The Stockholm Octavo (7 page)

Women are the strangest gamblers.

The spectators began to applaud, and Carlotta joined in until The Uzanne grabbed her by the wrist and forced one hand to the table. “I thought the king had been taken earlier in the game,” she said.

“That was knave to my ace, fourth trick,” Mrs. Sparrow said, pulling the ace and knave of diamonds from her pile of cards, then gathering up the entire deck. “Players often confuse a knave for a king.” Mrs. Sparrow picked up Cassiopeia and closed her, then did the same with the other three fans. She rose from the table, clutching the four fans like tinder in her trembling hands, and turned to Mrs. von Hälsen. “I have been lucky with your niece's cards and good fortune should be shared. Please bring her and call on me one day soon.” Mrs. Sparrow gave a nod and disappeared down the dark corridor to her private rooms.

I could not see The Uzanne's face, but Carlotta leaned over to kiss her cheek. “There, there, Madame. You said yourself we must look to the future.” Carlotta hesitated, and I watched her face display the triumph of her kind heart over her social station. “I have heard rumors of a merry outing to meet the morning in DjurgÃ¥rden. Will you come?” I slipped from my seat and tried to signal Carlotta that this simply could not happen: I wanted to declare my intentions as soon as we were alone. But Carlotta's eyes were only for her stricken benefactress.

The Uzanne took out her ivory souvenir and pencil and wrote the word
SPARROW
in a shaking hand. There were damp circles under her arms and breasts, watering the embroidered flowers on her gown. She turned to her tender companion. “Yes, Carlotta, we must look to our futures. But I have plans already, and so do you.” Carlotta looked puzzled. “I have arranged a rendezvous for you with Lieutenant Halland. He is close to Duke Karl and related to the De Geers.”

“The De Geers!” Carlotta placed a hand on her bosom. The family was noble and their wealth was legendary. “Where is he?” she asked, glancing around with the prettiest of smiles.

The two ladies made their way toward Duke Karl's entourage, and The Uzanne handed Carlotta over to an inebriated officer with unruly facial hair. Intervention would at best cause embarrassment and at worst a duel, so I stood stiffly by and observed as the lout kissed her ungloved hand and she admired his uniform. There was not so much as a glance in my direction as the fervor of their exchange increased. When Carlotta took the officer's arm and pressed herself against him, raising her tender lips to his, I convinced myself that she was merely playing the game and pleasing both The Uzanne and her mother, but her obvious pleasure was painful to watch.

The Uzanne seemed to want more than a word with Duke Karl, leaning toward him in the most alluring of postures, but Pechlin stood suddenly, calling loudly for the duke's carriage. The remaining guests began to take their leave, the house servants bowing and scooping up empty glasses in their wake. I disappeared with the throng and cut back into the shadowy courtyard. The light in the sky was finally approaching that of evening, and the blue hours waited, where the sun hovers on the horizon for hours and only the strongest of stars show themselves. One is caught between night and day in a rare azure world, just as I felt caught between Carlotta's initial encouragements and her disappearance. I waited until everyone had gone, then climbed the servants' stairs and sat in the upper room until Mrs. Sparrow could lay the cards.

Chapter Six
Cassiopeia

Sources: E. L., Mrs. S.

MRS. SPARROW LOOKED PALE
and tired, the skin beneath her eyes sagging somewhat more than usual. She set a tray with two glasses and bottle on the table, then sat opposite me, her posture as stiff as her straight-backed wooden chair. “An eventful midsummer's night, Mr. Larsson.”

I ran my hands through my hair and over the stubble sprouting on my chin. “Yes. And none of the events proceeded as I planned. Did you see my Carlotta go off with that . . . that oaf? My future has been stolen from me!” Mrs. Sparrow took a long slender object bound in blue silk from the tray, hands trembling slightly as she unwrapped and opened Cassiopeia. “And that! Such careless sharping for such small stakes.”

“She is no small stakes. The Uzanne has given me a valuable piece, especially if the story of the fan's dark provenance is true. I will query the fan maker, Christian Nordén. He will know who and what she is.”

