The Stockholm Octavo

by Karen Engelmann

  “I have no mask,” I said, amazed at my own stupidity. I instantly took on my overcoat and ran down to the trinket stalls on Castle Quay, hoping there would still be someone there. “A mask,” I said, out of breath from running.

  “I am near to sold out. Color?” The proprietress was wrapped in a red coat several sizes too big and wore a black bonnet trimmed with all manner of colorful feathers.

  “Gray, I think. The costume is mostly gray.”

  “Gray? This is a masquerade not a Lenten procession. You’ll want white, and trim. Feathers, sequins, or braid? I also have one with wings on either side. And a beautiful Turkish mask with a fine veil.” She rummaged in her sacks and boxes.

  “Nothing plain?”

  “A lady won’t wear nothing plain.”

  Master Fredrik came suddenly to mind: in my worry over Johanna I had failed to communicate the plan to him. “No no, the mask is for me,” I said. The trinket seller handed me a plain white mask with a huff in exchange for a ridiculous sum. Then I ran to Merchant’s Square in the hopes of finding my friend at home.

  The skeletal manservant opened the door and announced that business hours were finished for the day, but I spied Mrs. Lind in the shadows, twisting the ends of her shawl. “Mrs. Lind! It is Emil Larsson, your husband’s friend. I need to speak to Master Fredrik at once. Regarding tonight’s event.” She hurried forward and pulled me in, closing the door with a bang.

  She turned to me, eyes red, and raised her fingers to her mouth to bite her nails “I have asked him not to go, but he insists,” she said.

  “He is doing this for you,” I said. She nodded tearfully. “And many more besides. You cannot know how many.”

  She led me to his workroom and knocked. “Freddie? Here is Mr. Larsson to see you.”

  The door opened, and the scent of eau de lavande enveloped me. I stepped into the dressing room of a professional, closing the door behind me.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  The Black Coach

  Sources: E. L., J. Bloom, Gullenborg footman

  AT TEN O’CLOCK I walked across Old North Bridge to the Opera in the crystalline air of a late winter night. Master Fredrik had found a more suitable costume, but my white linen tunic and gold Greek chlamys were far too light even under my heaviest woolen cloak. I strolled as casually as I could around the square, and on the third revolution I spied the imposing black carriage with a baronial crest. The horses were steaming, and the driver just blanketing them for the wait. The coach was silhouetted against a tavern whose windows cast an orange glow that melted into a night sky sprinkled with stars. The presence of the coach meant The Uzanne was alive, but it did not mean Johanna was with her. I pulled down my mask and came closer, listening for voices within. The footman stood, arms crossed, looking intently at the coach. “And who is here?” I asked.

  “Madame Uzanne and her girls.”

  “Daughters! I didn’t know,” I said.

  “These aren’t daughters. These are more her pets.”

  “Are they dark or fair, the pets?”

  “One of each, but the dark one . . . the plum . . .” He licked his thumb and shoved it in his mouth in the most obscene way as the door to the carriage opened. Out stepped a slender young prince, black cape thrown back over his shoulder and a round black hat and mask in hand. At least, she looked a boy for a moment, but it was impossible to hide such breasts, and her hair was not completely tamed into masculine form. “I knew that you would see which of us would serve you best. I share your feelings for him, Madame, and your fan is in the superior hand,” Anna Maria said, her voice thick with excitement. “And Miss Bloom will still be there, unmasked as planned?”

  “Miss Bloom, she is the other,” the footman whispered to me. “Not as ripe but dressed like spring herself. A fair tumble, if you cannot get your hands on the plum.”

  “Go, Miss Plomgren,” The Uzanne said calmly. “There will be no more questions.”

  “My ticket?” Anna Maria asked, holding out her hand.

  A slip of paper fluttered to the ground. The plum picked it up and stomped angrily toward the Opera. I followed several paces after, thinking I might question her when we were far enough away. As we walked, I listened to her cursing The Uzanne, cursing her costume, cursing Lars for something, cursing the man in a bear suit that got in her way. Just as I was about to call her name, a bearded sultan came between us and took her arm, and she pointed at him, cursing all the more. This woman had the sharpest of tongues and a cowed man willing to feel its prick. It was a tableau vivant of my Trickster card, with a link to my Companion that could not be mistaken. I came to a halt. All eight were finally in place and my Octavo was complete.

