The Stockholm Octavo by Karen Engelmann

character that a connoisseur might define as Temptation. The Uzanne had no fan of this exact nature in her vast collection.
    â€œI would give a great deal to have such a fan,” The Uzanne said.
    â€œI have given a great deal for her already myself,” Mrs. von Hälsen said, slowly closing Eva and placing the fan in her lap.
    â€œWhat game do you prefer, Mrs. von Hälsen?” The Uzanne asked politely.
    â€œBoston, Madame. Is there any other?” Mrs. von Hälsen asked, picking up one of the two decks on the table and handing the cards to The Uzanne. “Madame deals.”
    â€œDo we have our fourth?” Carlotta asked, turning to look at me. I had claimed a spot in a nearby window seat from which to watch the play and shook my head no. I did not wish to draw attention to my status as interloper.
    â€œMy young niece, Miss Fläder.” Mrs. von Hälsen waved to a pretty, flaxen-haired girl with a round face flushed pink with heat and punch who joined the table, sitting opposite The Uzanne. She never opened her mouth beyond a slit, or if she did, held a hand up to block the view—perhaps she was missing some teeth.
    All fifty-two cards were dealt, making four hands of thirteen. The player to the left of the dealer would open; the rest had to follow suit. High card would take the trick; the player winning the most tricks won the game. Although the etiquette of Boston whist demanded that no utterance be made during play, it was laughable how many people had a face that was a surrogate tongue. Carlotta was a perfect example: her nostrils would twitch in the most beguiling fashion when she thought she had excellent cards, and while this was seldom the case, she was a hopeless optimist. Mrs. von Hälsen’s eyebrows were signal pennants accentuated by the line of charcoal that she applied for the evening. Miss Fläder had a terrible case of inebriated giggling combined with hiccups that she tried to suppress by squeezing her lips together. She lost a decent sum of money and did not seem to care a whit. But when The Uzanne placed the final card of her original thirteen on the table, she held her lovely face as still as a Grecian marble. “I am trumped yet again.” She sighed. The Uzanne was losing steadily—not enormous sums, but enough to make sure that Mrs. von Hälsen was feeling confident of her good fortune, and I realized The Uzanne was a genuine player setting up her win.
    The Uzanne had a mind for the tables to begin with, as all gaming is political. Her skill with folding fans meant she handled the cards with dexterity and grace. She meant to bring all her talents to the table, for in this moment, she desired only Mrs. von Hälsen’s fan. And she would take it. The ladies stopped only once to take refreshments, and Mrs. von Hälsen would not hear of a change of players or dismantling the game. She said it had been some time since she felt Fortuna so warm and near.
    By ten o’clock each table was in its own world. Mrs. Sparrow circulated among them as she usually did, a silent observer bringing fresh boxes of cards or signaling for a bottle. She did not get close to Duke Karl’s table; the players shooed away anyone who came close. But she circled The Uzanne’s table frequently and caught the drift of a ruse in progress.
    The Uzanne pushed her pile of cards away. “You have done me in, Mrs. von Hälsen. I will end up in the Spinning House Prison on LÃ¥ngholmen if I wager another penny.”
    Mrs. von Hälsen looked crestfallen, her eyebrows trying to reach each other for consolation. She tapped the end of the beautiful Eva on the table. “Surely one more game . . .”
    The Uzanne drummed her fingers, then brightened. “It’s not without precedent to put other stakes on the table. We could wager our fans. Mine is so very old-fashioned—look how long she is—the losers can gain consolation from a new