The Secret Language of Stones

by M. J. Rose

  I’d just picked out another stone when I heard a noise. Was Monsieur coming down to the vault? I’d been there a long time. Perhaps he needed me.

  When he didn’t appear, I continued my quest. I found a ninth grape, and then, while I searched through the drawer for the tenth, the noise came again but from a more clear direction: from the chamber backing up to the vault.

  Working quickly, I emptied the bottom three shelves of objects, removed the shelves themselves, extinguished my light, and then extracted the loose mortar from the wall as I’d done before.

  Immediately, I heard a cacophony of sounds. Just like last time. How much of the din was happening in the present? How much of it, the past?

  I tried to press my fingernail into my palm to create the distraction I needed, but it didn’t help.

  Through the peephole, I watched the men settle. There were no clues about their affiliation from their shoes, but I did see the butt end of one rifle. And then another.

  Straining to hear anything to help me identify the language they were speaking, I pressed my fingernail deeper into my flesh, but the symphony of noises continued to roar in my ears.

  Did these men have so much blood on their hands that they carried the screams of the dead with them? If that was true, then they must be German soldiers.

  I needed to tell Monsieur Orloff, but dreaded how it would feed his paranoia. What if instead I went to the police and—

  Some object flashed close, too close, to the peephole. One of the men had dropped something. As he bent to pick it up, his face was only the thickness of the wall away from mine. Had he seen the crack? Seen me?

  As quietly as I could, I quickly pushed the piece of mortar back. What could he see from his side? I’d taken precautions, again shrouded the vault in darkness. But could the light from their torches illuminate my face?

  And if he had seen me? Were they pointing to the wall now, discussing whether or not there’d really been a girl there? If they looked again, they’d see nothing. Would they try to break through the wall? And the person who’d seen me—had he gotten a good enough look to recognize me?

  Shaking, I gathered up the amethysts, tsavorites, and emeralds I’d come for and left the vault.

  What if they were building a bomb and were planning to blow up the Palais? Should I go to the police straightaway? No, I needed to tell Monsieur first.

  I climbed upstairs and prepared to tell him, but found Monsieur occupied with a client, showing her a variety of his signature linked bracelets—the top of each link pavéd with gems. Women usually bought more than one, collecting the colorful bracelets until a few inches of studded chain covered each wrist.

  I couldn’t interrupt him when he was with a client. No one could break that rule, not even Anna.

  I went back to work, trying to distract myself by arranging the stones on my drawing of the brooch. Only a few minutes had passed when the sirens started.

  “What an interruption these are,” I heard Monsieur say to his client. “You must come with us to our shelter.”

  I walked out of the workshop as I heard her arguing that her driver was outside and she intended to go home, and with two of the bracelets.

  As dangerous as the bombs were, as many people who’d died or been wounded by flying glass and falling stone, others had become angry at the war, at the interruptions, and found satisfaction defying the danger.

  “I’ll walk you to your car then, Madame Blanche.”

  Anna stuck her head in the workshop to tell me she’d wait for Monsieur, but that I should go down to the shelter.

  When I arrived, Grigori had already made himself as comfortable as possible. Five minutes later, after locking up the jewels on display in the shop, Monsieur and Anna joined us.

  Grigori and his father didn’t greet each other but merely nodded. So they’d been arguing again. Anna broke the silence.

  “What did Madame Blanche buy, Pavel?

  Intently examining his son, who’d picked up a book and was leafing through the pages, Monsieur needed to ask Anna to repeat her question.

  “I asked what Madame Blanche purchased.”

  “An emerald and a sapphire chain bracelet.”

  “There’s no question, the war has certainly been profitable for those who own textile mills,” Anna mused.

  Monsieur directed a question to his son, his voice even gruffer than usual: “You are coming to the meeting tonight regarding the Dowager, correct?”

  Grigori looked up. “Yes, I said I would.”