  My Courier was ready. Now it was crucial that I push my Trickster to advantage, but the sultan was already leading her inside. I would have to get Anna Maria alone later. I returned to the carriage. “This bloom inside the coach, will she open to a liaison with a gentleman?” I said, finding the last of my money to slip to the footman. He shrugged. “Tell the girl to meet her Orpheus at the orange house on Baggens Street as soon as she can get free. There is a door knocker in the shape of a cherub and the password is Hinken. Tell her I will lead her out of Hades.”

  The footman grinned, and tossed the coins up, letting them jingle into his palm. “To paradise, is it?” he said. “All right then, but best you go along now. The Madame does not like her pets distracted.”

  If the kitchen girl had given Johanna my note, she would know to meet me in the vestibule before the dancing started. I did not write the safe house down, knowing the note might be intercepted. But I hoped that Johanna would run at once, that she would avoid the masquerade altogether, and hide at Baggens Street until the night was over.

  There was nothing I could do now except wait for her inside. The Opera House stretched across the east side of the square, its stately columns and precise rows of windows a sober backdrop to the revelers who streamed toward the doors. At the very top of the building was the royal crest and just below that were the words Gustavus III in gold relief. The entryway was jammed with costumed creatures of every sort. There was a separate line of spectators, dressed in their everyday clothes, who paid a small sum to sit in the audience and watch. I handed an usher my ticket and pushed inside.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  A Dangerous Pet

  Sources: J. Bloom, Gullenborg footman

  JOHANNA AND THE UZANNE sat knee to knee in the carriage, their breath forming in clouds before them, the windows thick with feathers of ice. “Miss Bloom, you look every inch a young baroness,” The Uzanne said, pulling aside the traveling blanket that wrapped Johanna in warmth.

  “Madame is always so kind.” Johanna squeezed her fan and felt the packet of antimony press into her palm beneath her cream leather glove.

  “I am not kind. I am honest. And I expect you to be honest with me.” The Uzanne pulled an envelope from her pocket and opened it. “This letter came in the morning post. I wondered what you might think of it.” Johanna could only nod stupidly, but she felt every muscle grow tense. Here was the note that Emil had promised to send. “It is only one sentence. Shall I read it to you?” Johanna nodded again, nervously pressing her palms together. “A minuit il ne sera plus; arrangez vous sur cela,” The Uzanne read.

  “At midnight he will be no longer; prepare yourself for this,” Johanna translated, her eyes wide with confusion.

  “Apparently there were many others who received the exact same note. Do you know who sent this letter?” The Uzanne said

  “No, Madame, no,” Johanna said, still reeling from relief and from the brazen words.

  “I do,” The Uzanne said, throwing the paper to the floor of the coach and grinding it under her boot. “The man who stands to benefit. The man who is too cowardly to be present at his brother’s murder, even after wishing for it, praying for it, visiting charlatans to confirm it. He only wishes to announce it.” She slammed her hand against the wall of the carriage, causi
ng the footman to open the door. “Close it, footman, and wait for two knocks. We are not finished here,” she said, regaining her composure. “If I did not feel duty bound to my Henrik, if I did not have in my heart a boundless ocean of love for him and for Sweden, I might call on Police Chief Liljensparre myself.” The Uzanne adjusted her tricornered hat and pulled a white half-mask dotted with sequins over her face. “I have long known Duke Karl as a greedy and stupid man, and tried to keep in mind those were admirable qualifications for a figurehead king. And he is easily led by his member.” She pursed her lips, as if she had eaten spoiled meat, but then sat back and smiled. “Have you ever been with a man, Johanna?”

  Johanna leaned closer, pressing the packet tight against her palm. “No, I have not,” she whispered, trying to seem enthralled.

