The Stockholm Octavo (25 page)

Chapter Thirty-Five
Patient

Sources: E. L., Mrs. Murbeck, M. Murbeck, Mr. Pilo, various
apothicaires
and doctors of the Town

“THIS IS A STHENIC PESTILENCE
for the Brunonian encyclopaedia,” Pilo proclaimed, squinting in the light from the oil lamp he held up, the magnifying glass smooth and strangely cool against my burning cheek. “A fearsome, pustulated infection that might well, might easily, travel up into the ear canal, take hold, and eventually rupture into the brain.”

Mrs. Murbeck gasped behind her hankie and stepped away, averting her eyes as if the very sight of me carried contagion. Mr. Pilo (I cannot possibly call him Doctor) had a very long and bulbous nose that resembled a red, veiny reptile, and it writhed before my eyes as he pressed closer, adjusting the magnifier inside my oral cavity. I could smell the alcohol under the peppermint on his breath, for he was constantly sucking on English pastilles that he popped one by one from a tin. “We must act at once,” he said to me, “and procure my rare tonsular elixir.”

“Yes,” I croaked, for my voice had nearly disappeared, “I am expected at Gullenborg in three days and must recover.” I was sweating, feverish, and miserable and only wished for some soothing balm to coat my burning throat and cool my fever. I seldom had need for medical attention, but my appearance, my voice, and my falling in a faint at Mrs. Murbeck's door had caused her alarm. She and her son, Mikael, had carried me up the stairs to my quarters. I told her to leave me alone, that she and her family would regret their kindness to me, but she scolded me soundly and sent the son for the family doctor.

“No soirees for you, sir. Not in three days. Perhaps never again,” Pilo said cheerfully, and then asked for pen and paper upon which to write a recipe to be brought at once to the Lion. Mrs. Murbeck wrinkled her nose at the mention of this establishment, but she was not one to question this man of science, who also happened to be her brother-in-law. And despite the late hour and the fact that it was Sunday, the Lion would open the shop at the first tap of a solid coin on the window glass.

“A miraculous elixir, this one,” Pilo said, signing the page with a flourish. “You will sleep a great deal but wake healed and refreshed, the corruption in your throat banished while the nightshade calms your humors and pains. It has the added benefit of shrinking any tumors present in the spleen.” He handed the recipe to Mrs. Murbeck and told her there was no time to spare. “In the meantime,” he said to me, “you must gargle every hour with the hottest salt water you can tolerate. Take tea laced with brandy and honey—as much as you can swallow. You must not be out of bed at all but to empty your bladder and bowels, and change the linens when they are soaked through. But it is this formula of mine that will do the real healing.” He winked as he handed me his exorbitant bill for services rendered and, had I not felt so ill, I would have made violent protest.

Pilo packed his satchel and exited with Mrs. Murbeck. I could hear their voices echoing in the front room as he told her a gruesome tale of a recent patient with a similar malady pulled back from Death's embrace by his tender ministrations. Soon sleep overtook me, a writhing sort of slumber with the bedclothes twisting like bonds and fearful waking moments in the dark, my throat afire, each hair on my head aching. I was grateful that Mrs. Murbeck had left a short stump of candle burning in a blue glass on my nightstand; it was both votive and beacon, lest I awaken and think that I had died and been consigned to a lonely hell decorated to resemble my bedchamber.

Some time later, I heard the door creak open and saw the shadowy form of Mrs. Murbeck glide through, mumbling to herself about the price of medicine and the disingenuous courtesy of the Lion's
apothicaire
. She carried a tray with a glass and a tall brown bottle, and she poured me a dram of dark syrup at my bedside. I could not hold the glass steady, so she held it for me. “Drink this down and sleep, Mr. Larsson. You cannot know Our Lord's plan for you beyond today, and it seems His plan right now is for you to rest and pray. If it is to be the eternal rest, we will know within a day or two.” She lifted me up with one arm so the precious medicine would not be wasted in a spill. The smell of the ham she had fried for dinner clung to her dress and blended nicely with the brandy and anise scent of the elixir. Her gentle ministrations comforted me beyond my physical pains, and made me weepy.

“Mrs. Murbeck, I thought you against me all these years. But you have tricked me. A benevolent Trickster. Do you know my Companion, The Uzanne?”

“Now now, you are talking nonsense. Drink your medicine. There's a good boy.”

It was a sickly sweet draught, and painful to swallow, but I did my best. Mrs. Murbeck left me with a cold wet cloth across my forehead, and as she was leaving the room began her mutterings once more. “Poor fellow, all alone, so all alone,” she said over and over, until I could hear nothing but the hum of fever in my ears and then nothing at all.

