The Stockholm Octavo

by Karen Engelmann

  Anna Maria aimed the fan in the direction of Lars, who sat stiff with attention. She tipped her fan in a downward slant, then up toward his smiling face, her tinted lips blowing softly along the center pleat. Johanna held her breath and felt her stomach squeeze with dread; she could see the powder escaping the pocket of mesh, forming a faint cloud just at the level of his nose. Lars inhaled, then shrugged his shoulders to indicate he was as yet unmoved. But then, his gaze began to soften, and his entire body began to droop. “I am your prisoner,” he said to Anna Maria, then sighed and fell back, one hand coming to rest in the center of his lap. The young ladies had to press their lips together to keep from laughing; the officers scoffed aloud. The other guests chattered nervously at this pantomime, sure it was rehearsed. But the smiles and winks disappeared when they saw that Lars did not move. His head lolled to one side and his eyes rolled back, leaving white slits beneath his half-opened lids. Gasps and whispers rose above his head. Johanna leaned against the wall, feeling nausea overtake her. Even The Uzanne stiffened slightly, drawing back at the image of Lars’s sightless gaze. Anna Maria closed her fan and leaned her ear to his chest. “Asleep,” she pronounced, her eyes glittering, “and with the sweetest of dreams,” she added, nodding to his lap.

  The Uzanne tapped her open palm with the tip of her fan. “Miss Plomgren: masterfully done. I marvel at your composure.”

  Anna Maria curtsied. “Thank you, Madame.”

  “Let us give our other guests a closer look at Domination.” The Uzanne held out her hand for the gray fan, and they set off around the room, dampening the fires—if not of passion, then skepticism and fear—table by table, beginning with the men. The faint scent of jasmine drifted in the air. The young ladies relaxed into their chairs, their slippers fell from their feet with gentle thumps. Fans lay spread upon the white tables, hands caressing the guards. Even the gentlemen perched on benches at the perimeter of the room were calmed by this maneuver, and leaned back against the wall, eyes half-closed. The Uzanne, Anna Maria, and Johanna gathered near the doorway to the hall, where a chill breeze blew in from an open window. The salon was silent but for the rhythm of gentle breathing, the guests leaning one against the other like dolls, some resting their heads on the tables, their crossed arms providing a pillow.

  “Miss Bloom: an excellent compounding,” The Uzanne said.

  “So she is behind the art of Domination,” Anna Maria said, studying Johanna closely.

  “But, Madame, to cause the entire room to doze with one fan is impossible,” Johanna whispered.

  “How did you manage, Madame?” Anna Maria asked eagerly. “I should so like to learn.”

  “You should know this from the theater, Miss Plomgren. The true art is making people believe. The rest is stagecraft,” The Uzanne said, excitement glowing under the powder on her cheeks. She turned to Johanna. “Mr. Nordén will wake before tomorrow, is this correct, Miss Bloom?” Johanna nodded, staring at the floor. “I hope so. Now go down and tell Cook to prepare extra strong coffee to serve with the cakes. I do not want this entire crowd here ’til nightfall, demanding late supé.” The Uzanne took Anna Maria’s arm and turned away.

  Only two of the guests had not succumbed to Domination. Pechlin had come to observe his rival for the attentions of Duke Karl, and saw that she was indeed a worthy opponent. But he did not stay to thank his hostess. When The Uzanne headed toward the hall with Anna Maria on her arm, he turned on his heel, grabbed his cane and coat from Louisa, and let himself out the front door.

  The other watcher stirred in the salon. She had closed her eyes and held her breath when The Uzanne passed by with her fan, though anger was her true defense. She waited until the mantel clock sounded three soft chimes, then Margot rose and followed Johanna down the servants’ corridor to the kitchen.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Heated Conversations

  Sources: M. Nordén, J. Bloom, Lil Kvast (kitchen girl), M. F. L., Louisa G.

  MARGOT CAUGHT JOHANNA BY the sleeve at the bottom of the cellar stairs. “A word, Miss Bloom.”

