The Stockholm Octavo

by Karen Engelmann

  Disturbed Slumber

  Sources: Various apothicaires, Bloom, Louisa G., M. F. L.

  AFTER CASSIOPEIA WAS TAKEN, The Uzanne’s dreams were filled with chaos and haunted by the specter of a ruined nation, overrun by the ignorant and untitled. Sleep became impossible as summer changed to autumn, and the fervor of her patriotism took hold, with long and heated monologues into her dressing table mirror late into the night. She understood that if the nation were to regain its sanity, she would have to take action. She began with engagement on the highest level when November storms were at their height: Duke Karl came to her bed. But he required more of her night, and this ever-growing state of exhaustion was becoming a hindrance. She needed to be at her peak; she needed to sleep. By December, she was dependent on her newest protégée.

  “Miss Bloom,” The Uzanne called out one night just after her first lecture. “The powder.”

  Johanna hurried into the dark bedchamber, where only the night lamps were lit. The howling wind rattled the shutters of the house. She held a blue ceramic canister, its contents the refined result of several weeks of work. Johanna had never compounded a sleeping powder before but had watched her father make soporifics and knew which ingredients were effective. She tested several versions on Old Cook’s marmalade tabby, Sylten, blowing a pinch in his direction. It coated his face and whiskers for just a moment before it disappeared. The fourth variation had Sylten fast asleep behind the kindling box within minutes. Old Cook marked his absence from mousing duties after a day and tried to rouse him when a loaf of new bread was ruined by vermin, but Sylten could not be wakened; he was as limp as a damp pillow, and it took two more days for him to fully return to his senses. The next time Johanna tested Sylten, he woke in eight hours, just in time for breakfast.

  But Johanna knew that a cat was a poor subject for a test. Alone in her room, she poured a penny spot of the fine-grained powder into her palm. When she bent her head toward her hand and took a deep breath, the scent of jasmine enveloped her face. After a minute or two, the tight muscles in her back relaxed, her vision softened, and the comforter on her bed beckoned. When she woke, the room was thick with night, and she felt a calm she had not felt since her early childhood in Gefle, before the deaths of her brothers, before Mrs. Grey’s religious fervor.

  For several weeks after, Johanna visited the servants in the house, and asked if they would like to try her powder. She made note of the ingredients and amounts, method of administration, the size of the subject, the nature and duration of their sleep. She made adjustments until all who tried it wanted more. Louisa said it was like the rare taste of oranges: once you eat, you long for just one more slice. The Uzanne’s longing was fulfilled every night; she had not slept so well since the blissful nights before Henrik’s imprisonment. She made Louisa take a bedroom on the third floor so that Johanna could sleep on the wide upholstered bench at the foot of her bed, administering the powder at her call.

  “Leave the canister on the bedside table, Miss Bloom, should I wake again in the night,” The Uzanne said, watching Johanna dust the bed pillows with the jasmine-scented powder. “Or if that regular visitor to my bed arrives and proves to be more trouble than pleasure. His temper is short, and his attributes even shorter.”

  Johanna had seen the fine carriage come and go, and spotted the cloaked figure of Duke Karl, sometimes too drunk to hide his face. “I might make an even stronger powder than this, if you require it, Madame,” Johanna said with a laugh, brushing the trace of powder from her fingers onto her skirt.

  “An inspiring thought, Johanna.” The Uzanne took one of the bedside lamps and sat down at her dressing table, taking the pins from her hair. “I need something strong enough to induce sleep for a full twelve hours. Can you do this for me?” The Uzanne dotted her face with a whitening paste and began to spread it with her fingers.

  “Yes, Madame,” Johanna said. “I would add Amanita pantherina to the powder,” she continued, eager to sound competent. “It is a mushroom sometimes called the False Blusher.”

  “It has an appealing name.”

  “It is known as the Divine Soma in India. It brings a deathlike sleep and visions, Madame, of an erotic nature,” Johanna said, trying to remember what else the Lion apothicaire had said.

  “It sounds perfect.” The Uzanne held out her ivory hairbrush.

  “But the Blusher is dangerous, Madame, and must be used with great care. I only know of its properties when eaten. A powder may not have the same effect.”