Chapter Thirty-Six
Domination

Sources: M. F. L., J. Bloom, M. Nordén, L. Nordén, Mother P., Louisa G., various gentlemen and officers, Gullenborg servants, anonymous young ladies of the Town.

“I DO NOT UNDERSTAND
. . . ,” she said. There was a long pause. Master Fredrik looked at his oiled black leather shoes, shining happily even in this moment of disgrace. “. . .
Mister
Lind,” The Uzanne concluded. This lowly honorific fell like the last gavel at the trial of a condemned man.

Master Fredrik opted for a half-truth. “Madame, I assure you that I conversed with Mr. Larsson but three days past. He was rapturous at the opportunity to serve you, Madame, rapturous. Proclaimed it the highest honor of his meager—”

“I thought to have Mr. Larsson participate in today's demonstration with Miss Plomgren,” she interrupted.

Master Fredrik suggested the second half of the truth. “Perhaps he is fallen ill.”

“I made it clear that his presence here was your responsibility. You have ruined my plans.” She slid her fan through her right hand and moved around Master Fredrik as if he were a pile of excrement in her path, then paused. “Furthermore, I have gained knowledge of certain personal predilections of yours. I am afraid that these disgusting revelations may prevent me from recommending you to Duke Karl for a social promotion.”

“What predilections? From whom did you receive such vile misinformation?”

“From our Miss Bloom,” she said.

“Miss Bloom does not know me, Madame,” he said, his voice shaking.

“But you claimed to know her;
you
presented her to me. I trusted in that knowledge, too, Mister Lind.” Then without so much as a glance in his direction, The Uzanne went to welcome her guests.

Master Fredrik scanned the room for Johanna, his hands clenching at the thought of her slender white neck, but he could not find her in the throng of voluptuous women. Tender blossoms in December, the young ladies had matured into tempting fruit. Their fans were now extensions of their hands and arms, which had taken on the grace of aristocratic training. The messages sent were swift and sure. The fabrics of their gowns were dark textured brocades and velvets, cut closer and lower, asking to be touched. Their perfumes were musky and mysterious, their lips and cheeks flush with anticipation and rouge. The gentlemen that stalked the room had the energy of caged beasts. The actors from the Bollhus Theater were absent this time, deemed to be “too French,” and their empty places taken by swarthy friends of the Russian consul. The invited Swedish officers had already begun drinking schnapps. Master Fredrik hurried to take a place among the gentlemen guests and sat just as the sharp snap of The Uzanne's fan silenced the crowd and put them swiftly in their seats.

The low winter sky visible through the windows was just several hues darker than the pearl gray walls of the salon. The chandelier was unlit. Servants hurried through the room, lowering the wicks on the oil sconces and pulling the drapes; the room shifted into night. All eyes focused on The Uzanne. She was a slender column of forest velvet, a cream silk kerchief at the bodice reflecting the light of the single taper she held. In this dim light, in the slight chill of the room, she might have been an angel that appeared at the bedside of the dying. “In our first formal lecture, we learned from a true artist of the geometry that lies behind the fan.” She inclined her head toward the blushing Christian. “We began learning her language of romance from a surprise guest with natural talents who has since become one of your favorite instructors.” She placed her fan near her heart and looked to Anna Maria, standing nearby at the ready. “And I closed the lecture with a demonstration of Engagement—the fan's power to entice. Since that time you have been diligent students, and it is clear to me that your apprenticeship is well under way. But we cannot stop with Engagement. We must move on to Domination.”

There were gasps and titters, and an officer lounging at the back of the room called out, “Is that not the natural progression, Madame? From engagement to marriage?” This brought a chorus of jeers and laughter.

The Uzanne gave the officer an indulgent smile but made no reply. “Your goal is to go beyond captivation. Your goal is to take a captive and do with them as you wish. Today I will demonstrate a form of Domination that might capture a king.”

The room fell silent. The Uzanne gave a nearly imperceptible nod. Johanna, who had been as still as if she were painted into the scenery, nervously came to life. She rose from her chair and walked quickly to a cabinet under a large mirror, catching her own reflection. Her pale face above the sea green dress was marred by a frown and furrowed brow. She willed the tension away. The drawer squeaked in the quiet when Johanna pulled it open. It was empty save for one object: a short fan with a double blade of chicken skin, prepared from the twin calves she had seen slaughtered in the barn the previous summer. The skin had been dyed to a dove gray and trimmed with silver bands. The sticks were black and plain, made of lacquered wood, and the gorge was only two fingers wide. The center pleat on the reverse side of the blade had been finished with a pocket, ultra-fine mesh netting at both ends, the bottom end closed with a flap and fastened with one looped ivory bead. Inside this pocket was the stripped and trimmed pinion feather of a swan, supplied by Master Fredrik. This one specific feather made the master calligrapher's quill, and its hollow shaft was the perfect receptacle for ink. Now it would deliver a message with perfumed powder.