  Monsieur nodded. “And when we’re there, please don’t ask me again. I’ve told you. There is a place for you in the operation. You must trust me to explain it at the right time.”

  Grigori shrugged and returned to the book. Anna frowned at his bowed head and turned to Monsieur. “Has there been news?”

  Monsieur sighed with exaggerated futility. “No one has any more information about the fate of the family, no. Additional wild rumors are circulating suggesting where the empress and the children might be in hiding. One day it’s the Ukraine. Another it’s a dungeon in the Winter Palace itself. No one knows. It’s taking a terrible toll on the Dowager.”

  “I can imagine how painful this must be for her. Her son dead and not knowing the fate of his wife and her grandchildren. She herself in hiding.”

  “And she herself without funds,” Monsieur said.

  I saw Grigori’s mouth twitch, as if he wanted to say something but was holding back.

  “These brutes who took over our country are criminals,” Anna said. “But all over the world, they are praised for their bravery. When will everyone realize what they did? When will they be ousted from power? Will we ever go home, Pavel?”

  “No,” Grigori said, looking up from his book. In his voice, a determination that disturbed me. “We won’t ever go home. Our home isn’t there anymore. The revolutionaries broke the system, changed the rules.”

  Anna looked at him with sympathy, seeing his anger as an expression of pain. “You miss it too, don’t you?”

  “The past is over,” he said. “We can’t keep looking back.”

  Anna winced at Grigori’s harsh tone. Monsieur frowned.

  “You are upsetting your stepmother, Grigori. The past is over, but there is a future that is waiting, yes? There is always a future and—”

  Monsieur broke off. I’d heard it too. The damn sirens starting up again. He went to the door, opened it, and listened.

  “This is bad, isn’t it?” Anna asked.

  “Yes,” Monsieur said.

  Grigori paced, then stopped beside the north wall, the same orientation where downstairs, in the vault, I’d found the peephole looking into the tunnels that Monsieur Orloff didn’t own, that must belong to one of the other nearby shops. Bending down, he picked something up off the floor. A piece of the mortar like the one I’d dislodged.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  Monsieur Orloff examined it. “Some mortar from the wall, I expect.”

  Grigori stared at the wall as if trying to see through it to the other side.

  I should tell them about the vault now, I thought. But before I said a word, Grigori caught me by surprise by mentioning the very subject I wanted to bring up.

  “How safe is your vault, Papa?”

  “As safe as the vault in Van Cleef and Arpels and Cartier and any of the banks on rue Royale. The same concern built it.”

  “That’s still where the tsar’s treasure is?” Grigori turned and asked his father. “You haven’t moved it?”

  The tsar’s treasure? What was Grigori talking about? I’d never heard it referenced before.

  “There is no tsar’s treasure.”

  “But if it did exist—that’s where it would be, yes?”

  Monsieur glared at him.

  I turned to Anna.
“What are they talking about?”

  “A few years ago, a rumor circulated that to safeguard his future, and the future of his family, at the first sign of the uprisings and dissent among his people, the tsar sent gold and treasure out of Russia.”

  “Before the revolution?”

  “That’s the rumor, yes,” Monsieur interrupted. “But it’s not true.”

  Grigori picked up the story. “So my father says. To protect us all probably. But I believe the story. The tsar was no fool. Supposedly, he gave each of a dozen trusted emissaries a portion of his holdings and sent each one out of Russia to live in another country and safeguard his wealth.”

  “Why are we discussing this foolishness?” Monsieur asked his son. “Why are we talking about this now?”

  Grigori’s gaze went from the wall back to his father. “Because you said the Dowager is almost destitute. Because we’re living in dangerous times. Because I’ve heard rumors the Bolsheviks are on the hunt for that treasure to fund the revolution. And would stop at nothing to get it.”

  “What is it you are getting at, Grigori?”

  “Just wondering how safe we are. What if the Bolsheviks suspected us and started to follow us, spy on us?”

