The Stockholm Octavo (34 page)

I removed the cup from her hand and refilled it, dropping the lumps of sugar in slowly, letting the rotation on the spoon calm us both. She sipped at the tea, and we sat in silence for a minute or two. “You must eat, Mrs. Sparrow. You will need your strength if you are to hold up a throne,” I said gently.

She cackled at my jest like the rag picker at Iron Square, then started to cough. Her eyes were damp with the strain, and she wiped them on her sleeve. “Where is Cassiopeia?”

“Must we enter into this now? You are not well,” I pleaded.

“I am your Key. I need to know.” Her hands were in flight now, around her face, touching her cheeks and mouth. So I told Mrs. Sparrow what had transpired in her absence: my illness, Domination, the blabbering of my Magpie Lars, the assistance from Christian and Margot—I considered them both my Prize. Lastly I told her of the efforts of my Teacher, and then my Prisoner, to take the fan. “And?” she asked, leaning forward anxiously.

“Miss Bloom had a more . . . compelling argument. Then she read your words to me, and they fit so well I gave her the fan. I felt that you were there in spirit.”

She put her hands up to her mouth, whispering to her fingertips, then bent down to retrieve some of her papers and held them close to her face. “Cassiopeia has returned to The Uzanne. Oh yes, oh here she is. Look! I have enlarged our chart, Emil. I have dealt the remainder of the deck out around us. Your Prisoner is Teacher to The Uzanne,” she said. “It is a beautiful tapestry, isn't it? You see, here is your Companion. Her Teacher has turned against her, and your Prisoner will be released.” She looked up suddenly and gasped. “You have not named your Courier. Or your Trickster.”

“I have one person who might be either of those.” I explained Mrs. Murbeck's role in my recent convalescence; that I thought her my adversary but she proved an angel instead. And now she had agreed to be a messenger for me. “Could she be both?”

“Murbeck?” Mrs. Sparrow said. “Your Trickster card shows a coarse woman with a sharp tongue, berating a cowed man. Is this truly her nature?” I admitted Mrs. Murbeck was far too kind, and while she scolded her boy, she loved him and meant to raise him up well. “And your Courier card portrays a man, most definitely it is a man. Perhaps Mrs. Murbeck is simply your friend.” She grabbed hold of my sleeve, yanking me toward her. I could smell her rank breath and unwashed body. “You need to find these last two and soon! A seemingly insignificant choice by any one of your eight can shift the entire landscape. Love and connection hang in the balance, and the Crown is at stake.” Looking down at the top of her head, I saw a gray louse make its way through the part in her hair. “We need the French king,” she muttered, “and did I not ask for brandy?”

I heard a faint knock, pulled my sleeve from her bony fingers, and went to the entry door. It was Mrs. Murbeck herself. “So this is the den of iniquity to be renewed,” she said, a look of barely disguised glee on her face. “Where is the fortune-teller?”

I directed Mrs. Murbeck first to the kitchen, where she placed her baskets and parcels, then presented her to Mrs. Sparrow, who paid not the least attention. When we returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Murbeck outlined her plans, which would begin with the treatment of head lice and included prayer, hymn singing, and teaching Mrs. Sparrow to knit so that she might find a useful occupation. I gave her money to restock the pantry, and she promised to report to me later. “I will be home in time for my lesson, Mr. Larsson, and to deliver the good news to your friend.”

Mrs. Sparrow did not look up when I said good-bye. I retrieved my scarlet cape from the chair in the hall and was reaching for the latch when Mrs. Sparrow's voice reached me.
“Vive le roi!”

PART III

The Century's End

—
CARL MICHAEL BELLMAN
,
“FREDMAN'S SONG NO. 19”

Chapter Fifty-Two
It Concerns Miss Bloom

Sources: J. Bloom, Louisa G.

OLD COOK DROPPED THE PLATE
of uneaten dinner on the study floor, the fine porcelain shattering into thin sharp strips. Bits of meat and gravy splattered her shoes and brussels sprouts greasy with bacon rolled onto the hearth. “Oh, Madame, I apologize but my hands are telling me to talk.” Old Cook did not hasten to clear up the mess but twisted her hands and then wiped them on her apron. “It concerns Miss Bloom.”