“I know she is worth at least a month's salary.” I poured myself a glass of Armagnac, the clatter of dishes and voices of servants rising up the stairwell. “I expect a cut, by the way.”

“I don't intend to sell her but will repay you of course.” She held Cassiopeia face out. “Do you recognize her?” Mrs. Sparrow turned the fan and gazed at the painted landscape. “The sunset fading indigo to orange, the clouds arching up into heaven. The fine house, the black traveling coach . . . this is the vision I had for Gustav.”

“Yes!” I leaned in to study the alluring scene, imagined myself stepping inside the coach and transported to a destination of unimaginable pleasures. “I had a strange feeling when I saw her on the table . . .”

Mrs. Sparrow's face held both alarm and wonder. “Gustav insisted that the vision pointed to France, but it is his own house that is at risk. That was clear tonight.” She traced a finger along the face of the fan. “I need to lay an Octavo.”

“But I heard Gustav say he did not have time.”

“No, Mr. Larsson. I mean to lay the Octavo for myself.” She folded Cassiopeia and began winding her back into her cocoon of silk. “It is true that Gustav is attached to this vision, but I was mistaken in thinking it was for him. The vision is meant for me. I am charged with protecting his house.” Mrs. Sparrow put Cassiopeia into her pocket, patting it several times, as if she might vanish.

“With all due respect, I wonder what you could offer by way of protection to the king?” I asked.

“My Octavo. The knowledge that my Octavo will give me can stop the treachery before it occurs.”

“Gustav has withstood twenty years of scheming, Mrs. Sparrow, and as for the Patriots we witnessed tonight? Duke Karl hates his brother one day and cries tears of love and devotion the next. Pechlin has one foot in the grave and The Uzanne is . . . a fan collector.”

“And a most discerning one. Cassiopeia is an object of power, and I plan to use her. We may need to disarm her, or enchant her. Perhaps we will need to destroy her.”

“
We?
Why do you say we?”

She fetched her pipe from the side table and lit it with a taper. “We are partners, Mr. Larsson. I can engage with Duke Karl; he is a believer and will seek me out. But I want you to learn more about The Uzanne: who are her allies, what are her weaknesses, how she intends to lift Karl onto the throne. In fact—doesn't the Queen of Wine Vessels fit The Uzanne quite well? Your Companion.”

“I don't see her in that role. And how would I approach The Uzanne? At cards?”

“Use the door that your Carlotta provides.”

“Carlotta? Carlotta tripped off with that soldiering dolt without so much as a wink.” I finished my drink in one swallow. “But then again, the poor girl had no choice. She is . . . a prisoner!” I set my empty glass down and sat up straight. “My Octavo, Mrs. Sparrow. It is nearly midnight!”

She nodded and quickly prepared the table for the cards. “We look tonight for a Teacher to instruct you.” We did not speak more while the cards were dealt. After five rounds, the third of my eight arrived.

“The Teacher—eight of Books. Books are the suit of strife.”

“I thought you said it was the suit of striving.”

“Every suit holds good and bad. Some striving is of a negative sort. Learning is sacred, it raises man toward heaven, but people are conquered and enslaved with dogma and cruel laws. New ideas compete with old; science overturns and uplifts the world.” She studied the image closely for a minute. “Based on this card, your Teacher might be a man or a woman. Two flowers bloom, one white and one red. Opposition of some kind. But the number eight means rebirth; perhaps your Teacher longs for this as well. This is someone who wishes to climb—perhaps the tree of knowledge, perhaps the tree of success. But though clever, your Teacher is prone to flattery and imitation; see the parrot?”

“I think at once of the Superior at Customs. He is constantly squawking Bible verses and advice regarding my choice of wife.”

“Hmmm.” She sucked on her pipe. “But the music these two share so casually does not bring to mind a hymnal.”

“I thought to sing a hymn to Eros tonight with Carlotta,” I said, staring down at the couple on the card.

