The Stockholm Octavo

by Karen Engelmann

  Christian looked up, his face wet with tears. “You wished for this callous murderer’s success?”

  “I only meant that when you come so close to success, it seems a pity to have it slip away.”

  “Is this what you believe?” Christian’s tone of rebuke was clear.

  Anna Maria turned to him. “I believe your tears are not just for the king. The perfection of your fans would have made the Nordén fortune if they could be seen, if they could be copied.”

  “If they could be paid for, Miss Plomgren.” Christian put his face into his hands. “I placed too much in them. We will lose the shop.”

  Anna Maria took a seat beside Christian, placing her hand on his arm. “Perhaps there is a way to keep the shop in the family. Perhaps you would like to sell the shop to your brother and me.”

  “You haven’t the soul for it, and neither does he,” Christian said sadly. “And do you truly imagine he has that kind of money?”

  “Oh, but he does. Lars has been lucky at the tables,” Anna Maria said softly. “He never told you, though; he was afraid it would disappear into your perfect, exquisite, unwanted art.”

  Christian would not look at her. “This is how the world ends, Miss Plomgren. I have witnessed it before.”

  “That is your choice, Christian.” Anna Maria took her hand away and pulled the gray skin fan from the black satin sash at her waist, opening it silently. There was knocking on a door down the hallway. The police would soon come to question them as well.

  “I am weary of the struggle,” Christian said, leaning back, eyes closed.

  “Yes, of course you are, dear brother-in-law to be.” Anna Maria put her free hand on his cheek, as gently as if he were her cranky baby. The gray fan lay open and still in her hand, the strips of silver dull in the shadowy loge. “A good night’s sleep will do you some good.”

  “Margot will know what to do,” Christian said.

  “Of course she will,” she said and bent close to his face. “Now, Christian, open your eyes for a moment and see the future,” she whispered. Anna Maria held the fan parallel to the floor, then following the precise movements she had learned from The Uzanne, blew along the center stick, the hidden quill filled with fine powder, laced with Turbantops, meant for the king. “The ancien regime is over, brother. I am the future.”

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Old North Bridge

  Source: J. Bloom

  JOHANNA CROUCHED NEXT TO a pylon of Old North Bridge, her breath freezing in the wayward strands of her hair. The coachman’s greatcoat was no protection from the chill. She pushed the edge of the collar into her mouth to keep her teeth from chattering, wool and lanolin on her tongue. The stillness was as deep and thick as the ice along the edge of Norrströmmen. There was no coming or going from the Opera House. Four military guards stood outside the entrance, maintaining order in the throng that was collecting, waiting in silence. An occasional cry of alarm carried through the cold air: Treason! Murder! Revolution!

  The ice looked black and solid streamside, but farther out it broke in patches to rushing water and caught the glimmer of light from the hissing torches on the balustrades. Every so often a loud crack made Johanna jump; the vernal equinox was five days away, and the ice was losing its hold on the Town. Lake Mälaren always claimed an offering or two this time of year, someone foolish enough to think any season lasted. Johanna wondered if this was the way to salvation: to walk out over the cracking ice. The pain would be brief, swallowed by the dark water then pushed swiftly beneath the glassy surface, instantly heart-stopping. Then black. Black was all colors. She would be held inside a prism then, a paradise of light.

  Her fingers were completely stiff, so she pulled her hands inside the coat and thrust them under her arms to warm them one last time. She felt the perfect fabric of her bodice, soft green silk and stiff bone stays, the prickly silver threads of embroidery. She felt the soft brush of lace at her wrists, the same lace that framed her breasts, never so bared as tonight, never so forward, or so beautiful. The full skirt bunched and rustled under the coat. If she had worn her old clothes, her gray clothes, she would not hesitate. But the gown was like so many fingers. She felt the seamstress’s stitching, the comb maker pressing horn for the stays, the button maker bent over bits of pearl and silver, the lace maker, dye man, mercer, weaver—all their hands held her on the embankment.

