The Stockholm Octavo

by Karen Engelmann

  When I arrived at Mrs. Sparrow’s that night, the upper room still smelled faintly of men’s cologne, and a glass half full of clear liquid remained on the sideboard. “Is it vodka?” I asked. “May I drink it?”

  “You are in a state,” she said.

  “She is gone, Mrs. Sparrow.” I sat down in an armchair, sniffed the contents of the glass, and put it back down. It was water.

  “Who is gone?”

  “Carlotta! Vanished, like that.” I snapped my fingers. “And I cannot find out why, other than some slanderous story of her licentiousness. I promise you it was not with me. I only got a kiss.” Mrs. Sparrow patted my shoulder and called down for a bottle, then we sat in silence until Katarina came with vodka and a glass. I poured three fingers and drank it. “She was sent to Finland. Finland! And what am I to tell the Superior? That he must wait for me to puzzle out my eight all over again? He will have the cloak off my back and my backside out the door by tomorrow noon! There is no point in the Octavo now.”

  Mrs. Sparrow rose and went to the table, where the spread remained from the previous evening. “I saw a golden path for you and I believe in it still. And keep in mind that Carlotta may not be one of your eight at all. Her role may have been to show you to the Seeker’s place and then depart.” I merely grunted at this. Mrs. Sparrow placed the seven cards and the Seeker aside, then began to shuffle the remainder of the deck. “We mustn’t give up. Look at the king and queen of France: so close to their goal and then . . . but they go on. Already new plans are afoot. Young von Fersen is steadfast and daring. Gustav will not let them suffer. We go on.” I poured myself another glass and stared at the colorless drink. “There is only one card more. Come.” Mrs. Sparrow shuffled for a long time, then handed me the deck for the cut each round. I watched her closely; they were the cleanest of deals. We laid the circle of cards until the Key arrived—the nine of Cups.

  “Cups again. This is good, correct?” I ventured. “I will take it as a good sign.”

  Mrs. Sparrow did not speak but carefully laid my completed Octavo in place, her hands shaking slightly. Certainly she was as relieved as I that we had finally completed the spread. She put my card in the center last of all. Her eyes closed, and we sat silently for some minutes. The bells from the Great Church chimed twelve o’clock and I could hear Katarina’s steps downstairs and then the voice of the porter, then all was silence. Mrs. Sparrow opened her eyes, then folded her hands in her lap. “Now that the Octavo is complete, the eight will begin to appear, for the cards have called them out. They will come like iron filings to a magnet. Find them, and you can shift the outcome of your significant event.”

  “Perhaps they will take me to Carlotta, or bring her back.” I studied this wheel of fortune, filled with strangers and hope. “But how will I know them exactly?”

  “Be vigilant, and keep the cards in mind at all times. You will find your eye landing on the same person over and over, your ear growing accustomed to their name. They will appear in dreams or reveries, in conversations, happenstance encounters that repeat themselves with odd regularity. Connect them to the clues that the cards have given you. And ask me for help.”

  “We did not discuss the final card, Mrs. Sparrow,” I said. “I need to understand the nine of Cups if I am to find the Key.”

  She looked up at me, her smile genuine and warm. “You are right about Cups; an excellent suit in this position, since it is love that is foretold. And there is the lily again. Resurrection. France.” She bent over the spread, her fingertips resting on the table’s edge. “Look at the position of the nine cups: the eight that surround the one—an echo of the Octavo itself. Nine is the last simple number, therefore it is the number of completion, of accomplishment, and of universal influence as well. Auspicious, I say. Excellent for you.” She picked up the remaining cards of the deck, riffling the edges with her index finger, unconsciously creating a gap with the little finger. “Like the Companion, this person has crucial ties to your significant event.”

  “But there are no people on this card.” I leaned in and studied it. “It is a bird with its head in the maw of a beast,” I said, suddenly afraid that this card might be the symbol of the true state of matrimony.

  Mrs. Sparrow put the deck on the table and covered my hand with her own. “This is my card, Mr. Larsson. I am your Key.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Art and War

  Sources: M. F. L., Louisa G.