“Yes, Cook,” The Uzanne said, looking up from her letter.

“I know you to be fond of the girl, and Louisa says she has done much good for us at Gullenborg. But I have doubts, Madame. Serious doubts.”

“What makes you think this?” The Uzanne stood and came around her study table.

Old Cook grimaced and knelt down to pick up bits of broken plate. “First there is Young Per.” Old Cook did not dare to mention Sylten; a dead cat meant nothing to her mistress. But the boy was another matter; he had still not fully recovered. “The girl is at the Lion very often of late and hiding her packets of mischief deep in the cupboards. She will not have anyone near when she works. I seen her with a scarf wrapped clear around her nose and mouth so as not to breathe in what she is grinding.”

“Perhaps her lungs are inflamed and sensitive. You know very well how troubling that can be. And Young Per himself has told you of his carelessness, and yet you still blame Miss Bloom.”

“Madame, it's only I want no harm to come to you, nor anyone at Gullenborg.”

“Your concern moves me to action, Cook.” The Uzanne placed a hand on the woman's shoulder. “Leave the mess. We will go down to the kitchen and be done with this. I want no further discord.”

Old Cook rose slowly, her heavy breathing now sounding a high-pitched wheeze. Their footsteps echoed in the empty hall as they made their way to the cellar door. Gullenborg was quiet; most of the staff had already gone to bed. Old Cook unlocked the door and hesitated before she opened it. “Why else would she be locked up tight, if she weren't a danger?”

“I lock her in because I think she is
in
danger. And you have helped to make it so.” The Uzanne took the old woman's elbow and gave a gentle push in the direction of the stairwell. Old Cook glanced back at The Uzanne several times as they descended, but could not make out her features in the dark.

Johanna was waiting, standing stiffly near the chopping block. The lamp above the table was lit and the kettle was beginning to steam. “Make Old Cook some tea, Miss Bloom. I am here to make peace between you at last.”

Old Cook took her chair by the fire, wary but comfortable here in her own little kingdom, where she dared to sit while her mistress stood. Then the woman leaned forward. “Why do you call me
Old
Cook of a sudden?”

“Bring the gray and silver fan, Johanna. I trust you have prepared it as I asked.”

“What about the tea?” Johanna whispered.

“Do you see how thoughtful Miss Bloom is, Old Cook?” The Uzanne said, perching on the kitchen bench. “Your comfort comes first.”

The room was utterly silent but for the sound of water being poured, the clunk of a spoon in a tin. The smell of chamomile infused the air. The preparation of tea provided just enough time to make Johanna frantic. Now that the compounding was done, Johanna was of little use and a genuine liability. The Uzanne intended to test the powder, and had brought Old Cook to hold her down. There was nowhere to run. And if she were to turn the fan on The Uzanne as she intended, Old Cook was willing to die for her mistress. Johanna handed the cups around, and the three women sipped and blew on the hot tea, Old Cook stifling her persistent cough.

“I want you to tell Old Cook what you are compounding for me, Miss Bloom,” The Uzanne said. “She believes you are about some mischief.” Johanna turned to her, eyes wide. “Better yet, I would like to show Old Cook what this compound will do.” Johanna did not move. “It is crucial to know that we can clear the air once and for good.”

Johanna put her cup on the block and took the fan from her pocket, wrapped tightly in a napkin.

“That is my good linen!” Old Cook cried.

The Uzanne rose from her seat and joined Johanna. “Old Cook is a near perfect match: age, height, weight . . . and an utter lack of testicles,” she said quietly. “Do it, Johanna. You have been in my class, and Miss Plomgren claims you mimic her every move. I know you have been practicing.”

“Madame, I . . .” Johanna unwrapped the fan slowly, careful not to jar the powder. “Is it so, I hold her?” She opened her clumsily and turned the fan face up, keeping the top guard stuck on the last three sticks.

“Is this more of your sleeping potions?” Old Cook put her cup on the floor and heaved herself up from the chair. “There'll be no more of your witchcraft in my kitchen.”

