The Stockholm Octavo

by Karen Engelmann

  Anna Maria squeezed Lars’s hand. “I hope we might attend,” he said.

  The Uzanne stood and came close, tightening a strap on Lars’s coat sleeve. “That is precisely why you are here. And we have one more member of our entourage. Miss Plomgren, please fetch Miss Bloom.”

  Anna Maria looked over at the housemaid loitering in the hall but stopped the bubble of protest about to escape and exited. It was impossible to miss her bellowing tone from downstairs, and soon Johanna squirmed under the combined gaze of the company.

  “We were discussing the debut.” The Uzanne placed two fingers around Johanna’s forearm and squeezed. “You have filled out nicely in Cook’s kitchen, Miss Bloom. You will fit your costume perfectly.” She nodded to the waiting Louisa, who left her post and returned holding a gown in her outstretched arms. “Try it for us. I am sure the gentlemen will be most appreciative.”

  When Johanna reappeared from the room across the hall, her face flushed and hair newly pinned, conversation halted. She gazed transfixed at her own reflection in the large mirror. It was as if all of spring’s tender hues had been poured over her. A pale new green formed the ground of the dress. The stiff bodice was a miracle of embroidery—long looping tendrils of silver thread that held pink and coral buds about to blossom with the promise of sweet ripe berries to come. The décolletage was deep enough to show the fullness of her breasts, and the cream lace edging just concealed the edge of pink nipples, thrust upward by boned stays. The skirt, floating on a froth of petticoats, was crisscrossed with cream-colored ribbon. At the intersections of the ribbons were bouquets of tiny silk flowers in pale lilac, pink, coral, cream, and purple. A band four fingers wide of these same miraculous flowers edged the bottom of the dress. The matching overcoat fit tightly from the neck to the waist, then flowed back and down to the floor, revealing a lining of striped robin’s egg and cream satin. Blue silk ribbons hung at intervals along the front, posing as closures but clearly never meant to be tied. The widening sleeves of the coat stopped below the elbow and sent cascades of lace to just above the wrist. Johanna stared in the mirror, not at herself, but at the dress that was all the color she had ever dreamed of having. She touched the edge of her sleeve, as if to make certain it was real.

  “You . . . you are transformed, Miss Bloom,” Lars stuttered. Master Fredrik applauded enthusiastically.

  “So then.” Anna Maria cocked her head away from her rival. “What costume will I have, Madame?”

  The Uzanne turned to Anna Maria. “The Venetian domino is the costume of choice for Patriots this season.”

  Anna Maria’s steam was almost visible. “I am to be . . . a BOY?”

  “Not just a boy; a student prince. You will be at my side to study and learn. And Gustav has an eye for beauty in both sexes, so you will be noticed I’m certain.” She held up her gray and silver fan. “She will be yours that night. If you do well, you may name her and claim her for your own.”

  “A token worthy of a queen!” Lars slid into place beside the pacified Anna Maria. “And if the plum is to dress as a cavalier, are your real cavaliers to wear dresses?”

  “I like the idea of you in a gown, Mr. Nordén. You are a pretty enough man. What do you say, Mister Lind? It must be a dream come true.”

  Master Fredrik took a deep breath. “Madame, I hope you will indulge my curiousi—”

  “Your curious appetites, Mister Lind? Indeed,” The Uzanne said with a mocking frown. “But as for your gluttony, best you begin your Lenten fasting early if you are to squeeze inside your gown.”

  “Are your young ladies to be dominoes as well?” Lars asked. “They will be sorely distressed if they cannot show their attributes, as will all the gentlemen present.”

  “No, Mr. Nordén. Their task is to prepare the atmosphere in the room—each has been assigned one of Gustav’s men to engage and dominate. They will most certainly be women.” The Uzanne came to Johanna’s side, gazing at their reflection. “You are in full bloom now, Johanna, and will have a starring role. You will be the unmasked princess, walking one step behind me. But you will not be dancing, nor flirting with the gentlemen that come flocking. You will be focused on only one man.” The Uzanne pushed a loose tendril of Johanna’s hair behind her ear. “You will meet the king, Miss Bloom. If you do your job well, you may keep the dress.”