  Johanna pulled her arm away, hurrying into the kitchen. “I must be about my work.”

  “It is your work that I wish to question,” Margot said, grabbing hold of Johanna by the wrist. Old Cook’s face twitched with a smile at Johanna’s discomfort.

  “Cook,” Johanna said sternly, “perhaps you could show the lady out. She has come to the kitchen by mistake.”

  “I take no orders from you.” Old Cook turned to discuss an urgent need for rolled marzipan with the kitchen girl.

  “What a pity the guests are asleep under a spell and will not taste your perfect cakes,” Margot said.

  “Sleeping spells!” Old Cook looked up in alarm. “There is only one in this house what knows how to cast, and now my Sylten sleeps forever.” She raised her hand toward Johanna, pushing her thumb between her index and middle finger to make the protective sign. Johanna blanched. “I saw the powder on his whiskers, and you are the one what did it,” Old Cook said.

  “And what of my brother-in-law? Will he wake?” Margot asked, refusing to release her captive. Johanna nodded. “When?”

  “Tonight sometime. Morning at the latest.”

  “Or maybe never,” Old Cook said. “If it weren’t for the lady’s affections for her I would—”

  “Let me deal with the girl, Madam Cook.” Margot backed Johanna out of earshot, against the rough wood of the root cellar door. “What mischief are you about, you and your mistress?”

  Johanna swallowed and looked away. “I do not know. I truly do not. It is Madame’s wish that I compound these sleeping powders. The cat was a mistake,” she whispered.

  Margot studied Johanna’s face; the girl was afraid and upset. “Then let it be your last mistake, Miss Bloom.” She spoke slowly in her simple Swedish. “My husband is a fan maker, an artist. He needs a . . . bienfaitrice—oh what is the word—a person who can speak well for him, who will support him. But if there is something evil happening with the lady’s fans, you must tell me now. The name Nordén must not be any part of it. Do you understand?”

  Johanna lowered her eyes and nodded again, pulling her arm away. “I know nothing of her plans,” she whispered in French.

  “Better that you find out,” Margot said, taking Johanna by the chin. “If my brother-in-law upstairs is harmed, you will go to jail. But if you ruin the good name of Nordén, you will suffer much worse.” Margot let her go and turned back to Old Cook. “Madam Cook, your mistress requests strong coffee for the salon, to rouse the company. We must counteract the work of the devil when we are able.” Margot climbed the first few stairs, then turned once more to Johanna. “Réveillez-vous, Mademoiselle. Wake up.”

  THE SMELL OF COFFEE and the clatter of porcelain on the serving trolleys roused the guests, except for Lars, who snored peacefully in his armchair. The servants went from window to window, pulling aside the drapes to reveal black silhouettes of trees against the low light of winter sunset. The company partook of a lavish refreshment table, but conversations were hushed and punctuated with pauses, worried glances resting on Lars. The mothers feared for the young man’s well-being, the young ladies wondered if they would ever have such skills, the gentlemen assured one another they would never fall so hard. But the strong coffee and sweets soon revived them all, and within the hour laughter and the swish of fans overtook the solemnity. Master Fredrik observed quietly and waited until Johanna took a cup of coffee for herself, her hands shaking as she stirred in the sugar. “Miss Bloom!” Master Fredrik called sharply and sped in her direction, his shoes tapping over the parquet like twin beetles. “A word, Miss Bloom.” Master Fredrik guided her to two chairs placed against the wall. They sat, but he did not release her arm. “I mean Miss Grey,” he said. She looked at him, startled. “You remember your proper surname, I see.” Master Fredrik grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard. “There has been vile gossip spread about me, Miss Grey. Indeed, so vile that it may jeopardize my advancemen
t.” He leaned in and hissed in her ear. “Madame claims the informant was you!”

  Johanna stiffened. “I have seen you in Iron Square many times, buying second-hand gowns that you clearly meant to wear yourself. Your interest and pleasure was obvious. The stories were merely meant to amuse.”