  Johanna crouched down to make a snowy pillow. Her mother had grown up in the northern forests, and told her tales of winter sleepers. There was a burning slumber that came just when the cold was too much to bear; a glowing red warmth would flood from the top of the head, down into the limbs and all the way to the tips of the toes. No matter that the extremities were black with frostbite when the bodies were found; more often than not, a gentle smile was frozen on their faces. She lay down and pulled her feet with their kidskin shoes and her white-stockinged legs up inside her dress. The North Star and Cassiopeia were dangling above. Shaking with cold, Johanna closed her eyes. She tried to imagine her bath in the officin, steaming in the cool air of autumn when the sun came through her bottles of elixir and made color stripes on the wall, the fresh linen towel on the chair next to the tub, the rose hip tea that she would drink when she was clean. Her father. Her mother. Her brothers, sweet and well. The customers clamoring in the apothecary. Louder and louder their voices became until the black veil of frozen sleep was pulled up like a shade. It was not a dream, but a noise gathering above.

  Her legs no longer steady, she crawled up to the road. A dozen smoking torches lit a crowd heading toward Old North Bridge. There were four officers on horseback, followed by a bizarre parade: Pierrots and Columbines, Harlequins, shepherds, angels, pashas, and plainly dressed townspeople who had been roused by the commotion. A pack of Venetian dominoes walked to one side, carrying stringed instruments and horns, a marching orchestra waiting for the order to play. In the center of this crowd was a splendid coach, and inside a leather armchair where a man sat, slumped over to one side. Only the clop of horse hooves and the crackle of torch flames could be heard distinctly. The soft whispers of the crowd sounded like the March waters of the melting ice that carried winter away to the sea.

  The scene brought the blood back to Johanna’s legs and arms, and she climbed up and joined the crowd. When she stumbled, a fox took her arm and helped her across the slick roadbed of the bridge and up to the palace. At the entrance to the colonnade, five men lifted the man in the armchair from the coach and headed for the palace door. The injured man leaned over and called to the crowd, “I am like the pope! I am carried in a procession!”

  Johanna turned to a woman dressed as a harem girl who wept openly. “Who is that? What has happened?” she asked.

  The harem girl answered from behind her scarlet veil, her eyes rimmed with kohl that ran down her face with her tears. “His Majesty! He has been shot, but they believe he will survive it.”

  “Shot?” Johanna stood completely still as the crowd shoved forward, following their king inside. The scene around Johanna began to spin, and sucked into blackness, she fainted.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Return to the Nest

  Sources: E. L., M. F. L., Mrs. Murbeck, Sekretaire K. L***, Mrs. Sparrow, Katarina E., various guests

  MASTER FREDRIK AND I sat for two hours until we were questioned and released. He went home to Mrs. Lind and his boys. I ran to Jakob’s Square to look for Johanna, in case she was still trapped inside the coach, but all the fine carriages were gone. On the way to Baggens Street I prayed that the footman had given Johanna my message and she was at the orange house, but the doors of Auntie von Platen’s were bolted tight, and no one answered my pounding. I rushed to Merchant’s Square in case Johanna had found her way to the Lind house, but a weeping Mrs. Lind said Master Fredrik had gone out, and Johanna was not there. By this time I was near to frozen in my light linen costume and went to Tailor’s Alley to change into warm clothes and my finest red cloak. I woke Mrs. Murbeck and
gave her the tragic news, then made my way through the dark alleys and squares toward the only light and sound in the Town, emanating from the outer courtyard of the palace. Perhaps Johanna had been swept here with the crowd. She was nowhere to be seen.

  “What news?” I asked another sekretaire. My attention was focused on the doorway to the state apartments, where a mass of people struggled to gain entrance.

  “Gustav lies in the ceremonial bedchamber—he hasn’t slept there since his wedding night more than twenty years ago.” He stopped to take a pinch of snuff. “That was not a happy night, either. But he survived it.”

  I pushed my way inside, claiming some absurd errand of my office, and found a hodgepodge of citizens crushed together, highborn and low. Officers and ministers mingled with pages, seamstresses, tailors, and brewers. No sight of Johanna or The Uzanne. The room was hot and smelled of wet wool and sweat. And fear. Gustav lay, comforting his visitors, giving words of encouragement, holding the trembling hands of the distraught. When I got close enough, his eyes caught mine for an instant. “The king’s bird sends her greetings,” I called. I don’t know if Gustav heard me; he turned to greet Duke Karl and his little brother Fredrik Adolph, both of them stricken and pale. The good Doctor af Acrel cleared the room then, for the air had become unbearable, and all but the nearest to the king were forced to wander through the cold and dismal streets. It was nearly three o’clock.