  “I trust you to find out at once, Johanna. This is important to me.”

  Johanna took the brush and lifted The Uzanne’s thick hair, exposing the back of her neck. “I will go tomorrow to the Lion, but I insist on testing the Blusher myself before you use it, Madame.”

  “No no, you are far too valuable. And this powder is not for me.”

  Johanna felt her shoulders relax and brushed The Uzanne’s hair with long even strokes. Obviously Duke Karl was becoming a real bother. “I agree that you need your rest, Madame, and it might help if those around you slept soundly.”

  The Uzanne laughed. “No, Johanna, this is for another man. One I plan to dominate even more completely.” The Uzanne watched her protégée in the mirror. Only a momentary pause in her stroke showed Johanna’s concern. She waited for the question but it did not come, which pleased her. “I have another challenge for your apothecary expertise, Miss Bloom. Duke Karl has no heir. He has undergone all manner of treatments, magical and otherwise, but I suspect the Little Duchess is barren and the ballet girls do not want children and go to the Lion for help. To conceive the duke’s child would be . . . a sacrifice I am prepared to make. That is something General Pechlin cannot give him.”

  “Madame?” Johanna whispered, halting the strokes of the brush altogether.

  The Uzanne twisted around on her stool and caught hold of Johanna’s hand, squeezing it with just too much force. “I see your look of disbelief. You think I am too old.”

  “No, Madame, no. You are no doubt well able to bear a child . . . but perhaps the duke is not . . . you and your husband never . . .” She lowered her head; this was a topic far too intimate for even a protegée, and the consequences far too volatile.

  “Henrik and I were not concerned that children never came; we felt we still had ample time. All possible joy, all of it, was taken from me by Gustav.” She released Johanna’s hand. “As for Duke Karl, there are remedies, are there not?” Johanna nodded, but knew nothing of these cures beyond scraps of hushed conversations overheard in the officin in Gefle. She wondered how to avoid a lurid discussion with the apothicaire from the Lion. “Good. Then you will prepare them.” The Uzanne applied the whitening paste to her right hand, taking extra care with a small brown splotch that had blossomed unexpectedly since summer. “Miss Bloom, it would be useful to me if you would make other inquiries while you are in the Town.”

  Johanna resumed her brushing. “I am happiest when I am useful, Madame.”

  “Master Fredrik brought a sekretaire to the lecture. I think you noticed him as well.”

  Johanna bent down to hide an unexpected smile, pretending to inspect a nonexistent tangle in The Uzanne’s hair. “I would not have noticed him at all but that I have seen him in the Town, Madame. He had business with the fan maker, Nordén.”

  “It would please me to know more about this sekretaire. But you must gather the information discreetly.”

  “Madame, I can make myself invisible if you wish.”

  “To everyone but me.” The Uzanne gazed at their reflections in the mirror. “You are looking very much the lady, Johanna. The idea that we might arrange your nuptials came to me at the lecture.”

  “I . . . I feel unprepared to take that step,” Johanna said, now careful to maintain the long even strokes and a blank face. “There is so much yet to learn.”

  “You must learn that strategic liaisons are crucial. We will need the consent of your parents.”

  Johanna place
d the brush on the vanity and silently plaited The Uzanne’s dark hair and bound it up with a ribbon. “Madame, whatever you decide would please them beyond measure. I will write for their approval.”

  The Uzanne stood, kissing Johanna lightly on the forehead. “As will I.”

  Johanna clasped her hands behind her back to keep them from trembling. “May I ask who Madame intends for me?”

  “You may ask, but I will not say as yet. In the meantime, you will be happy to learn that your sister will be staying at Gullenborg until the debut.”

  “I have no sister,” Johanna said softly.

  The Uzanne climbed into the bed, a faint cloud of scented powder rising around her head as she sank back onto the pillow. “I mean Miss Plomgren. She is here every week to instruct the young ladies as it is, and I find her quite . . . fascinating. You might learn something from her.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Stockholm Octavo

  Sources: E .L., Mrs. S.