  “IS HE ALWAYS LATE?” The Uzanne said irritably to her own reflection in the window glass. Through the trailing beech tree branches, she saw the black silhouette of a carriage crawling like a giant beetle against Lake Mälaren’s blue. “And why can’t that idiot take a boat like everyone else?” She knew full well that he hated the thought of having his clothes splashed and coiffeur blown. And she also knew that it was his habit to be slightly late with everyone, which would be offensive, except she admired his audacity. Master Fredrik Lind was the first visitor she had allowed since Cassiopeia was stolen, really the first person above the rank of house servant she had chosen to see. Not that Master Fredrik had any rank at all; Master was a self-bestowed honorific. But she would never dispute this title. His skills as a calligrapher, his trove of gossip, and unquestioning loyalty to his benefactress were unmatched.

  The Uzanne closed her eyes and tried to recall the weight of Cassiopeia in her hand, the smooth ivory of her guards, the scent of jasmine rising from her verso. Now she held a gem-encrusted cabriolet fan that had been made for Catherine the Great, but nothing could replace her favorite. She had written to the Sparrow woman to negotiate a purchase. There had been no reply. She wrote again, offering an exchange: a Belgian lace mourning fan and an English carnival fan with a Pierrot’s mask for a face were a more than generous trade. A week later, a curt note arrived stating Cassiopeia was no longer in the house on Gray Friars Alley. Either the woman was lying or she had sold the fan already; either way Cassiopeia would be found. Meanwhile, The Uzanne mentioned in a letter to Duke Karl that she suspected foul play in the gaming rooms of his fortune-teller, thinking he might play the cavalier to her damsel in distress. Clearly she had not gotten close enough to the duke, for the sharp scrawl of his reply reflected his short temper:

  If Madame wishes to be engaged in serious affairs of state, she may not be distracted by a bagatelle lost in a card game. And since she has no proof of wrongdoing, it is in very bad form to insist the winnings be returned. Truly egregious gambling disputes are settled by duels, not royal intervention.

  One good sign came with this scolding: the duke sent a translucent silk fan from Japan painted with birds as “consolation”; unfortunately the birds only stoked her fury. A gardener said that she threw the fan in the lake, where he later retrieved it and sold it for a good amount.

  For The Uzanne, the theft of Cassiopeia represented all the ills of the nation: the rise of the lower classes, the erosion of authority, the weakness of those in power, the disappearance of order. Finding Cassiopeia was the first step toward addressing those ills, a notion that no man besides Henrik would ever understand. But her desire to regain Cassiopeia clothed in the rich costume of avarice and revenge? It would be easy to find champions for that.

  The Uzanne heard the front door open and the maid, Louisa, laugh. Then a fine baritone voice echoed off the gray-paneled walls of the foyer:

  Portugal, Spain,

  Ah, did I there reign,

  Wear both of their crowns and Great Britain’s as well,

  Tonight I confess

  A royal princess

  Should sleep in my arms like any mamsell.

  The Uzanne grimaced; she hated the tavern songs of that gutter-dwelling half-wit Royalist Bellman, but Master Fredrik’s familiarity with the canon of the lowly allowed him access to a level of society The Uzanne had only seen from a distance. Master Fredrik had the poetry of the sewers in his veins, which was useful now and again; he could pen vitriol that leaked out in the most inventive ways. He once c
uckolded an insolent banker by anonymously publishing in the Stockholm Post an appalling ode that portrayed his wife’s salacious escapades, using rhymes like pudendum / stupendum. A sonnet in What News? revealed a senior minister’s affliction of piles.

  She replaced her grimace with a look of serenity and went to meet Master Fredrik. He stood red-faced from singing, sweaty from the long carriage ride, and smiling at his own performance. “There are no princesses here, sir, only this aging matron that needs your expertise.” The Uzanne waited for the violent protests to her comment and went on. “You may be troubled by the journey to Gullenborg more often in the coming months.”