Chapter Seven
Inspiration from The Pig

Sources: E. L., C. Hinken, J. Bloom

DESPITE A SHORT AND RESTLESS NIGHT,
I rose early the next day and penned a fervid note to Carlotta. It was a full page of compliments followed by one of dismay at her departure, my forgiveness for the same, and assurances that the very Seer that had advised Duke Karl had given me foreknowledge of our love and connection. That the Octavo was not yet complete did not matter; I had full confidence in its happy outcome. When I came downstairs with this missive, my landlady, Mrs. Murbeck (a woman I generally tried to avoid at all costs), began her usual sermon on my late hours and occasional hangover, until I told her of my upcoming engagement. This news transformed her into the most tender of friends. She called at once for her son, whom she was always berating for some fault, and offered his services as messenger of love. But there was no reply from Carlotta by supper, a fact that pestered me like a biting fly until I realized that this was the game of courtship, and she had the power to make me suffer.

 

MY ASSIGNMENT THAT MISERABLE
night took me splashing through the puddles and wheel ruts to one of the many docks on Skeppsholmen, an island due east of the Town. Protected by a thick cloak and tall boots, I gazed out at a sagging howker that looked to have had more rocking than an ancient whore. Such ships were often the site of Customs raids, wrecks sailed by the desperate as a last resort, or the criminal who could abandon them without feeling the loss so hard. The vessel was loaded down with contraband and had set out from Riga. A successful voyage was worth great risk; with France removed from its position as the center of the civilized world by revolution, luxuries were scarce, import duties high, and this boat was stuffed with lace. Expensive to produce and a popular trim with men, women, children, and an occasional lap dog, it would bring a small fortune. Bad weather and late hours were no deterrent to me; I was entitled to a share of the confiscated goods.

Two policemen had already arrived, and a seaman stood encircled by the light of their lanterns. Their captive was a wiry man with a lined face, and he carried a small concertina. He nodded respectfully when he spotted my red cloak. “A terrible night,
Sekretaire
, and me blown in at the Feather Isles by accident,” the captain said, shaking my hand. “Let's retire to the nearest inn so I might tell my story in a dry room over a warming beverage. I am buying, of course.”

I told the police this was clearly Customs business and would take charge of this scoundrel myself. The captain and I made our way to The Pig's Tail, where a lantern blinked a greeting in the rain and the ghastly weather kept all but the most dedicated drinkers at home.

“I would prefer not to know your name, should there be questions later,” he said.

“Most people do not,” I said, “although I know yours. You are spoken of often at Customs, Captain Hinken.”

He waved this away like a compliment heard too many times. “I am a useful man to know, for I can transport anything—or anyone—from point A to point Ö without the rest of the alphabet knowing.” He called for mulled wine in the general direction of the innkeeper and sat down. “You embody the image of a Customs officer,
Sekretaire
,” Hinken began. “A soldier's height and weight, an even-featured face. You might be anyone and no doubt prone to being recognized as someone else. At first glance, pleasant and trustworthy in appearance. On closer inspection . . .”

“You flatter me, Captain.”

“Not at all,
Sekretaire
. Any young lady would agree.” He called again for our drinks, and the innkeeper hurried over with the mugs. Hinken waited until the man was out of earshot to continue. “I am a seaman,
Sekretaire
, and so imprisonment is the closest I can come to hell on this earth. Perhaps we can come to some understanding.” I nodded, but not too enthusiastically. Hinken offered me a case of Russian vodka and a dozen spools of lace as partial payment if I would file a report of his full compliance with the law and let him blow off to St. Petersburg. We settled at three cases of liquor and a half-crate of goods, plus the promise of some discreet transport in the future should I need it. Hinken sent the kitchen boy to his ship with a message for the first mate, and before the first round of drinks was finished the merchandise appeared. I put a spool of lace in my satchel and arranged for the rest to be delivered to my rooms. It was a cheap down payment for the captain—the lace turned out to be stringy stuff that a fishwife might use to decorate a bodice and the vodka mediocre—but still an adequate trade for me. One could sell spirits of any sort in the Town, and such novelties as lace came in handy when I needed to be persuasive. Eventually I would collect in full.