  “Stop. You’re upsetting your stepmother.” Monsieur went to Anna’s side, sat beside her, and put his arm protectively around her shoulder.

  “Anna, we are not suspect. Fabergé made sure of that. Everyone believed his story that one of his assistants had stolen the firm’s enameling secrets and he’d fired the thief. Why would anyone guess it was a lie? Our friends saw us leave in disgrace, don’t you remember? There were no slip-ups.” Monsieur was saying it, though, as if he were schooling her more than reassuring her. He then looked from his wife back to his son. “You are not to speak of this again. Do you understand me?”

  Grigori rolled the mortar between his fingers, and it disintegrated into powder. He rubbed his hands together to dislodge the dust and then wiped them on the back of his pants.

  “Opaline, after our meeting tonight, will you have some supper with me?”

  What an unfair trap. Asking me in front of his father and stepmother during a moment of such tension put me on the spot. Especially since I knew Monsieur hoped our relationship would progress and my agreeing would ease the strain between them.

  “Yes?” He hesitated when I hadn’t answered.

  I agreed.

  When the sirens stopped fifteen minutes later, we ventured upstairs to the Orloff apartment. Sitting around the wireless, we listened to the news that a German bomb had exploded not far from the Palais. Then, that the reporter awaited more information. We waited with him, worrying, weary of the war and its incessant intrusions. Living in a state of low-level anxiety that at any moment escalated at the sound of the wailing distress signals took its toll. An impact none of us could measure.

  After a few more tense minutes, the reporter announced the bomb had hit between two apartment buildings, damaging both. One collapsed. At least five people were dead and many more were feared dead and wounded.

  Grigori left, returning to his shop for two more prescheduled appointments. He wanted to be there if indeed his clients arrived. Monsieur said he would keep the jewelry store closed, but wanted to lock everything up. Anna asked me to stay for tea.

  Once we were alone in the apartment, she said: “Actually, the tea can wait if you can. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Something I saw a few days ago in the crystals. I wasn’t sure about showing it to you, but now I think I should.”

  We walked into her bedroom, where she lit a candelabra, and then together went through her closet and into her monde enchanté.

  From one of the very top shelves, she retrieved a crystal ball almost hidden by the ones in front of it. She placed it on the velvet cloth in the center of the card table and sat down. The candlelight illuminated the orb.

  Larger than the others, slightly gray, with internal occlusions that suggested a mountain ridge.

  Closing her eyes, Anna took several deep breaths, held still for a few moments, and then she slowly opened her eyes and looked into the crystal.

  “Yes, here it is again. Can you see anything?” She pushed it toward me.

  I stared into the sphere, like looking into the crystals I worked with. I saw a stunning and complex rocky internal landscape but nothing supernatural. I tried moving my head, but saw only the reflection of the candle flames and my own face staring back at me.

  I shook my head.

  Anna pointed to a spot off center to the right. Straining, I saw a fissure inside one of the rocks, like a break in a cliff.

  “I see you here on the edge. And Grigori on the other side. He has his hand out to you. I believe it means you can be the bridge—helping him find his fate. He needs you to give him that chance. I know you are afraid. I’m afraid too. There are storms brewing in these occlusions. Here”—she pointed to a gray mass—“and here. I’m not certain. It could be the war. Or it could be the conflict inside of you. You can’t stay afraid of forming attachments because of Timur.”

  I nodded.

  “When I see you in the orb, there are threads wrapped around you, enclosing you. I think they’re the voices you hear, creating a kind of barrier between you and your potential both as an artist and as a woman. You are surrounded by the dead. You are allowing them to prevent you from living a full life.”

  Her words chilled me. Her second sight showed her Jean Luc even though she hadn’t named him. And she’d referred to threads. That’s what my mother had described to me too.

  “You think you can avoid pain by not needing anyone. That if you never love anyone who you can lose, then you’ll never feel loss. But it’s not true. We’re made to love. Even if you think you can stop yourself from feeling, stop yourself from living, your emotions will find a way. They’ll trick you when you least expect it.”