  DECEMBER WAS USUALLY a melancholy month for me, with the dark settling the thickest, the false cheer of holidays, and the long winter months still ahead. The black water of Norrströmmen rushed below the ice like Styx itself, and the hills of the Town were nearly impassable. My activities slowed at Customs with little traffic in the harbors and the warehouses empty and cold. But as 1791 drew to a close, I felt a genuine vigor and thrill with the eight coming into play. Master Fredrik had shared his knowledge of The Uzanne’s guest list generously, and I was preparing various letters of introduction to a select few. I could query Margot about my choices; her birdlike features made me sure she was the Magpie. I needed a Courier to take the notes—he might really be the Murbeck boy, if his mother, my Trickster, did not interfere. I also planned to call on the Plomgrens, where I felt a genuine if highly impractical heat, given the family’s lack of wealth or title. Anna Maria fit perfectly as the Prisoner in my eight, and I imagined myself the hero to free her. Or perhaps her father would be the Prize and offer me his daughter. Regardless, Anna Maria had ambition and beauty, and might rise high on the arm of my Companion.

  Then there was Johanna, whose mystery begged to be solved. Her pale visage rose often in my thoughts, and if she was in fact the daughter of a noble house, she might be worth the wooing. If not, then she had something to hide, and we had something to trade. Experience had shown me that such tidbits could be formed into feasts if used correctly. It struck me that this exchange of information might place Johanna as the Magpie instead of Margot. There was a young woman in that card, attended by two gentlemen. Perhaps I was one.

  These thoughts whirled through my mind as I headed out from Customs one December afternoon, trudging up Blackman Street and through the Great Square, when I caught sight of Mrs. Sparrow in a great rush, a dark brown shawl billowing out behind her. I followed her through the market stalls and down Trångsund, the narrow passage that fronted the Great Church. Her rooms at Gray Friars Alley had been strangely dark the past week, even the gate to the courtyard locked, and I was anxious to see her; I wanted to report on The Uzanne’s delectable class, share the notebook from Nordén, and more than anything seek her advice regarding my Octavo. But when I turned on Great Church Hill, she was gone. I could only guess that she entered the cathedral and retraced my steps to the door.

  The church was bitter cold and smelled of damp stone and snuffed candles. There was little daylight inside, and oil lamps sputtered at intervals along the nave. I walked slowly up the center aisle, drawn by the gleam of the silver altar. The magnificent statue of St. George and the dragon reared up in the shadows, the massive gold-carved crowns hung over the pulpits like props at a palace theatrical. A flame danced at the top of the bronze candelabra, as it had for over four hundred years. There was no one there. My breathing was the only sound until a scuffle of steps and crackling of ice echoed down the nave.

  I made my way toward the noise, pausing at each massive pillar to listen. The sound of dripping led me to the narthex, where Mrs. Sparrow leaned over the stone baptismal font, her face in her hands, nearly touching the water.

  “I have been looking for you,” I whispered. She grasped the basin in fear, but her startled look was replaced by one of relief. “Your rooms have been dark for over a week. Have you been ill?” She shook her head. “And why are you in a church?” I asked.

  “I am no stranger to the church, Mr. Larsson, and believe in sacred spaces. I was confounded by my Octavo and came here for guidance,” she whispered and wiped her eyes with a corner of her shawl. “I have so far been given none.”

  “Perhaps I have been given it. To give to you.” I pulled Nordén’s notebook from the pocket of my jacket and handed it to her. Mrs. Sparrow opened the book and studied the diagrams while I related Nordén’s theories of geometry and connection, the various and infinite forms of the Octavo, and the construction of the holy city. “There are aspects of the Divine Geometry you were not allowed to learn.”

  “Until now,” Mrs. Sparrow said. Her eyes glistened, and there was a slight tremble to her lips when she finally looked up. “You are a most excellent Courier, Emil.”

  “You called me by my Christian name,” I noted with surprise.

  A door near the altar creaked open and an emaciated deacon scurried down the central aisle. He peered into the gloom, as if we were apparitions, then sped forward, halting at the last row of pews. He grasped the side panel as he spoke, as if it might serve as a shield: “I know you, woman. You are the king’s fortune-teller, and you are not welcome here,” he hissed. The deacon looked at me. “And who are you in your scarlet cloak? A sekretaire in the Office of Satan?”