  Master Fredrik’s face was pale, the veins at his temples beginning to bulge. “What business is it of yours what I buy? I have a wife, you foolish tale bearer!” He pinched the skin on top of her hand. “Mind your debts, Miss Grey. Do you fail to recollect the gentleman who rescued you, first from The Pig, and then from the trip home you so desperately wanted to avoid? I rescued you, Miss Grey! I did!”

  “I am aware of my debt to you, Master Fredrik,” Johanna said, wincing from the cruel pinch, feeling her fine cloak of security unraveling with every word.

  “Do not think I have neglected my own investigative duties, Miss Grey,” he hissed. “There is a Mr. Stenhammar that is still searching for his betrothed. It seems he plans to punish her properly after he has taken her into his filthy bed.”

  “You are a cavalier indeed, Mr. Lind, rescuing Miss—is it Miss Grey?—from an unholy union.” The Uzanne, arm in arm with Anna Maria, stood before them. Both women glowed with pleasure, having caught these precious gems of information. “But now it seems you have some quarrel with her.”

  “Indeed I do.” Master Fredrik rose to his feet, tightening his grip on Johanna’s hand and pulling her with him. “This Grey girl has tarnished my good name.”

  The Uzanne leaned close to his ear, her lips parted in a smile, as if offering the tenderest morsel of gossip. “Everyone has sinned, Mister Lind. Some more terribly than others. I am sure that Miss Bloom can be absolved. I am not so sure about you.” The Uzanne extracted Johanna from Master Fredrik’s grasp. “I remind you that Miss Bloom is in my employ and you will not touch her again.” She linked her arm in Johanna’s and walked to the opposite end of the room. Anna Maria followed. Master Fredrik stood and held his trembling hands before his face. They smelled of the beeswax salve that he used to keep them soft, and he stayed like this for some minutes, aware that The Uzanne was dangling him over an abyss.

  The Uzanne sat Johanna on a bench near the front of the salon and snapped her fan open for attention. The chatter stopped, cups and forks were set aside, and the answering snap of opening fans was audible. “Our debut may seem a distant dream, but I assure you this is one dream that we will see fulfilled, and a night you will never forget. Gustav’s Parliament in Gefle may prove to be . . . too taxing to allow his attendance at our event, but be assured Duke Karl has promised to receive you.” Excited comments were passed from fan to fan. Lars shifted in his chair and moaned, but it was one of pleasure. There was a smattering of applause and cries of hurrah for the brave volunteer. “Awake so soon, Mr. Nordén?” The Uzanne asked, a note of alarm in her voice. He nodded and then fell back into the chair, seeming to sleep again. She shot Johanna a reproving look.

  “But, Madame,” a nervous student asked, “how can we ever hope to master Domination by then?”

  The Uzanne turned back to her students. “Young ladies, you must practice diligently in the weeks to come. And you must carry a fan that is worthy of your training. No printed paper, no cheap souvenirs of Pompeii; in fact Italian fans are generally too pedestrian. Spanish fans are made in France, so they will do. French fans are best, and the Nordéns’ are the best of France that the Town can offer. The dove gray fan you saw conquer Mr. Nordén today was a perfect example. I should think the Nordéns can provide such a fan for every student.” Christian blushed and bowed. Margot sat beside him, her brow furrowed in confusion. The young ladies squealed with their own happy interpretation of this unexpected generosity.

  Lars was groggy but now awake enough to hear an opportunity for commerce. “And what sort of fan may we provide for you, Madame?”

  “There is only one fan for me, Mr. Nordén, and you do not have her: Cassiopeia.”

  “And who is Cassiopeia?” Lars asked as the din of happy chatter rose around them again. The Uzanne described her fan in perfect detail, her disappearance, and the sorrow and anger her absence caused. Lars scratched his neck, his face a scowl of thought, then he turned still half-asleep to Christian. “But, brother, was there not just such a fan in our shop last summer? Surely you remember.”

  Christian glanced at Margot, who pursed her lips and barely shook her head. He cleared his throat. “Dear brother, you must be dreaming.”