Hinken had something else to offer: he brought news of Europe's revolutions. England was still licking her wounds from the severing of her colonies. Holland's republican uprising had been crushed by Prussian boots. France was just beginning to heave up the contents of its sickness. King Gustav had placed a ban on news from France for fear of inciting such actions at home, so the denizens of The Pig were rapt. “The French are singing
Ah! Ça ira!
—inspired by an American revolutionary named Franklin. But I doubt it will be fine. The line of émigrés has become a mob, rats that know the ship is sinking fast. The signs point to a fierce storm,
Sekretaire
,” Hinken said, “and all things French blow north.”

“We have had our revolution already, without any storm, courtesy of the King,” I said.

Hinken pursed his lips and shook his head solemnly. “No. The storm has yet to come.”

The news spread a gloom over the tavern, so I asked Hinken to take out his concertina and play something lively. I gestured to the serving girl for another round, hoping a pretty face would further lift my spirits. The girl came quick enough, but I will not say anything was lifted at first. She was extremely thin, face gaunt, pale blue eyes under sparse brows, a short nose, thin lips, and forgettable brown hair pulled back in a knot. Her attire was ill made and of such a mournful gray color that it announced her recent arrival from the farthest of outposts. But her skin caught my eye; it was smooth and white as milk, the shadows around her eyes a lavender tint. There was not a freckle or mark to be seen, not even on her hands—surprising for a girl who had to work for her keep. “Poor thing,” I said to Hinken, “she will not last long in The Pig.”

“I hope not, sir,” she said curtly as she set down the tray. “Do you find some fault with my service?”

“Not at all, miss,” I said, reaching for my drink.

“We have hardly noticed you,” Hinken added, taking his.

“And I am happy to hear you have higher ambitions,” I said, “but your attire will mark you for—”

“The graveyard?” she interrupted, holding the empty tray against her chest. “You are correct, for I am newly resurrected and in need of better clothes. What would you have your serving girls wear, Mr.
Sekretaire
? Perhaps sleeves that end in snowy lace. If not white, then ecru would do nicely.” She nodded toward my crates of graft from Hinken. “Perhaps you might help me to meet your high standards,
Sekretaire
. It would not take much to tie my tongue.”

It would not be in my interest to have my transaction with Hinken blabbed about, and admittedly she had made a clever thrust. I gave her a spool from the crate and sat down with a huff. “Can you bring us some bread and dried sausage, Miss . . . ?”

“Miss Grey,” she said, heading for the back room.

Hinken and I burst out laughing, but Hinken stopped abruptly when Miss Grey turned to look at us, her face pinched with tears. “There is a story,” he said. It took almost a year for me to learn it.

 

GREY WAS INDEED HER SURNAME,
and when she first arrived in the Town from Gefle, a small city two days' journey north, it suited her perfectly. For Johanna Grey, and the entire Grey family, wore only gray clothing. Johanna's mother, exceptionally devout, declared that adorning oneself in garments of color was an affront to the Almighty. Human beings were born colorless, meant to spend their lives in prayer until crossing the bridge of death into a brilliant Paradise. The particular color of garments Mrs. Grey favored for life on earth was the color of penance and a reminder of misery—a sky in November, full of cold, stinging rain. Since Mrs. Grey saw lack of color as a sign of purity, she slathered Johanna's skin with creams to keep it from burning and freckling in the sun. Johanna's skin remained a translucent white that others only obtained through the use of arsenic powders. Beside her ethereal pallor, Johanna's work set her even further apart from the other girls in the village. Her two older brothers had died of the cholera, and Mr. Grey had needed help in the family apothecary. By the time she was fourteen, Johanna had learned reading, writing, some Latin, French, botany, and medicines, but Johanna's main task was growing, finding, and preparing ingredients that made up many of the simpler medicines: dandelion, juniper, chamomile, rose hips, thorn apple, elder flower, bearberry, wolf's bane. Once or twice a month in the temperate seasons, she gathered leeches by standing bare legged in the pond until they were thick on her legs. This harvest of flora and fauna would help to pay for the spices and medicines that they could not grow, gather, or concoct themselves.

