When the crowd was fully sated, The Uzanne snapped her fan and once again the room became a pearl gray salon in the descending darkness of a winter afternoon, filled with polite and attentive guests. Only Pechlin seemed utterly unmoved, for he yawned and stood to check the clock. “Do you see how Engagement can change everything?” The Uzanne said. “You might change the course of history. Cause even the greatest of men to be . . . disarmed.” Ribbing took her hand and kissed it. She withdrew her hand slowly and returned to the front of the salon. “Engagement is like the release of your fan: it offers many pleasures, but it is just the first step,” The Uzanne said. “If you fail to master closure, all you desire can be taken from you. The aftermath can be . . . painful.” She turned her head in profile, the long neck bowed by some remembered sorrow. A low whispering enveloped the salon, glances of sympathy passed between the mothers and older gentlemen that had known her Henrik. “By March you will be ready for your debut. You will speak the language of the fan as if it were your mother tongue. You will be capable of Engagement and a victorious climax. But you must commit fully to my instructions. We will meet weekly here under less formal circumstances, without these handsome gentlemen to distract you or a lecture that . . . escapes you. In between, you must practice without pause, observe your superiors, ask for help when needed. And then practice more until your hand cannot close around the guards. You will receive a list outlining skills you are to master every week. I suggest you consider how you present yourselves as well; you are no longer girls. You are women, and you must claim your power.” An excited chatter rose from the girls, then ceased when The Uzanne continued. “I promise your debut will be unforgettable, but I must tell you now it will not be held at court. The court is an empty shell.” She paused, but there were no whispers of dismay. “Your debut will take place at the last masked ball before the Lenten season. The debut will be the threshold of a new life for us all.”
“What is she talking about? Is she looking for a new husband?” I whispered to Master Fredrik.
He shrugged and whispered back. “Does it matter?”
“Perhaps not.” I confess that I was utterly entranced. The Uzanne had made entanglement a game to be engaged in, engagement a broader pursuit than the one the Superior had in mind for me. Once she had trained these girls, any one of them might prove to be the most devious and interesting of partners; I gave a prayer of silent thanks for Mrs. Sparrow and the Octavo, and for my Companion, the Queen of Wine Vessels.
The Uzanne closed the glittering fan and lowered it, her arm a sinuous curve. “Gentlemen, I am sorry we did not have time for cards, but the young ladies are here to learn, not play. You are invited to attend again on January sixteenth, where you might observe the midpoint of their transformation and the introduction of the crucial closing skills. Students and esteemed guests, today’s lesson is complete.” The Uzanne nodded to a footman, who began opening the doors to the hall.
Master Fredrik shoved himself back from the table and up from his chair. “Come, Mr. Larsson.” He pulled me to my feet, taking my arm, leading me to the front of the room where The Uzanne was receiving homage and saying farewell to her guests. The dashing young Ribbing was first in line, but strangely his demeanor was more diplomat than paramour. He nodded vigorously and placed a hand upon his heart, a pledge of fealty. Master Fredrik turned and whispered, “She has engaged another ally in the battle for domination. Pechlin is not happy with Ribbing’s defection, see?” Master Fredrik nicked his head in the direction of Pechlin, who was making a hasty retreat. “She loves the game, Mr. Larsson.”
As we shuffled closer, I could see that The Uzanne was flanked by the Misses Plomgren and Bloom. They eyed each other now and again, as if one of them had stolen the cutlery from the tables. Anna Maria was pinned in by her beaming mother and a nearly panting Lars. I made an attempt to catch Johanna’s eye, but she would not glance my way.
“Madame, sublime,” Master Fredrik said with an elaborate bow worthy of an actor. “Allow me to introduce my colleague and lodge brother . . .”
“Enchanté.” The Uzanne held out her hand to me but was looking at Mrs. Beech, returning to Duke Karl’s. I took her smooth, polished hand in mine, surprised it was so warm, and waited, unsure what should happen next. Master Fredrik nodded his head and made a pucker face. I kissed her hand, catching the faint scent of jasmine as she pulled it from my grasp.