  It took every bit of The Uzanne’s training to speak slowly and calmly, to walk with grace toward Lars. “You think that my fan has visited your shop?” He shrugged and nodded sleepily. “But who carried her there? And who carried her away?” she asked.

  Margot rose and gave a curtsy. “Madame, I have a vague recollection of an old French fan, brought by messenger. She was in briefly, for a small repair, and sent away at once, I think to a lady in Alsace. I cannot be certain she was your Cassiopeia.”

  The Uzanne sat down beside Lars, taking his hand. “It would be worth it to your shop to be certain.”

  Lars looked at The Uzanne, taut with anticipation. He read the terror on Christian’s face, felt Margot’s stare boring into him. Then he saw Anna Maria, her eyes shining with excitement, sizing him up in this battle for family domination. “Indeed, Madame, the fan you describe was in for a tiny repair. I was not present when she arrived but I was there the day she was retrieved. The client was French. He, or perhaps she, sent a letter signed only with the initial S, but the letter also mentioned a Monsieur . . . Larsson.”

  The Uzanne closed her fan, holding it tight to control the shaking of her hand. “And can you find this Monsieur Larsson for me?”

  Lars tried to stand but could not. “Madame, I will check the receipts for further information,” he said with a sitting bow.

  She stroked the edge of her fan blade across Lars’s cheek. “The Nordén Shop has a business mind at last,” she said, then rose to address her restless students. “Miss Plomgren will work with you on the sequence of Domination until it is time to go.” Anna Maria nodded and snapped for attention. The whoosh of fans accompanied The Uzanne as she made her way with seeming nonchalance across the room. “Mister Lind,” she called. Master Fredrik looked up from a plate of pastry crumbs that he held in his lap, a morsel of cake sticking in his throat. The Uzanne halted before him, and he rose and bowed. “Mr. Nordén claims someone named Larsson knows the whereabouts of my fan. Do you imagine this is the same Mr. Larsson who you introduced to me in December?” Her powdered and colorless face was a blank sheet on which was written a cold fury. “A gambler who might have picked up a fan in a wager from a certain Mrs. S.?” The silence was answer enough. “You will bring him to me now!”

  Master Fredrik wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Madame, I feared to tell you earlier, but it is confirmed—I sent a messenger to be certain—Mr. Larsson is at home, gravely ill with the winter pestilence,” he said, his voice high and tight. “His neighbor, Mrs. Murbeck, believes he hovers between this life and the next. She is seeking next of kin.”

  The Uzanne turned away from Master Fredrik, tapping her folded fan into the palm of her hand. “Has she found them?”

  He shook his head solemnly. “Mr. Larsson has only his brothers of the lodge—myself and the fan maker Nordén.”

  The Uzanne turned back to Master Fredrik, a faint smile giving him a glimmer of redemptive hope. She stepped uncomfortably close. He could feel her breath on his face, smell jasmine mingled with rose pomade. “You are to go to your brother at once. If he has given my fan to some ladylove, you will buy her back using your own funds. If he has sold the fan, you will track her down and steal her. If for some reason he still has Cassiopeia, you are to retrieve her by whatever means necessary. Is this clear?” Master Fredrik nodded. “You will return to Gullenborg only when you have succeeded.” Master Fredrik nodded again, one hand at his throat. “You have stumbled before in the execution of your duties, Mr. Lind,
and the injury you suffer from a fall in a frilly dress and ladies’ heels will be fatal.” Master Fredrik’s face blanched. “Oh I know very much about you, Mister Lind. Miss Bloom has proven to be a spy of great skill. But there is one thing I did not find out: what happens to young military officers whose father harbors perverse secrets? Ask your sons, Mr. Lind, or their commanding officer. I doubt they will fare much better than the pederast himself.”

  The porcelain plate slipped from Master Fredrik’s fingers and shattered on the floor, but no one present heard the crash and tinkle of broken china; they were completely engaged in conversation, using the language of the fan.