  I found myself walking the familiar way to Gray Friars Alley with some shred of hope that Johanna would know to come here if all else failed. Seeing the strip of light in the thick curtain’s cracks, I hurried up the stairs and braced myself for the broken Mrs. Sparrow I had left in Mrs. Murbeck’s care. But it was Katarina who opened the door, and the entry glowed with candlelight, the floor had been polished, and the stoves were warm enough for the ladies present to bare their shoulders. I stepped back into the stairwell from this scene. “You are back, Katarina” I said, shocked at the transformation. “And the rooms . . .”

  “Mrs. Sparrow called me home a week ago. Our bird has recovered herself.”

  “And is there gambling on such a night?”

  Katarina came out and squeezed my hands in hers. “Oh, she will be happy to see you, Mr. Larsson. She is in a state, and the cards her only comfort.”

  I gave her my cloak. “Thank you, Mrs. . . . Ekblad is it now?”

  Katarina nodded, a smile creasing her eyes. “Wait here. She will fetch you when she is ready.” She motioned to the tables.

  At least a dozen players were gathered in the smoky main salon, drinking tea and coffee. There was no betting, only the soothing movement of cards. All the talk between and even during hands was of the murder attempt, and two players present at the masked ball spun their tales of hearsay and memory. I did not bother to correct them or add my observations. I simply sat and listened. Speculation about the assassin or assassins centered on La Perriére, the actor and known Jacobin, and the aristocratic Patriots under the leadership of General Pechlin. The specters of revolution and repression rose all around us, and eventually we turned our attention completely to the cards to shut them out.

  After an hour, I felt the prickle of a stare on my neck. Mrs. Sparrow, still thin but with a semblance of her former presence, nodded a greeting. I stood and took her hand, which was cool and soft. “You look . . . well,” I said.

  “I am changed,” she said and kissed me on the cheek. “Everything has changed. Come and talk to me, Emil.”

  I followed her to the upper room, and we sat in the two chairs by the stove. “I am surprised that you are here,” I said.

  “I tried to go to him once I heard, but the duke’s men were at the door and would not allow me to enter. I will try again tomorrow.” She rocked a little in her chair, as if she wanted to run there now. “When I came home, there were a number of regulars gathered, so I opened the rooms. There is a comfort in shared sorrow, even in such a setting.” She took a deck from her pocket to shuffle, the feel and sound a balm. “But you were there. Tell it.”

  I told her everything: the events of the masked ball, how the eight came into play, the confusion I felt, the sense of the world ending, and more than anything else, my utter failure. “Here is all I have to show for our efforts.” I handed her the battered Cassiopeia I had retrieved from the stage. “She is disarmed.”

  She took the fan and studied the smooth ivory guards then leaned over and placed her hand over mine. “This is a beautiful trophy. This is history changed with one small gesture.” I did not reply; I could not see that the exchange of poison for a bullet was for the better.

  Mrs. Sparrow stood and went to the window, pulling the drapes aside. The streets were busy for such an hour, the people of the Town heading for the palace to keep watch. “Hope remains now on several fronts. Word arrived two days ago from Brussels; von Fersen made it to the Tuileries and spent the night with the French king and queen. Louis would not come with von Fersen alone, claiming his promise to his people, claiming his love for his family, but agreed to meet advancing troops. It is possible Gustav will recover and rally the armies of Europe in the spring. This attempt on his life will galvanize even the most reluctant sovereign.” Mrs. Sparrow came and stood behind me. “You braved Hades tonight for love, Orpheus.”

  I twisted around in my chair. “How did you know my costume?”

  “Why, Mrs. Murbeck. She is my Magpie—she and her son, standing by the fountain on the four of Cups. She might be the fountain itself, she is such an excellent source. Delivered to me by my Courier, too.” She placed a hand lightly on my shoulder. “She told me of Miss Bloom.”