Master Fredrik took my arm and inched me closer. “Sekretaire Larsson is with the Office of Customs and Excise, Madame. He has voluminous knowledge of import shipments and impeccable discretion besides.”
“I have a way of getting my hands on the most uncommon goods,” I said. My glance returned to Johanna, who was finally returning my attention. It was not a look of happy recognition. On the contrary. I saw the tiniest spark of fear and was suddenly struck by the idea that she really might be Johanna Grey. If this were so, I would not be interested in courtship, but eager to know how she had leapfrogged from The Pig, over Master Fredrik to land in the house of a baroness. That was a skill I could use.
“Uncommon goods? The Sekretaire is . . .” The Uzanne turned her gaze to me, her interest finally piqued. She noticed where my eyes had strayed.
“. . . is an intimate of the police as well, working hand in hand to ensure that criminals are brought to justice,” Master Fredrik added.
“An excellent connection to have,” she said. “And why are you here at Gullenborg today? Have I committed some crime?” I bowed, speechless, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“Ha ha, Madame. Your only crime is your perfection.” Master Fredrik came to my rescue and leaned forward, speaking softly. “The sekretaire is here at my invitation. It seems he has heard of the birdcage on Gray Friars Alley, and will help us retrieve your stolen goods.”
Madame Uzanne’s lips curled up slightly. “Master Fredrik you are the genie in the lamp. Rest assured that you will have your three wishes as well.” She turned to me. “And you, Sekretaire. What wish of yours can I grant?”
“The sekretaire is not married, Madame,” Master Fredrik whispered.
“You come seeking Engagement,” she said, now smiling warmly. “Then I look forward to seeing you at our second public lecture, if not before.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Divine Geometry
Sources: E. L., M. Nordén, M. F. L.
CHRISTIAN STOOD WITH MARGOT in the entryway of Gullenborg, flush with hope, passing out the once neglected notices that now flew from their hands. A clamor of protest arose when the notes ran out: only the fans of a master would do for the young ladies now. I waited nearby, watching the parade of potential partners exiting in enticing groups of threes and fours.
“You may depart with my sled at your leisure, Mr. Larsson,” Master Fredrik said, sidling up to me, his face aglow. “I have a palaverment with Madame.”
“Be sure to leave your trousers on,” I said. He gave me a friendly jab and skittered away. Christian overheard this and gave me a puzzled look. “I have no idea what he means to do. He collects impossible words.”
“Sekretaire Larsson! Enchanted to see you again,” Margot said, turning to me with a smile. “I am sorry I was not able to greet you inside! We are in need of your aid.”
Christian frowned and nodded. “If it is not an inconvenience.”
“It seems our conveyance back to the Town has disappeared. May we travel together?” she asked.
“And preferably by land,” Christian added, obviously embarrassed. “I have had enough excitement for one day.” I assured him that we would take the road, and their company would make the journey a pleasure. The air outside was a shock of cold after the heat of the salon, and the sky only a blue glow, the clouds already gray with the onset of night. Lars and the Plomgrens were climbing into a sled with Mrs. Beech, who had requested additional instruction from Anna Maria for her daughter. Mother Plomgren was crimson with happiness at her daughter’s success.
“Such a r
apid rise for Miss Plomgren,” I said sadly. “I will never catch her now.”
Margot tilted her head as we watched the handsome sleigh glide away. “Better not to make a catch you cannot throw back.”
“Margot!” Christian scolded.
“So you believe I can aim higher, Mrs. Nordén?” I asked. She replied with a single serious nod. We hustled into Master Fredrik’s sleigh and pulled on the fur wraps that lay waiting for us on the seats. The smell of dried straw wafted up from the floor and mingled with Mrs. Nordén’s perfume. The sleigh jerked forward with the jangle of brass bells, and we soon entered the woods. “My compliments on your lecture, Mr. Nordén. An excellent day’s work, and it seems you will benefit.”