  “And where shall I wear it then?” Johanna asked, her face drained of all color.

  The Uzanne pulled a loose thread from Johanna’s bodice and smoothed the lace at her sleeve. “There will be a new court eventually. But first, the masked ball. Gustav will receive the message I meant to deliver in Gefle, but this time with more passion.”

  “What message would that be?” Lars asked, a giddy foolishness written on his face.

  The Uzanne stood and walked slowly to the windows and back, folding and unfolding Cassiopeia. “That for those who are true patriots, there is no sacrifice too great for love.” The room fell silent but for the gusts of wind that rattled the windows. A flicker of understanding crossed Anna Maria’s face. She flushed and her eyes narrowed in pleasure. “Miss Bloom, the sleigh will be here in a quarter of an hour. Change back to your street clothes and get to the Town on your errand,” The Uzanne said. “Mister Lind, the debut invitations and tickets are to be posted in two days’ time, and the cards for the postball celebration in a week. You needn’t return to Gullenborg until after the event.” Master Fredrik frowned, then bowed and hurried out. His alliance with Johanna would be hard to uphold from a distance. “Mr. Nordén, I would like you to accompany Miss Bloom to the Town and make sure she gets back safely.” Lars jumped up eagerly and bowed. “Escort her to my room when you return and have Louisa lock the door. A stable boy broke into my medicine supply and his greed was nearly fatal. The servants are blaming Miss Bloom, and Cook wants her head on the block.” Anna Maria jumped up eagerly and took Lars’s hand “Miss Plomgren, you will stay and be fitted for your trousers.” Anna Maria sank down on the settee, still as a snake in the sun, and watched Johanna exit, the train of her dress a stream of cut spring flowers.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Johanna in the Lion’s Den—II

  Sources: J. Bloom, L. Nordén, anonymous employee of The Lion

  JOHANNA STOOD BEFORE the counter of the Lion, staring at the dusty glass apothecary jar filled with brilliant green liquid. The proprietor came out from the officin and leered at her. “You have burgeoned, Miss Bloom. Heads are turning now. Business must be good.”

  Johanna looked at him, her face white and expressionless as chalk. “I need a potent sedative that can be ground into a powder. The most potent that you have.”

  “Was the False Blusher not enough?” he asked. Johanna did not answer. “Powder, powder . . . potent.” The man tapped his fingers on the countertop, then stopped to scrape some dirt from underneath his thumbnail.

  “Do you have antimony?” she asked. The apothicaire did not answer; only those intent on death would ask for such a thing. “There is a wolf on the grounds.”

  “A wolf, eh? I can only imagine, my love.” He slapped the counter and laughed. “Well a wolf might not take to antimony, what with the bitter taste. But I have certain morels that can be tasty in a final stew.”

  “You mean Turbantops?” Johanna asked. He nodded. “Can they be ground into powder?”

  The apothicaire shrugged. “I never tried, but you can test them on your wolf.”

  Preparing this toxic powder could be dangerous; just breathing the fumes in a closed space caused ill effects. But the potency was certain: ingesting Turbantops was fatal. Inhaling the fine dust would surely be as well. The Uzanne would be the experiment and the victim as well this time. “Do you have them here in the shop?” she asked.

  “Oh, I always have a Turbantop ready for a miss like you,” he said, “but you will need to come around back and open your mouth wide.” He jerked his head toward the door of his workroom.

  Johanna leaned over the counter, meeting his eyes f
ull on. “I have an escort waiting in the coach. He would be inclined to beat you bloody before calling the police. And Madame Uzanne would hate to have to call in the guild.”

  The apothicaire’s face took on a sober mien, hands in a sincere clasp. “My apologies, Miss Bloom. I thought you had moved to Baggens Street, that being the eventual address of most girls taken in at Gullenborg. Tell the Madame I am at her service as always.”

  “Put the Turbantops in a ceramic jar with a snug lid and bring them out at once,” Johanna said. “And I will take a generous packet of antimony as well, in case the beast does not like mushrooms.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  A Fat Purse

  Source: L. Nordén

  “I REFUSE TO WEAR A DRESS, per se,” Lars said, his large frame overwhelming the gilt chair in the empty Nordén shop. The shutters were pulled tight, and only the light of a single candle gleamed in the yellow-striped room. “I will wear the robes of a sultan, commanding his harem to perform the most unspeakable acts.”