  Now the weight of that long night folded me in two, and the tips of my fingers felt cold as I pressed them on my eyelids. “Just as Orpheus, I failed.”

  “No. The Stockholm Octavo is simply not complete.” She came around the chair and pulled my hands from my eyes. “Look at me, Emil. Have faith, and consider that your Companion does not like to lose. You must continue until it is done. You swore to it.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Auntie von Platen Takes in a Stray

  Sources: Captain H., Auntie v P.

  THEY LOOKED DOWN at the girl passed out on the floor, chalk white, her lips still blue. Her exquisite dress was torn at the bodice and hem, and she was missing one white kid leather shoe with a coral pink heel.

  “She fainted in the street outside the palace. There was a panic, and she was near to being trampled, or frozen to death.” The man dressed as a fox looked sideways at Auntie von Platen. “She came to for a moment, after I pulled her indoors to warm her. She said to bring her to the orange house on Baggens Street.”

  “Were you planning to fuck her or sell her to me?” Auntie von Platen modestly adjusted the robe of peacock blue Chinese silk she had hastily thrown on.

  The fox removed his ears. “I am a Christian, and do not trade in flesh.”

  “I thought that was the Christian currency of choice.”

  “The young lady said a name: Hinken.”

  Auntie opened the hidden center door of the foyer and yelled up the stairs, “Captain, there is someone here for you.”

  Hinken’s heavy tread could be heard on the stairs, his singing echoing in the narrow stairwell. He stopped when he saw Johanna laid out on the floor. “Holy Christ, not another corpse to bury.”

  “No, no. Only fainted. Don’t give the gentleman the wrong idea,” Auntie scolded, leaning over Johanna to inspect her earrings. “She asked for you by name, Captain. Were you expecting someone tonight?”

  “I was, Auntie, I was indeed, but not a girl,” Hinken said. “And one in need of nursing besides.” Hinken stroked his chin, cursing and muttering to himself, then turned to Auntie. “You know you are good with mending strays.”

  “I am not madam of a convalescent home,” Auntie snorted. Hinken reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy gold coin. She smiled and gave Hinken a playful slap. “Flatterer! But no more than a week. She’ll be taking up s
pace.” The fox turned to go, his rescue complete. “What? You really mean to leave without a visit to the ladies? We have decided to open the doors tonight after all.” The fox put his mask back on and shook his head. “Well at least help to carry the girl up the stairs,” Auntie said. “And let no one see you. It will spoil the mood.”

  “You know the king has been shot, Auntie; what kind of mood can it be?” Hinken asked.

  The madam shrugged. “It seems to be good for business.”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Art or War

  Source: M. F. L.

  MASTER FREDRIK STOOD AT the front window of his shop and watched as people ran pell-mell through Merchant’s Square. The news had spread like a spark in fatwood through the Town—up and down, fed by the air of a thousand panting and crying mouths. The Lundgrens, who rented the third-floor rooms, claimed they were leaving for Gothenburg as soon as travel was permitted, as if the end of the world had a geographic boundary.

  He took a crystal glass from a breakfront and opened a bottle of port he had been saving. The wine splashed over the edge of the glass, his hands trembling despite the calm he forced upon himself, leaving dots of deep red on the forty white envelopes he had just addressed. The Uzanne had demanded they be sent the morning after the masked ball; she was hosting a celebration. The stains looked like meteors, like the destruction of heaven and earth. The second coming. The invitations should be consumed by the fire. He laughed at his newfound piety, but the laugh was brief. It was, in fact, the end.

  Master Fredrik tossed his work into the grate and watched them blacken and burst. Then he called out to Mrs. Lind, but there was no reply. She had gone in search of her boys and had not yet returned. He walked calmly to the armoire that stood in the hall and took out his rabbit-lined coat and ivory-topped walking stick, but left his fine kid gloves on the shelf. He set off for Castleback, where the crowds were gathered, but when he reached Crow Alley, he turned east toward the water and then south. Across the Sluice was South Borough and the Lynx Tavern. “Those wine splashes—they were not meteors but music. I must find Bellman.”