  “We are both students of the Divine, sir.” Mrs. Sparrow walked toward the deacon, who took a step back.

  “I doubt you could know anything of God the Almighty Father,” he said, a cloud of hot breath escaping his lips.

  “We should go,” I said to her quietly. But Mrs. Sparrow was stiff with anger, her hands like weights at her side, and she grimaced when I touched her. She did not move except her mouth, which worked as if she had eaten a piece of spoiled meat. Her eyes squeezed shut, the muscles of her jaws clenched. Then I guessed. “Mrs. Sparrow,” I whispered, taking firm hold of her arm and leading her to a pew where we sat down close together.

  “Do not look at me,” she whispered.

  “What is this?” the deacon said, his face pale in the gloom.

  “She is ill, and needs to sit,” I said.

  “I am not ill.” Mrs. Sparrow freed herself from my grasp and stood to face the deacon. “Come and observe a soul overcome by the knowledge of the Eternal Cipher.” She sat once more and clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her body rigid and completely still, her eyes closed.

  “What is she doing?” the deacon hissed.

  I twisted around in my seat to face him. “Can you not see that she is ill?”

  “This is not illness but evil,” he shouted, coming to the pew and taking hold of my cloak. But Mrs. Sparrow’s eyes were open wide now, crossed in and up toward the ceiling. Her mouth was gaping and her tongue thrust out and down toward her chin, as if it wished to be free of her throat. Her head shook with the force of whatever vision was filling her skull, and a strangled moan escaped her lips. The sound was the worst of it: like a sleeper tormented by the nightmare hag with no hope of ever waking. I could not say how long this convulsion lasted, but finally her eyes shut and her head slumped forward on her chest. The deacon stood in shock. The silence of the sanctuary was pure relief, and I took hold of Mrs. Sparrow’s limp hand, damp with sweat. She raised her head and opened her eyes, the pupils black and shining.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I will share my vision.” She twisted sideways to look at the deacon and me. “A man appeared, claiming knowledge of universal wisdom. It was Hermes Trismegistus.”

  “How dare you utter the name of a pagan magician here,” the deacon whispered.

  Mrs. Sparrow pulled herself to a standing p
osition and faced him. “He claimed the true lessons of the Divine Geometry are made manifest to me here in the Great Church: the concentric rings of the parhelion painting, the triangle above the entryway, but most especially, the octagon. And not only at the font.” She pointed, and the deacon and I followed the line of her finger up to the ceiling. “As above, so below,” she said.

  The deacon looked as if some demon had carved an indelible blasphemy into the building. I stood up to get a better look. Overhead, the ribs of each soaring vault joined to form the spokes of an eight-sided wheel, creating a connecting line of octagons that lifted the weight of the walls and held the very ceiling in place.

  “You will stay, Sekretaire whoever you are, and guard this witch until the authorities arrive,” the deacon whispered.

  Normally I would not have feared a visit from the neighborhood police, especially as we had done nothing wrong, but it was never wise to involve them in matters of the church; they usually sided with God. “We are going now,” I said, standing and pulling Mrs. Sparrow into the aisle, one of her feet catching on the pew. The deacon ran toward the belfry to ring the alarm for the police. Mrs. Sparrow snapped to attention when the bells began to chime and we hurried to the exit and out onto the narrow street.

  “Walk me home, Emil. I must explain to you what this vision truly means.” She sounded not the least bit frightened, and in fact seemed more like someone just come from a thrilling play. “And turn your cloak inside out; the dark lining will not be as easy to spot.” I turned my cloak and wrapped my scarf more tightly around my neck.

  The daylight had disappeared, and it felt like midnight even though it was just past five. Snow fell, in large, soft flakes, and we hurried down Great Church Hill and over to Gray Friars Alley, crowded with people on their way home to supper. Neither of us uttered a word as we walked. The curtain of snow shielded us from view, but I could only breathe fully again when we were safely locked inside number 35. My comfort was short-lived. “What has happened here, Mrs. Sparrow?” I asked, gazing into the empty salon at the helter-skelter chairs, a spray of broken glass, one table overturned completely. Katarina was nowhere in sight.