  Anna Maria opened the cabinet of fans, pulling out the drawers and inspecting the goods. “I have heard that the Venetian domino is the height of fashion, and you may gain favor on that uniform alone.”

  “A boring costume for Carnivale, my plum. I prefer color,” Lars said, standing and pressing himself into Anna Maria from behind.

  “So you think I will be boring?”

  “You are alluring in any garb. Or none.”

  “Lars, where is the last gray and silver fan? I put it aside for myself.” There was pause enough to make her twist out and away from his advance. “Did you sell her?” Lars bent down to adjust his stocking. “Or give her as a token?”

  “You hadn’t said the fan was kept aside for you. I . . . I sold her.”

  “To whom?” Anna Maria ran her hand through his hair and then held tight, pulling him to a standing position. “Was it your new friend, Miss Bloom? Did you stop to show her your atelier after visiting the Lion?” Lars tried to turn his face away but could not. Anna Maria pressed close. “What do you have to say, Mr. Nordén?”

  He gripped her hand hard enough to feel the press of slender bones. “It was just a fan, my plum. Don’t be so angry.”

  “Are you never angry?” she asked.

  “I am not a man prone to anger, my sweet,” he said, taking her arm behind her back.

  “Then I must teach you the benefits of that elevated emotion,” she said, pulling his hair hard enough to make him wince. “There is power in it.”

  “I prefer the power of money,” Lars said, pinning her against the wall so she could not move.

  “Pity you don’t have any, or the means to get it. I would prefer a man with an income, like a well-placed sekretaire.” Anna Maria smiled and felt his quickened breathing, matching her own.

  “I might surprise you, Miss Plomgren, with my emotions and my purse.”

  “Let’s see the purse, then,” she said, pulling at his waistband until the buttons snapped to the floor.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  A Shameful Transposition

  Sources: M. F. L., Mrs. Lind

  “THEY ARE MY FINEST WORK, Mrs. Lind. I finally have mastered her true character,” he said, glancing at himself in the mirror.

  “Yes, oh they are beautiful, Freddie, and wicked.” Mrs. Lind leaned toward him, but her lips did not touch his impeccably powdered cheek.

  “Thank you, my dove,” he said, checking the invitations to the masked ball one by one: the time, the place, the dress, the date. The date. “How easy to transpose a six and a nine. The young ladies will be a trifle late.”

  “By three days, Mr. Lind!”

  “It will not stop The Uzanne, but distract her, like a bee sting.”

  “People can die from a sting, you know,” said Mrs. Lind.

  “I would be the queen bee then!” He pinched her cheek and began removing his green stomacher. “Are the boys out for the day?”

  “All day and all night and all day again. They are away to the garrison in Norrköping.”

  “Shall we play then?”

  “Freddie, my love, you are the naughtiest of men,” she said, coming around the desk and sitting on his lap.

  Chapter Fifty

  Shrovetide

  Sources: E. L., M. F. L., the Superior, Walldov, Sandell, Palsson, and diverse patrons of the Black Cat

  I HAD RETURNED TO WORK at Customs in mid-February, thin and pale, feeling like the paperwhites that graced my room, heads shriveled and all the perfume gone. Every afternoon at three I went to the Black Cat with my colleagues for coffee, and studied the five or six men who had gathered there every day, year after year. I knew almost nothing of them. One or two had tried to make my acquaintance, and I wondered if I had played a part in some Octavo of theirs, pushing their event through my indifference. It was time, I realized, to do more than that. I learned that Palsson’s wife had just given birth to twins, Walldov occasionally sang in the Opera chorus, and Sandell was a voracious reader of English novels. When it came my turn to talk, instead of deflecting their queries as usual, I admitted that I feared for the return of my good friend Mrs. Sparrow; her rooms were locked up tight. I spoke of my admiration for King Gustav and his plan to reform the nation as a modern power. And I admitted my feelings for a girl I knew held captive by a cruel mistress; my nights given over to attempts to enter her prison in secret. So far, I had not succeeded once, and I dare not send a letter with the post lest we both be punished. The Superior nodded with sympathy and noted my trembling hands. He said he knew my sorrow well. My colleagues’ huffing encouragement and gentle claps on my back caused my eyes to sting and pool.

