Free The Stockholm Octavo by Karen Engelmann

nearly midnight!”
    She nodded and quickly prepared the table for the cards. “We look tonight for a Teacher to instruct you.” We did not speak more while the cards were dealt. After five rounds, the third of my eight arrived.
    â€œThe Teacher—eight of Books. Books are the suit of strife.”
    â€œI thought you said it was the suit of striving.”
    â€œEvery suit holds good and bad. Some striving is of a negative sort. Learning is sacred, it raises man toward heaven, but people are conquered and enslaved with dogma and cruel laws. New ideas compete with old; science overturns and uplifts the world.” She studied the image closely for a minute. “Based on this card, your Teacher might be a man or a woman. Two flowers bloom, one white and one red. Opposition of some kind. But the number eight means rebirth; perhaps your Teacher longs for this as well. This is someone who wishes to climb—perhaps the tree of knowledge, perhaps the tree of success. But though clever, your Teacher is prone to flattery and imitation; see the parrot?”

    â€œI think at once of the Superior at Customs. He is constantly squawking Bible verses and advice regarding my choice of wife.”
    â€œHmmm.” She sucked on her pipe. “But the music these two share so casually does not bring to mind a hymnal.”
    â€œI thought to sing a hymn to Eros tonight with Carlotta,” I said, staring down at the couple on the card.

Chapter Seven
Inspiration from The Pig
    Sources: E. L., C. Hinken, J. Bloom
    DESPITE A SHORT AND RESTLESS NIGHT, I rose early the next day and penned a fervid note to Carlotta. It was a full page of compliments followed by one of dismay at her departure, my forgiveness for the same, and assurances that the very Seer that had advised Duke Karl had given me foreknowledge of our love and connection. That the Octavo was not yet complete did not matter; I had full confidence in its happy outcome. When I came downstairs with this missive, my landlady, Mrs. Murbeck (a woman I generally tried to avoid at all costs), began her usual sermon on my late hours and occasional hangover, until I told her of my upcoming engagement. This news transformed her into the most tender of friends. She called at once for her son, whom she was always berating for some fault, and offered his services as messenger of love. But there was no reply from Carlotta by supper, a fact that pestered me like a biting fly until I realized that this was the game of courtship, and she had the power to make me suffer.
    Â 
    MY ASSIGNMENT THAT MISERABLE night took me splashing through the puddles and wheel ruts to one of the many docks on Skeppsholmen, an island due east of the Town. Protected by a thick cloak and tall boots, I gazed out at a sagging howker that looked to have had more rocking than an ancient whore. Such ships were often the site of Customs raids, wrecks sailed by the desperate as a last resort, or the criminal who could abandon them without feeling the loss so hard. The vessel was loaded down with contraband and had set out from Riga. A successful voyage was worth great risk; with France removed from its position as the center of the civilized world by revolution, luxuries were scarce, import duties high, and this boat was stuffed with lace. Expensive to produce and a popular trim with men, women, children, and an occasional lap dog, it would bring a small fortune. Bad weather and late hours were no deterrent to me; I was entitled to a share of the confiscated goods.
    Two policemen had already arrived, and a seaman stood encircled by the light of their lanterns. Their captive was a wiry man with a lined face, and he carried a small concertina. He nodded respectfully when he spotted my red cloak. “A terrible night, Sekretaire , and me blown in at the Feather Isles by accident,” the captain said, shaking my hand. “Let’s retire to the nearest inn so I might tell my story in a dry room