  The Uzanne ran a satin-covered finger along the edge of Johanna’s bodice, pushing under the fabric enough to brush the nipple of her breast. “It can be a genuine pleasure, I assure you, and I was the most fortunate of women in my marriage. But sometimes it is a vile duty one is forced to perform. For God. For country. For love. There is no sacrifice too great.” The Uzanne took hold of Johanna’s hands. “Your sleeping powders saved me on many nights with Duke Karl, Johanna. I know that I have tested you and then pinned your wings, despite your service and loyalty to me. But it was only to keep you safe.” The Uzanne looked deep into Johanna’s eyes and slid her fingers across the palms of Johanna’s gloves. “I intend to keep you at Gullenborg, Johanna. Miss Plomgren will be the sacrifice tonight, she will . . . What is this?” Johanna yanked her hand away, but not quickly enough. The Uzanne squeezed so hard that tears came to Johanna’s eyes. “You are hiding something, my pet.” She peeled off Johanna’s glove and pried open her fingers, taking the folded paper square and opening it carefully. The Uzanne glanced up at Johanna and closed her hand at once. “What is it, apothicaire?”

  “Antimony.”

  The Uzanne shoved the packet into a pocket, then pressed Johanna back against the seat. “And who is it for?”

  “It was meant for me, if I should fail,” Johanna cried, turning her face away.

  The Uzanne pressed her lips against Johanna’s ear. “Then you are a coward and have already failed.” Johanna relaxed, as if she were defeated, then shoved The Uzanne off with all her strength. But The Uzanne rapped the ceiling twice with her knuckles and the footman opened the door at once. Johanna rushed to clamber down, but The Uzanne grabbed her dress and pulled her back. “Hold her fast, footman.” The footman climbed in and pressed his bulk against Johanna while the Uzanne removed her own gloves. She leaned over the girl and pushed aside the yards of embroidered silk, shoving cold hands down her bodice and up her skirts. “Here it is!” The Uzanne pulled the gray fan from an inner pocket. “Miss Plomgren claimed you had stolen a fan from the Nordéns and I dismissed this as envy. But I underestimated your scholarship, Miss Bloom.” She sat back calmly opposite Johanna, who was squirming under the footman’s rough embrace. “Footman! Mind your hands,” The Uzanne said finally and waited until all was quiet. “To think that I held you dear, that I would save you from the sacrifice that I am prepared to make, as would a mother for her child. But you are not a child, Johanna Grey. You are a woman now, and it is time you were wed.” Johanna was rigid, the footman pressing her into the corner. “Have you never wondered what Mr. Stenhammar will be like between your legs? I have learned that the townsmen call him the White Worm. Before the month of March is out I will deliver you to this devil myself, and were Gefle not such a hideous village, I would stay and dance at your wedding.” She opened the door and stepped down from the carriage. “The girl remains locked inside,” she said, pulling on her gloves and pointing a white embroidered finger at the footman, “and you stay out. I intend to deliver a virgin.” The footman jumped down, and the door clicked shut. Johanna pressed her face against the glass and watched The Uzanne, one gloved hand over her nose and mouth, sprinkle the antimony to the cobblestones below her feet. “Keep the girl’s fan for me, footman. I will want it later. If it is missing or damaged in any way, you will be begging for the balm of the grave.”

  The footman stuffed the fan in an inside pocket and watched The Uzanne disappear inside the Opera House, then unlocked the door of the coach and leaned in. Johanna half stood, hoping to bargain her way out somehow, but the footman shoved her back onto the seat. “There was a gentleman already paid for you,” he said. “Said his name were Orpheus come to lead you from hell.” Johanna sat up, smoothing her hair, her nettle green gown. “He meant to lead you to the orange house on Baggens Street and fuck you like the horned one, him and his friend Hinken. Well if I cannot have you then neither will they.” He slammed the door and pressed his face to the glass, his nose flat and distorted, his teeth sharp and black. “You are well down the river Styx now, girlie; pity it’s as a virgin, but Madame insists.” Johanna felt the tremors begin in her shoulders and travel down to her feet. She turned away, her body shaking, and pulled the coach blanket over herself. He stepped back from the door and brushed his uniform, stamping his feet in the cold. “Damn that woman. She keeps it all for herself.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  The Masked Ball, 10 P.M.