“We sincerely hope so. The future of our business rests with The Uzanne’s patronage.”
Mrs. Nordén leaned against her husband. “It will come. I feel it.”
“I must ask you, as experts in this art of the fan, how did The Uzanne manage to make the entire room so . . . ,” I said.
“Geometrical?” offered Christian. This made Margot laugh, and she imitated The Uzanne to perfection, placing Christian in the role of the man in the striped waistcoat. We shared her good humor, although Christian insisted that geometry was still the reason that the lesson had been so complete.
“I thought perhaps it was a form of magic,” I admitted. “Surely you saw that the gentleman, the salon entire, was spellbound. At one moment no one moved, the next you could barely stop them from pursuing some desire.”
Christian pulled Margot a little closer, tucking the wrap up under her chin. “Science and magic are always close, Mr. Larsson, one chasing the other. Last year’s evil is now a property of physics. The heavens that were once the realm of gods are revealed as planets and stars, moving in precise mathematical orbits. And yet people perform feats that cannot be explained: heal from deadly contagion, lift fallen trees off their comrades in battle, see visions that portend the future, die and rise again. We are wise to keep an open mind to both.” We fell silent then, the woods black walls on either side of the gleaming road, the torches at the back of the sleigh leaving a trail of blue smoke. Aside from the moaning trees, we heard only snow-muffled hoofbeats and the light crack of the coachman’s whip.
We took our leave of the sleigh near the Opera House, and Margot asked if I wished to come for supper. This took me by surprise, but I had no plans so I went with them to Cook’s Alley. I knocked the snow from my boots on the stoop and stepped into the dark shop. Margot lit the sconces, sending shadows up the striped walls and onto the tented ceiling. She spread a cloth over one of the desks to make a dining table, then brought three smooth beeswax candles and lit them. We ate a mutton ragout she had prepared in advance, served with thick bread and spiced apples. We talked of Paris and the turmoil brewing there, the potential for progress and ruin. They told me of their employers and friends, and the gatherings they would have: picnics, costumed fetes, dinners on the roof of M. Tellier’s shop. They admitted they were lonely in the Town, and I was one of their new connecting threads: me, Master Fredrik, and now The Uzanne. I counted the eight cards in my mind. One of the Nordéns was surely a piece of my Octavo.
“I cannot help but think of your geometry, Mr. Nordén,” I said, handing my plate to Margot, who began clearing the table. “You truly believe it is the basis of life?”
“Mathematics as a whole.” Christian wiped the corner of his mouth. “I have seen it. I have felt it.”
“Our mutual friend Mrs. S. shares your interest. She is particularly enthralled with the octagon.”
He sat back at the mention of the eight-sided figure. “Anyone would be enthralled if they looked closely, Mr. Larsson. It belongs to a series of geometric forms that make up a Masonic alphabet of structure. There is a method of drafting the octagon called the Divine Geometry.”
“I have heard of it.”
“From the Freemasons?” he asked, surprised.
I shook my head. “I have not risen so high there as you. I learned of it from our friend, Mrs. S. She uses it as the basis of a card divination called the Octavo.”
“The Octavo is a fine name for such an endeavor,” Christian noted, “for it recalls the small Italian books by that name. Every Octavo contains a story.”
“What is the nature of your inquiry, Mr. Larsson?” Margot asked.
“Love. And connection,” I said, blushing.
“That most common concern of seekers everywhere.” Margot rose with a smile and exited the room with a tray of dishes.
Christian’s face opened and softened as he followed her with his gaze, then his attention returned to me. “The number eight has a deep resonance in many areas: music, poetry, religion. Nearly every baptismal font in every church is an octagon shape; go and look for yourself.”
“I have been baptized already, I assure you,” I said.
“Yes, yes! But a mewling baby dipped in the water of the octagon is just the beginning. The form it springs from is infinite in either direction. Rebirth is ever near to us.” He rose from the table. “You must see this, Mr. Larsson!” He hurried to the workroom and returned, presenting a page in a well-thumbed leather-bound notebook.