  “Enchanté, Madame,” he replied, bowing gracefully for such a beefy man. The plain cut of his clothes camouflaged his preference for costly fabrics and exquisite tailoring. His brown coat was Italian silk, and the seams were welted with matching striped cord. The buttons were carved black horn, and the lace that peeked out at his cuffs was Belgian. His black shoes were meticulously polished, his wig neat and powdered perfectly, and he carried the faint smell of eau de cologne with a top note of tobacco. Master Fredrik wore gloves in all seasons; he claimed it was to protect his tools but it was also to keep his hands soft and unblemished, the hands of an aristocrat. Only the tips of his fingers belied his common status, for despite numerous scrubbings, they bore a faint stain of ink. “I might then satisfy my hunger for exquisite company. I have been in the countryside up North these summer months and it was utterly devoid of adequate nourishment.”

  The Uzanne led the way to a spacious salon that was empty but for a gray-and-white-striped settee, a white wooden chair with upholstered back and seat in matching fabric, and a round side table set for coffee. She motioned that he was to sit in the chair; she took the settee. She poured two cups, offered one to Master Fredrik, then began to enumerate the tasks that he must undertake on her behalf: she would need scores of invitations and cards for the coming season. The Uzanne was reinstating her school for young ladies and opening enrollment beyond the aristocracy.

  “A daring and modern position, Madame,” Master Fredrik said, admiration coating every syllable.

  “Do you think so?” she replied. This move was part of her larger agenda to fill more young girls with Patriot sentiments like so many sugar bowls, their mothers’ nodding agreeably, their younger siblings following their lead, fathers and older brothers brought into the fold. Whatever support Gustav had left among the burgher class could be eroded by the attitudes of the women. And holding her lessons would allow The Uzanne to invite any number of gentlemen and officers to observe, and so keep abreast of government and military information. “And I am considering a change of venue for the debut. It cannot be at court; I have vowed never to step foot inside until the old Constitution is restored.” Master Fredrik nodded and sighed. “But the debut needs a royal stamp. I am considering a masked ball at the Royal Opera.”

  An aspirant to nobility, Master Fredrik could not hide his concern over missing a presentation at court, but then he realized the advantage of a masquerade. “A masquerade! My favorite event! Commoners and kings may mingle freely.”

  And a masquerade promised anonymity. “Just so. The king attends every one, and Duke Karl will be present. They will each bring an entourage of note, but my young ladies will tip the balance.”

  “Toward what, Madame?” Master Fredrik asked.

  “Toward the return of the social order,” she said. “And it is the ‘Fifth Estate’—the women of my class—that will lead the way.” Master Fredrik’s face was a blank. She wondered at his ambition to rise to the rank of gentry, if he could not grasp this simplest of signals. Clearly, she could not share even a suggestion of the patriotic plan she was going to present to Duke Karl. The Uzanne sighed and gave him her most seductive smile. “You will attend as one of my escorts. We will have magnificent costumes, I promise.”

  Master Fredrik’s face lit up again. “There will be widespread rejoicing, Madame, not just the young ladies and their mothers, but the dressmakers, hairdressers, glove makers, milliners, and perfumers in the Town! And the gentlemen will be lining up weeks in advance!” Master Fredrik could imagine the increase in his custom as well, since the young ladies outdid one another holding teas and fetes before their debut, all requiring the most refined and costly correspondence. “How might I be of service?”

  This was much easier to explain. The Uzanne was precise about the papers she would like, color of ink, how the envelopes were to fold, the wax, the seals, and the exact time and order they should be delivered. Master Fredrik adored such attention to detail and took copious notes in a small book he carried in a pocket. When this business was finished, Master Fredrik stood and walked to the wall of glass-paned doors, open to a shade-dappled terrace overlooking a lawn that sloped gently to the lake. “Your splendor is reflected by the surroundings, Madame. There is truly nothing lacking in this perfection.” The Uzanne sighed and said that while in many respects that was so, she still had three unfulfilled desires. “Allow me to act as your genie and grant them,” he said eagerly.

  The Uzanne closed her fan and placed it in her lap. “Grant them, and you will become my dearest friend.” She patted the seat beside her. Master Fredrik sat. “My first request is for repose. I have not slept well for over a month. I would like a discreet apothicaire who can create a soporific, someone familiar with more . . . unusual and potent ingredients,” she said.