  Sources: M. F. L., L. Nordén, various guests

  A SHIMMERING GOWN of copper silk, towering wig adorned with butterflies, lemon yellow gloves, green slippers with copper-colored ribbons—it was by far the finest clothing Master Fredrik had ever worn. Pity that the stakes of the evening caused him to perspire like a sailor in the tropics, and made deep brown patches under his arms. He pressed his arms to his sides, moving only his forearms and wrists in an effort to appear light and gay. Lars, in a royal blue sultan’s robe and a turban poked full of jeweled pins, stood by Master Fredrik’s side and surveyed the crowded stage. The orchestra members, black Venetian dominoes all, set up their music stands and cleaned their instruments. The floor filled with jesters and milkmaids, fairies and demons, and dozens of black-clad dominoes with round hats and masks. The air grew thick with perfumed wrists and pushed-up breasts, rouged cheeks and lips, ripples of ribald laughter, lace cuffs, polished shoes, masks in place, and the same question on every tongue: who are you?

  “There must be a hundred Venetian dominoes already. I recognize no one,” Lars exclaimed through his false black beard. “What? He is here?” He straightened and stared at his brother, Christian, pushing toward him through the crowd. “He was not invited!”

  “Anyone may buy a ticket, Mr. Nordén, but Christian should go home to his Margot,” Master Fredrik said softly. “This is not the debut he imagines. I will attempt to hasten his departure.” A handsome young lord approached and pinched the generous buttocks of Master Fredrik. “I beg your . . . oh, Miss Plomgren. You. Where is Madame? And Miss Bloom?”

  “Mr. Nordén,” Anna Maria said, ignoring Master Fredrik and pressing against Lars. “You conjure up the notion of A Thousand and One Nights. I should like to be locked in a castle with you now.”

  “Where is Madame?” Master Fredrik asked insistently.

  Anna Maria looked over her shoulder at Master Fredrik. “Who are you? Copper Mountain?” Master Fredrik raised a heavily lined eyebrow. Anna Maria adjusted Lars’s turban. “When the music begins, you will dance with me,” she said. He answered her with a long kiss and ran his hand down the back of her coat, resting it on the curve of her bottom.

  “Who are you?” Master Fredrik asked Christian, who had finally made his way over to join them.

  Christian pulled his wax mask up to the top of his head and looked down at his magenta cape, hastily trimmed with gold cord. “Margot had made a miter, and I was to be the pope, but I thought it might be taken the wrong way.”

  “Astute decision. Detrimental to business, Catholicism,” Master Fredrik said. “I am perplexed at your attendance, Mr. Nordén. Madame intended that your brother represent the atelier.”

  “They are my fans. I wished to be present for their debut.” Christia
n pulled his mantle around him and looked up at the fly loft, a tangle of ropes and painted drops. “They are as light as doves and the same soft color. They appear perfect in their duplication, but they are not copies.” He smiled at his trade secret. “The young ladies will dominate.” His gaze returned to eye level. “Where are the young ladies?” Christian asked, scanning the crowd.

  “Young ladies are always late, Mr. Nordén. Sometimes hours and hours,” Master Fredrik said with a too-hearty laugh. He took Christian’s arm. “Come. We will look for signs of your fans near the refreshments. And I need to find Miss Bloom.”

  The two gentlemen walked arm in arm toward the wings and down the stairs to the foyer. “I confess I am here on a less lofty errand, Master Fredrik,” Christian said. “It was understood by the young ladies that The Uzanne would subsidize their fans for the debut. We have yet to be paid.”

  “Mr. Nordén, this is no place for business,” Master Fredrik said. “In fact, it would be far better for business if you went home at once to Mrs. Nordén.” The clock struck half past ten. The first violin sounded the tuning note. “I understand she is expecting.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  The Masked Ball, 11 P.M.

  Sources: M. F. L., L. Nordén, H. von Essen, masquerade guests, orchestra members incl. Court Trumpeter Örnberg, Conductor Kluth

  “I SWEAR, MADAME, you make a most stunning duke,” Master Fredrik said, giving The Uzanne an overdone curtsy and then trying to take her hand and kiss it. “The transformation is not unhappy in the least.”

  “I cannot say the same, Mr. Lind,” she said, pulling her gloved hand away. “Where is Miss Plomgren?”

  Christian hurried over, stopped and put his hand to his heart. “Madame.”