Johanna discovered a rainbow in these flowers and plants, and began to make pigments and infusions in order to keep these colors close. She studied the tints of the roots, seeds, flowers, and bark that she gathered, then dried and ground them to powder. Adding the pigments to linseed oil and alcohol produced brilliant results. She told her father it was a way to study botany and pharmacy, and told her mother it was a form of personal prayer. Some of the combinations had medicinal properties, and Johanna proposed to her parents that her tonics could boost the family income. These tasty drinks proved popular and comforting, especially one Mr. Grey dubbed the Overindulgence Tonic. Made with ginger, cardamom, and schnapps, it had tiny white yarrow flowers suspended in the clear liquid, and cured much crapulence in the surrounding county while bringing a decent sum into the till.

The Grey family had a year of prosperity and relative tranquility, until Johanna finally got her woman's cycles at sixteen. Mrs. Grey saw this as her daughter's entry into the dangerous shoals of womanhood, and held daily tirades against the deadly sin of lust. She made Mr. Grey read grisly stories of dismembered harlots from the Old Testament, and took the single fern green hair ribbon that Johanna kept hidden in her chemise and burned it as the bud of licentiousness. But in this they need not have feared, for Johanna had no carnal appetites, nor had she received even the slightest attention from the opposite sex. It was as if the neutral chemistry that ruled her appearance had been mixed with a draught from the angel of chastity. Johanna had never even dreamed of taking her own hand and running it along the smooth skin of her breasts, down her stomach to explore what was between her legs. The only thing her maturity inspired was a desire for frequent baths. When Mrs. Grey recognized her daughter's inherent virtue, she saw it as a blessing from the Almighty and began searching for a suitable match. Mr. Grey began looking for a new apprentice. But things did not work out according to the Lord's, or the Greys' plan. Nor young Johanna's.

 

HINKEN TOOK JOHANNA'S WRIST
and pressed a coin into her hand. “We meant no harm, Miss Grey.”

“You have a soft heart, Captain,” I said, suddenly wishing I had been the generous one.

“It softens with practice,
Sekretaire
,” she said.

I fished a coin from my pocket and handed it to her. “I can start small, I suppose.”

“A small key can open a great door,” she said and walked away.

Hinken and I clinked mugs, then turned our attentions to a loud table of gamblers. They were deep into a round of Poch, a German card game played with a staking board that has eight compartments around a central well. I followed the betting for a few minutes, but then began to study the board itself and its eight compartments, which reminded me of my appointment with Mrs. Sparrow. The compartments were labeled with words like
MARRIAGE
,
KING
, and
GOAT
. It was already past eleven, and I frowned at the thought of heading to Gray Friars Alley in the rainy dark, but
I
would be the goat if I did not show.

Hinken nudged me in the ribs. “Such a sour face,
Sekretaire
. A song will change that. Here is the music you asked for at last.” He took his concertina from the bench beside him and warmed up with a simple scale—C D E F G A B C.

“This is called the octave is it not?” I asked. “The first and last note the same.” Hinken nodded. “And why is that repetition of a note necessary? Why can't it just be seven? Why must it be eight?”

Hinken knit his brow at this puzzling question, then played the scale up and down several times, leaving out the last note. He put down his concertina and shrugged. “It doesn't sound right. You must have all eight.”

“So . . . so this is a Truth?” I asked quietly. “In the larger sense?”

Hinken shrugged and resumed his playing, but after two mournful and off-key ballads the innkeeper had enough and insisted he stop. Last call was announced, and the scrape of chairs and benches being set atop the wooden tables was mingled with the clink of washing up from the back. Johanna began to throw a mix of sawdust and sand on the floors, preparing to sweep.

“What else do you know of octaves and eights?” I asked Hinken. Johanna moved closer, sweeping so slowly there was little sound from her broom.