  “The Lion is the apothecary of choice for that. Excellent service. Utter discretion. A wide array of rare compounds: I myself have purchased Egyptian mummy powder there of late.” He paused, letting her breathe in the name of this exotic and costly curative. “I will have a word with the apothicaire posthaste. Your second desire?”

  “I require a new companion, preferably someone who is not familiar with the sordid ways of the Town.” The Uzanne allowed her fan to pick up speed. “Miss Carlotta Vingström was lovely on the outside, but the rottenness beneath was . . .”

  “Was what?” Master Fredrik asked eagerly, perching himself on the edge of the settee.

  “Miss Vingström accompanied me to a party thrown by no less than Duke Karl. It was an unparalleled opportunity. I thought she would be grateful for this, and her parents thought her safe in my care. But Miss Vingström engaged with others in a cruel joke against me at cards, then spent the entire month of July sneaking away with some drunken satyr and spending her nights in unspeakable depravity.”

  Master Fredrik leaned in. “You may speak of it to me.”

  The Uzanne lightly rapped his wrist with her fan. “I wrote to her parents, suggesting they would do well to remove their daughter from the Town at once. Of course the girl cried and claimed her innocence; in fact she claimed that I was responsible.”

  “Brazen.” Master Fredrik crunched on a sweet biscuit spread with jam.

  “Luckily, I found a position for her in Åbo.” Master Fredrik snorted in cruel delight at the mention of the pathetic Finnish capital. “So. I need a girl. One that is not so tempting, or prone to temptation. One that will do as I say, and be grateful for the chance.”

  “Who would not be? Inquiries will begin at once,” he said. There was no better way to gain the indebtedness of wealthy parents than through furthering the status of their children. “And your third wish, Madame? If I know my fairy tales this is always the most challenging.”

  “Yes.” The Uzanne rose from the settee, and walked to the windows and back. “You may have heard of my absence from the Town since midsummer. You are the first visitor I have admitted.”

  “An undeserved honor, Madame. And be assured your absence is noted and mourned,” Master Fredrik said. “What is it that so troubles you, if I may ask?”

  The Uzanne halted her fan and sat so still that even the fly buzzing near the top of her head landed in the hollow of a curl and was quiet. She placed her hand gently on Master Fredrik’s thigh. “I have been the victim of a crime.” Master Fredrik inhaled audibly. The Uzanne
described Cassiopeia, the events of Duke Karl’s party, the refusal of the Sparrow women to negotiate, and her desire to have Master Fredrik make efforts high and low on her behalf.

  “May I first offer some consolation, Madame, in the form of a replacement? It would be an honor.”

  The Uzanne squeezed the now-closed fan she held. “There is no replacement for Cassiopeia.”

  Master Fredrik bowed. “And no hiding such a treasure for long, Madame.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the settee. “The fan maker Nordén on Cook’s Alley deals in fine fans and is a likely buyer. I will call upon him. Everyone has a price. And an Achilles’ heel.”

  “Is this the Swedish craftsman? I questioned the benefit of making a call, for his work could hardly match the French,” she said.

  “He is Swedish by birth but trained ten years with Tellier in Paris. Now he is a refugee, and eager to make his way. Papist wife, unfortunately, but they both have excellent manners, pleasant appearance. He is said to be an artist of the highest caliber.”

  The Uzanne stood and walked slowly to the window. “Perhaps Monsieur . . .”

  “Nordén.”

  “Monsieur Nordén might offer a token to me, an example of his expertise,” she said.

  “There is no question he will, Madame, though his financial situation is quite precarious.”

  She considered this further advantage. “He might see this gift as a calling card, and if it is of sufficient quality, if he is as refined as you suggest, we will offer him custom. My recommendation alone would be worth a dozen fans. In fact, he might make an interesting guest at my opening lecture. But first: my Cassiopeia.”

  “Consider it done.” Master Fredrik took her hand and gave it a lingering kiss. “And what will you do when Cassiopeia is in your hands once more?”