“
My
kitchen,” The Uzanne said, and snatched the fan from Johanna. In two swift movements she flipped the verso up and blew at the bottom of the hollow quill, forcing the powder into Old Cook's face. She coughed and sputtered and waved her hands, then stopped and waited. Johanna held her breath, unsure of what the inhaled Turbantops would do. Nothing happened. The Uzanne laughed, as if it were April Fool's. “You see, Old Cook? It is merely a mild soporific,” The Uzanne said, glancing at Johanna. “Now sit down and drink your tea. Miss Bloom will stay with you until you are ready to go to bed. The war is over.”

They watched The Uzanne climb the stairs, her form haloed by a candle's gleam, and heard the cellar door lock click shut. Sylten's successor was roused from his nap and came to sit, purring on Old Cook's lap. But for the occasional bouts of coughing and the scurry of a mouse, there was no other sound. In half an hour, Old Cook was snoring.

Johanna stood and tiptoed up the stairs, but the door at the top remained locked. The faint chime of a mantel clock sounded eleven. She returned to the kitchen and lay down on the bench, her thoughts crowding one another for attention. Perhaps the Turbantops had already been boiled clean, or were too old, or merely ineffective as a powder. She would have to use antimony, but how to get The Uzanne alone? And what would Old Cook do when she woke up? She watched the pulsing coals, red against the black maw of sooty brick, and thought for the first time of hell. How had she come to such a cold and brittle place that surely was the devil's portal—where she herself saw Old Cook as a test, where her knowledge and skills were meant for harm?

Sleep in time overtook Johanna, but some hours later she woke with a start, Old Cook's face close to hers. The hearth fire was only coals, but Johanna could see her wide eyes and mouth ajar. She smelled faintly of chocolate from the Turbantops, a cruel joke of nature. “I don't feel well, Miss Bloom,” she whispered. Old Cook smacked her lips several times and went to get a dipper of water from the barrel. The cat, thrown rudely from his nap, stretched and jumped onto Johanna's chest. Old Cook drank, then dropped the ladle, clutching her stomach with both hands. She turned and raced for the slop bucket kept in the tiny back room, and the sound of her body expelling its contents was deafening in the deep of night. Johanna heard the thump of a fall, thrashing limbs, and the rattle and wheeze of struggling lungs. There was no antidote. Johanna lifted the warm cat to her face, closed her eyes, and breathed in the clean scent of fur until there was only silence again.

Chapter Fifty-Three
The Ides of March

Sources: E. L., J. Bloom, kitchen girl

THE KITCHEN GIRL SORTED THROUGH
the ring of keys, a silent manservant at her side for protection. “The Ladies Prayer Society sent word you would be coming, Deacon. Claimed their prayers weren't strong enough after this,” she said.

“It is the duty of the clergy to attend the sinner and confront the devil face to face. I thank God for the opportunity.”

“Best you thank me first.” The kitchen girl held out a hand then pocketed the coin and undid the bolt. “Beg your pardon, Deacon, but Old Cook's spirit is still trapped inside the slop room, so I'll not be descending with you.” Once I was inside, she locked the door again. Her voice came muffled through the wood. “Three loud knocks when you want out. The manservant will be waiting. The lady is not allowed upstairs without The Uzanne.” I heard the girl scurry away, as if fearing she might be sucked down the dark stairs.

“Miss Bloom,” I called softly. “Here is redemption.” It was silent below, a far cry from the whistling kettles and banging pots of Old Cook's reign. The only light was the flicker from the hearth that traced long shadows and strips of light on the tiles. I jumped when a head poked around the corner.

“Be gone, priest,” she whispered. “It is too late for salvation.”

“I paid well for the honor of saving you,” I said, coming down the stairs.

Johanna stared at me as if I were a phantom, then pulled me into the room and spoke softly into my ear. “Use a quiet voice. They stand listening at the door.” The kitchen was warm and dim, the white wall tiles reflecting the light of the open fire and an oil lamp that hung above the long oak table. “Where is The Uzanne?” Johanna asked.

“She takes comfort in Duke Karl's bed. Or comforts him. All sovereigns are wary on the Ides of March,” I said. Johanna's shoulders relaxed at this news. “Gustav especially dreads this day—but it's tomorrow he should fear.” I removed Master Fredrik's cleric's hat and cassock, and unwound the scarf from around my face. “I do.”