“The form can expand upon itself, concentric connections that grow ever larger or smaller—a universe micro or macro, depending upon the intent of your question. I find in this form a signature of the Supreme Being.” Christian’s face was alight with the joy of this mathematical proof of the Divine. “And does our friend know the Divine Geometry is at the heart of many complex structures?” He flicked quickly through the pages to a series of drawings. “There is a theory that many sacred structures rise from the octagon. Analysis of ancient temples, libraries, cathedrals, show this form as the foundation of their design. If you pay attention, you will see the combined octagon everywhere. With the Divine Geometry you might build a city, Mr. Larsson. A holy city indeed.”
I stared at the notebook and realized I was holding my breath. Here was an expansion of Mrs. Sparrow’s theories, presented in the clear light of science. “Would it be at all possible to borrow your notebook? I think Mrs. S would treasure these insights.”
Christian hesitated, bowing his head and squeezing his eyes shut, as if trying to discern a heavenly message written on the backs of his eyelids. Finally he gazed upon me. “There are few that truly know the power of this science,” he said softly. I nodded. “Mrs. Sparrow is to share this information with no one other than yourself. Will you take a solemn oath to this?”
“On the Holy Book and Swedenborg’s Heaven and Hell, if you like,” I said, raising my right hand.
Nordén placed a hand on my shoulder. “You are a receptacle for Divine knowledge. I hope that you are prepared for the consequences.”
I half rose from my seat in my excitement to take the book, feeling I had snagged an important prize. “That is exceedingly generous of you, Mr. Nordén.”
“Tell our friend that when she has studied this matter I should like to discuss it at length, for she no doubt has her own theories to share,” he said, wrapping the book shut with its cord of silk.
“Indeed she does,” I said.
Nordén handed me the book. “No one else is to see this.”
I held the book to my heart, then slid it into the pocket of my jacket. Margot had returned to the table, but her face looked pale and drawn. “Aren’t you hungry, my love?” Nordén asked, sitting down beside her. She looked at her plate, still full of food, and shook her head.
“Are you well, Mrs. Nordén?” I asked.
“I would feel better if you called me Margot, and my husband Christian. We are friends, non?” She leaned against her husband and closed her eyes, a smile on her lips. “And I am well, Emil, but confess I am very tired.”
“But not too tired to raise a toast with our new friend,” Christian said. He went again to the workshop and returned with a sharp knife, three glasses, and a bottle of real Champagne he said they had been saving. “A toast,
then, to art and happiness,” Christian said.
“And romance,” Margot added.
“I am honored to share the occasion,” I said, raising my glass. “The Uzanne will surely send much custom to your splendid shop.”
They looked at each other with joyful intensity. “True, Emil, but that is a footnote to the larger happiness. We are to be a family,” Christian said. I stood, mouth open, my glass tilted at my chin. “A baby. Due next spring. We have been waiting for a very long time.”
We drank, the effervescent liquid almost too rare to swallow, the emotion the same. I treasure that exact moment: the scent of lemon oil, the warmth of the yellow-striped room in the candlelight, the delicious wine, lovely manners, and image of the two of them that pointed to a deep connection to the world and everything, everyone in it—the Octavo grown infinite. It made me both lighthearted and sorrowful. Perhaps because it was lovely beyond telling, and it was something I did not have. And perhaps never would, if I could not place my eight in time. I finished my glass and stood, taking my scarlet cloak from the chair where it hung.
“Oh, Christian, you have become too much the philosophe. Now Emil is leaving,” Margot said.
“On the contrary, Margot,” I said. “It is only to remember this perfect evening in every splendid detail that I depart at this tender moment. Your company has given me much to ponder. I thank you, and bid you a good night.”
“Then you must come again next week, and for many weeks after,” Margot said.
I left them then and walked back across the bridge to the Town. At Gray Friars Alley I turned without thinking, heading to Mrs. Sparrow’s, but the portal was locked tight and every window dark.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Stockholm Octavo Page 19