Christian had built many fans with “refinements” in Paris and promised the fan's operation would be flawless, the swan quill holding the contents safe until the angle of the blade and pressure from the breath was exactly right. The smell of jasmine escaped the pleats, as did a fine powder that dusted her fingers. Johanna's hands had trembled when she filled the quill that morning. The Uzanne wanted this demonstration to be perfect: the sleeping powder must create an instant response of utter relaxation and repose. The False Blusher mushroom was a dangerous addition. For the first time Johanna was truly afraid.

Johanna had tested the new powder four times. The first had been on Sylten, Old Cook's cat. Old Cook could not be consoled when his stiff body was found under the low shelf in the pantry, and she gave Johanna the sign against the evil eye. Johanna adjusted the ingredients. The second and third tests had been on herself. One test she vomited, then passed out cold for three hours. The other she slept for twelve, plagued with nightmares and sweat. The fourth test was on a volunteer: Young Per, the stable boy, had moved into the manor and was eager to help Johanna. She was teaching him his letters, and he had asked about her medicines. Johanna was relieved to escape another ordeal, and even more relieved when Young Per slept like a newborn for seven hours, then woke ravenous and rested. But Johanna did not know today's intended subject and could not gauge the dose.

Johanna held her breath as she walked across the room, the heels of her new shoes clicking in the silence. She handed the fan to The Uzanne, then could not help brushing her hands against the dark fabric of her skirt. Johanna waited for the glare of reprimand, but none came; The Uzanne was observing her audience, which leaned forward in their seats. “Duke Karl once told me that women are armed with fans as men are with swords. Do you remember, General Pechlin?” The old man's expression was blank. “Perhaps your memory is fading,” she said. “But the duke is learning that this is true, and I would like to demonstrate a new method I have devised.

“This is a test for many of us today. First, let us see if my fan maker has armed me well.” The Uzanne opened and shut the fan a half dozen times. “Ideal weight. Exquisite finish. Perfect action,” she said to Christian. His relief was visible in the slope of his shoulders. “Is she sharpened, Miss Bloom?” Johanna, eyes downcast, nodded. “Then to arms. Miss Plomgren. We will test the extent of your skills as well. To you will belong victory . . . or infamy.”

The Uzanne handed Anna Maria the gray fan and waited until the room once again was hushed. “Engagement is the dance of attraction,” The Uzanne said. “From there, we move to Domination.” One of the girls allowed a nervous giggle to escape, but she was hushed with stern glances from her companions. “Unfortunately
Sekretaire
Larsson is missing today,” she said, peering around the dim room, as if he might appear from the sheer force of her will. “But Nordén the younger, you seem to be more than willing to place yourself under the power of Miss Plomgren. Are you prepared?” Lars stood eagerly. “You might need to tarry after the lesson. You might even need to spend the night.” This created stifled laughter and whispers. “We need a comfortable place for Mr. Nordén to sit.” Pechlin stood and led several officers to an adjacent room, and the men lugged an upholstered chair back into the salon. Pechlin remained standing in the hall.

The Uzanne indicated Lars should sit. Anna Maria took the cue, opening the fan with almost painful slowness. “Imagine that you have engaged a person who kindles your deepest passions—those of love or even hatred.” The Uzanne held in her mind the image of Gustav's doughy face. “Once they are engaged, you must seize control. You might fan the fire, or send a cooling breeze that will extinguish it. Today we will observe the latter.” She nodded, and Anna Maria drew close to Lars. “It is easier with someone who desires subjugation.” Gustav was desperate for the attentions of his beloved aristocracy, especially the ladies of the court, whom he adored, and who had shunned him so. “Come as close to your intended as you are able.” The Uzanne would travel to the Parliament, where her very presence would be a sensation, an olive branch offered to her king. “Allow your fan a downward inclination, and reveal the intimate verso. Then slowly lower and raise her, maintaining eye contact, establishing trust.” She would come to Gustav on the arm of Duke Karl; Gustav believed his brother incapable of treason. “When you have his attentions fast, blow a soft and gentle kiss along the center stick to seal the promise of future fire.” The Uzanne imagined the scene: she would release the powder and watch Gustav fall. She would cry out in alarm, then Duke Karl's men would bundle the sleeping monarch off into a large traveling coach. Gustav would not even feel the crown lifted from his head. “Hold his gaze until he disappears and Domination is complete.” The coach would take Gustav to a boat bound for Russia. Empress Catherine, his cousin and sworn enemy, would keep him there. Duke Karl would be named regent. The Uzanne would be First Mistress, and savior of her nation. “Now,” she said.

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.