  I returned to my rooms feeling strangely cheered by this and climbed into bed, planning to sleep for several hours before my night’s tasks. It was in that state between waking and slumber that there was a sharp knock at the door. I stumbled out of bed and unlatched the lock.

  “You look very well, Emil. Much improved, just as Miss Bloom suggested. Would you like a Shrovetide bun?” Master Fredrik sat to unwrap the bakery parcel he placed on the table like a fragile treasure.

  “Mrs. Murbeck would not approve. She has become a strict warden of my diet, and I have little appetite besides.” I joined him. “But what of Miss Bloom?”

  “A good woman. She has saved you—Mrs. Murbeck, I mean. And Miss Bloom.”

  I sat opposite him. “This is the girl you called the false bloom not long ago.”

  “She is a rare flower that I did not fully appreciate.” He removed his coat and let it hang on the back of the chair. “Miss Bloom and I have formed an alliance.”

  “What sort of alliance?”

  Master Fredrik’s good cheer faded. “An alliance against The Uzanne. Miss Bloom and I now believe that she plans Domination as the climax of the debut. While you and I suspected Domination was of a darker nature, we could not guess how dark. Miss Bloom insists that The Uzanne intends assassination.”

  “She must mean that there is talk of one,” I said. “I hear it in every tavern.”

  “No, Emil. The Uzanne has charged Miss Bloom to make a deadly powder. It will be Gustav’s undoing.”

  “If it is true,” I said, unwilling to accept this as a real threat.

  Master Fredrik shook his head at my disbelief. “We must act as though it were, and we mean to disrupt The Uzanne’s plan in whatever ways we can, however small. I have ensured that the young ladies will be absent, and intend to cause other distractions that night. As for Miss Bloom’s plans . . .” Master Fredrik shrugged. “She would not share them for fear of making me complicit, or perhaps to halt my blurting them in a moment of weakness. A wise strategy, I am sure. But Miss Bloom will save us all, I think. She is close enough to do harm. She has agreed to share her observations at Gullenborg. Unfortunately I am banished until after the masked ball.”

  “I can go to her,” I said, starting from my chair.

  “You cannot go.” He absentmindedly picked up a Shrovetide b
un and opened his mouth to take a bite but halted. “The Uzanne believes you are dead.”

  “But I can say I was miraculously saved . . . ,” I said.

  “Your salvation was purchased . . .” Master Fredrik pointed the Shrovetide bun at me.

  “. . . by the medicines she sent.”

  “. . . with a folding fan.” Here the conversation stopped. Master Fredrik took a large bite from the bun, his tongue claiming the sweet white cream that escaped into the corners of his mouth. “Miss Bloom told me the story. And I forgive you, Emil. It is all for the best. Had I not been dangled over the abyss long enough I might not have come to my senses. And this positions Miss Bloom better to make the thrust.” He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his lips. “The return of Cassiopeia has bound the girl tight to her mistress. They are the unbreakable bonds of love.”

  I picked up a pastry then put it back on the paper. “Love?”

  “Indeed. The Uzanne loves Miss Bloom like a daughter.” He put his half-eaten bun back on the wrapping paper, peering at my face. “Oh! You have feelings of your own.”

  I felt trapped by this question, and confused, for I was not sure at all what I was feeling. “She is a compelling young lady,” I said. He looked at me with such sweet sympathy that I felt foolish and tried to explain that she was merely part of a larger mechanism that was driving my life—the Octavo. “This cartomancy is a discovery of Mrs. Sparrow’s, but you might know of this form from Masonic teachings where it is called the Divine Geometry.”

  “I do not know, and how did Mrs. Sparrow absorb secrets of the brotherhood that I have yet to learn?”

  “She has enlisted various teachers, most recently Christian Nordén. They are friends, and he is several ranks above you in the lodge,” I said.