she is clever she is in no way noble—in no way a match. I used her distress to my advantage, I admit. Her mother holds fanatical religious convictions and sacrificed the girl to a hideous marriage. The groom was a violent brute, and the neighbors seemed sad they would miss the beatings.” He shuddered. “Miss Grey ran away and stuck to me with the slimmest of connections this past August. Pity her, Emil; she is now climbing the tower as I once did and has made it well inside, but does not comprehend that there is no escape for a woman.” Master Fredrik rose slowly and stretched. “Now I must go home to Mrs. Lind. It has been too many days, and she is my rock. It is crucial that I remain tethered to her good graces.”

I propped myself up on one forearm. “Master Fredrik, I am grateful for your visit.”

“We are thrown together in this event for some reason, as if we had no choice,” he said. “People are sometimes pushed to friendship by circumstance, but it does not make them lesser friends.” With that Master Fredrik bowed and took his leave, his shoes clicking across the floor. He stopped in the front room and turned back to me. “Grasp the hand that you can reach, Emil Larsson.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine
Faith

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

A NEARLY THREE-WEEK CONVALESCENCE
had returned the better portion of my health, but I feared a relapse, and so remained in bed. I woke to a square of blue sky in the window and the sight of Mrs. Murbeck hovering over me with a note that had arrived in the early post. “This should seal your recovery. Never have I seen such paper, such wax!” she exclaimed.

“Let's open it,” I said, knowing she would never leave without learning at least the name of the sender. I took up the envelope to inspect the writing. I had hoped for word from Mrs. Sparrow, but I knew her crabby hand and had seen nothing of it for weeks. I sniffed at the flap to see if some signature perfume escaped, but there was none. A signet had been pressed into pea green sealing wax, but it showed only a beaded rim around an empty circle. I pulled open the flap, cracking the edge of the wax, and pulled on the card. The notepaper was soft, snow flecked with silver, and the edges had been trimmed into scallops. There was a fresh green border but no message. “Blank,” I said, holding up the card. “It
is
blank, isn't it Mrs. Murbeck? I hope that I am no longer prone to hallucinations?”

I handed her the note, and she peered closely at it, then ran her forefinger over the face. “Something sharp has traveled here,” she said. She took the blue glass votive and held the paper close to its mouth. “I once went to the theater, only once mind you, but what I do remember is a dark blank wall that came to life when the lamps were lit behind.” She peered at the paper in her hand. “I can make out a line. No, two.”

“And what does it say?”

She pressed it closer to the votive. “Oh! The heat from the flame is making the letters appear. Not many letters, Mr. Larsson. It says Visit. A date, let's see, February eighth. Today! I cannot read the hour. Here it is, here it is—
Wait for me
, it says, then . . . I cannot read the next few words. Then initials. I think it is a
C,
or perhaps a
G
. No—a
C
with flourish.”

“Carlotta!” I said happily, and at that moment the note caught fire. Mrs. Murbeck screamed and dropped the paper on the floor. I jumped up from my bed and, taking the bottle of Pilo's syrup, doused the flames, the thick elixir smothering the tiny fire. Mrs. Murbeck stood gulping air, her hand over her heart.

“You have saved the house,” she said, tears in her eyes. “And given up your precious elixir to do so.”

“Come now, Mrs. Murbeck,” I said, resting again on the bed. “It's small payment for all that you have done on my behalf.”

She calmed herself with a great breath. “The note, though, it's gone,” she said.

“No matter,” I said taking her hand and kissing it gallantly. I felt the note ignite the thoughts that had been set like sticks in a brazier. “The
C
tells me everything; it means I will be reborn!”

“But why would this Carlotta choose to write in secret?” Mrs. Murbeck asked, suddenly suspicious.

“She was sent away from the Town most cruelly and does not wish her tormenter to know of her return. Perhaps word of my near brush with death has reached her in her exile,” I said, and thought of my Octavo, filling itself in. Mrs. Sparrow had urged me to be patient, and now Carlotta was the one after all! She would return my old self to me: my red cloak secured, carefree nights of cards, groaning bed and board. “Send the house girl to scrub my rooms at once, Mrs. Murbeck. Boil water for a bath—I am as crusty as last week's cauldron and smell just as rank,” I said, pushing myself from the sickbed for good. “If there are paperwhites for sale in the market, have the girl bring up a large crock. And a bundle of willow branches to force. It will be spring here now.”

I flung open the windows and aired the rooms to the point of freezing while I prepared for my visitor. There was the promise of a clear sky and afternoon sun. The paperwhites that the housemaid brought up added not only beauty but a fresh and lovely scent. Mrs. Murbeck bustled in and out as though I was her second son and she was to meet my intended. “My comfortable chair looks very nice here. I think that you should keep it for your visitors, now that you have some. I have brought my best paisley shawl to throw over it and a soft cushion. It's lucky that you have a mirror. A lady always likes to have a looking glass in the room. I have made a hasty sand cake, and there is cream ready. I will take up the whisk after I escort her to your room. Should I send up my boy with a warning? He climbs the steps three at a time and can hide on the landing.”

I shook my head. “No need, no need, Mrs. Murbeck. I am ready enough, and you have done more than your share to help me.” I paused. Perhaps it was a clandestine visit. Carlotta would not want The Uzanne to know she had returned. “In fact, Mrs. Murbeck, it might be best if you whipped the cream and brought the tray now, so I am ready to greet my guest alone and without interruption.”

“Oh, I see.” She stopped and stood so still for a time that I felt she had been struck with a curse. “Ah. Well then, Mr. Larsson.” She blinked and turned to me. “I believe you to be an honorable man, but as landlady I must ask for your solemn word that you do not intend to sully the reputation of this house with illicit liaisons.”

“Never, dear lady. I have no notion of the purpose of my friend's visit. We are not romantically involved at this time,” I said, aching for an illicit liaison.

“Good, good, for I would not want gossip,” she said firmly, then a look of intense disappointment clouded her face, and she sighed. “I confess that based on the lovely paper with its spring green wax, I hoped God might grace you with romance.”

“One moment I am to be chaste and the next moment do Cupid's bidding. Which would you prefer, Mrs. Murbeck?”

“You are too long a bachelor, and will soon be too sour for any but a paid nurse. Perhaps your lady visitor can help you to avoid that sorry fate.”

“She may only wish to return a glove I once left at her father's shop.”

“No one sends a secret note for a glove,” Mrs. Murbeck replied, heading for the stairs. “I will whip the cream when I hear the door and present myself when I bring the tray. It will spare us the wagging tongues.”

Of course Mrs. Murbeck's was the tongue likely to wag, I chuckled to myself. The clock at the German Church had already tolled eleven, and I sat down to wait in my armchair, practicing different greetings in a whisper, wondering how Carlotta wore her hair now, and if she still used that pomade that smelled of oranges. I wondered if I would ever get to eat another orange. I had only eaten one: a Christmas gift from Mr. Bleking's table. I had bitten straight into the skin, the bitter taste a sharp but not unpleasant surprise. Mr. Bleking laughed and cut the peel off in one long strip. I ate the fruit and saved the skin, hanging it in a window. The scent lasted for many months before it became just a dry, brown curl. I must have dozed off to the memory of oranges, for I woke with a rivulet of drool on my chin and a gentle tapping. The light in the room showed that it was late afternoon, but it was not Mrs. Murbeck at the door, for she usually pounded like a bailiff. I rose, wiped my face, and went to greet my Carlotta.