A beef and barley stew filled the air with a rich, savory scent, and Johanna went to the hearth to give it a round of stirring. “Are you hungry, Mr. Larsson?” she asked. I did not answer but she ladled out a bowl for me then sat on a three-legged stool by the fire. I sat at the table where I could better see her.

“What happened to Old Cook?” I asked.

“Old Cook was the rehearsal for the tragedy tomorrow.”

I glanced at the slop room door. “And how will this tragedy unfold?”

A pine log fell crackling onto the hearth, and Johanna kicked it back into the fire. Sparks flew upward with the draft, bright against the sooty brick. “The first act is Engagement. This part of the evening will be light and amusing. The Uzanne and Miss Plomgren will be masked and dressed as gentlemen. The young ladies will be costumed as the most seductive of women. The Uzanne and Plomgren will focus on Gustav, and her coterie will take on the men loyal to the king. They will use the freedom of the masque to their advantage. The second act is dark. You missed the lecture on Domination, but I know Master Fredrik explained. The young ladies have packed their fans with perfumed talc or aphrodisiacs from the Lion, but Plomgren carries the gray and silver fan, prepared here in the kitchen at Gullenborg. Cassiopeia will be ready in reserve, but The Uzanne will not soil her hands if it can be avoided.” Johanna turned around on her stool and faced me. “I will not have a fan of merit; The Uzanne thinks me too clumsy after last night with Old Cook. But I will be with them at the finale. I will attend as an unmasked maiden, intended as the Lenten sacrifice. If the plan fails or this treason is discovered, The Uzanne will point to me, suddenly understanding the poisoning of Young Per and the murder of Old Cook. She will claim ignorance of my evil. I will have served her well, no?” Her voice was calm, as if she were describing a scene in a play, but then Johanna put her hands up to her face.

“Perhaps we can still change the ending,” I said, thinking of the Octavo. “Can you get out of Gullenborg? I have tried to release you, but you are held fast.”

“My part here is not finished. If she calls for me later tonight, I will do what I must and walk out the front door. If not, I will leave in a coach and four, tomorrow night, to the masked ball.” Johanna poked forcefully at the logs, and pockets of flame rose and fell, casting a reddish glow on her face. “The Uzanne thinks me incapable of Engagement and Domination, but I will prove her most accomplished student. I will draw her close and offer myself, and carry a deadly fan of my own: a gray and silver copy of hers made by the maestro Nordén. One way or another I plan to change
her
ending. One way or another, I will be caught. My ending is still certain,” she replied.

I put the uneaten bowl of stew on the floor, and the new kitchen cat tore hungrily into the chunks of meat. “The only thing that is certain is that you must run.”

“There is no need. I have nothing more to lose and am as good as dead.”

I stood and joined her at the hearth. “You are very much alive, Johanna.”

She stared at the shifting coals and made no indication that she heard me. “I have been arrogant and stupid—inflating the extent of my apothecary knowledge, justifying my contribution to her plans, believing myself innocent because I only made the deadly powders but did not deliver them. Every choice I made, I thought I made alone. But if the king falls, Duke Karl will be named regent. Every Royalist will be punished. Then The Uzanne will remove Gustav's son. Who knows where this will end, how many will be ruined? Do you see the reach of my folly?”

“We are all of us foolish sometimes,” I said, “but none of us are alone. There are always the eight.” I thought of my Courier card, the successful man bearing valuable goods but looking behind with concern. In that moment I knew him at last. “I hoped you might stay in the Town. That is no longer possible, is it?” She shook her head. “I neglected to arrange your passage on a sailing ship as I promised. But I will arrange it tonight and a safe house as well. You must come to the masked ball tomorrow night.
Then
you will go free.”

There was a soft but urgent knocking on the cellar door. It creaked open and the kitchen girl spoke in rushed and frightened tones. “There'll be another devil to confront, Deacon. The Uzanne is come home unexpected. Leave a handful of coins in gratitude for my warning and go.”

I cast the coins on the table so the kitchen girl would hear them, then turned to Johanna and whispered, “I will send word with Mrs. Murbeck tomorrow when and where we should meet. Look for Orpheus at the masked ball to lead you out of hell.” Johanna was silhouetted by the warm glow of the hearth, her face cast in shadow, but I sensed her desire to be touched. And I did.