  They already had, I thought. My reluctance to form an attachment to a living man had resulted in my forming an attachment to a dead one.

  “You are close to the time when you are going to be forced to make a choice between those who are dead and those who are living. Don’t choose wrong, Opaline. I promise, the pain you are suffering is worse than the pain you are afraid of.”

  Chapter 19

  I returned to my room to find a note Grigori had left me, saying he had an errand to attend to and asking if I would meet him at Café de la Paix. The restaurant was only a short walk from the Palais, but it had started raining once more.

  I didn’t really want to go out, but there was no way to reach Grigori and cancel. Not showing up would be too rude. So, feeling trapped but resigned, I changed out of my gored black skirt, white middy blouse, and low-slung belt. Such was my self-imposed work uniform. I owned two identical blouses and skirts, and when one needed laundering, I wore the other. No visible jewels. The gems in the shop were supposed to shine, not those of us who worked there.

  From my closet, I pulled out a bottle green silk chemise and held it up against my body. No, too flirty for my mood. Instead, I chose a higher-necked maroon silk dress that set off my hair color without being suggestive.

  Checking my reflection in the mirror, I thought the more circumspect outfit a better choice. Plus, the dress would match my ruby silk umbrella with its silver repoussé handle, my great-grandmother’s birthday present to me. Once opened, it revealed celadon-colored silk printed with a profusion of roses in luscious shades of pink. Like having a garden protecting you from the rain.

  As I turned away from the mirror, I saw the gold chain around my throat glitter. I removed Jean Luc’s talisman. Grigori might ask about it, and I didn’t have any answers.

  Next, I hesitated over the tray of perfume on my vanity. My instinct led me to forgo the House of L’Etoile’s more wanton L’Eau de L’Amour for the
ir gentler Joie de Vivre. I dabbed some of the floral scent behind my ears, ran my hands through my hair, and then, umbrella on my arm, I left my room, locking the door behind me.

  Outside, sheltered from the rain by the arcade, I hugged the wall as I headed toward the Palais’s exit. Most of the shop windows I passed were crisscrossed with tape to protect the glass from shattering when bombs shook the city. At La Fantaisie Russe, Monsieur had installed a second plate of glass abutting the window so he could fully show the display cases he was so proud of. But several store owners used the adhesive inventively, making decorative shapes showcasing their wares between the openings. Creative protection from Bertha, I thought.

  I walked halfway to the exit, coming up to a shoe store abandoned months before that had remained empty since. Its owner, another victim of war. There were a dozen such shops around the Palais that had been thriving businesses when I had first arrived in 1915.

  Of all of the closed shops, the shoe boutique made me saddest because I’d gotten to know Monsieur Maillot a bit and liked his off-color jokes and lovely shoe designs. The way he mixed fabrics and colors, while within the bounds of taste, still shocked a bit. And when he helped you, his fingers caressed the boots or dancing shoes you’d asked to see like a lover. He delighted in his own creations, and it charmed me.

  As I passed by, I thought I saw a shadow shift and peered into the darkened interior. Suddenly, too fast for me to react, a hand reached out and grabbed my arm, roughly pulling me inside. I felt my shoulder wrench. Saw nothing but darkness. Then a stench. Wine. Vetiver. Sweat. Garlic.

  It wasn’t Monsieur Maillot pulling me into his store. Of course not. He’d died at the front. This was some stinking stranger dragging me deeper into the shadows. Suddenly his cold fingers pressed a paper into my hand. Then, grunting, he shoved me in the opposite direction. Sprawling, I tripped on a warped floorboard and landed in a pile of dirty, dusty rags and discarded boxes.

  For a moment, I sat there on the floor, stunned. Not comprehending what had happened. My breath came in ragged gasps. My pulse pounded. I felt a damp breeze and realized the door to the shop hung wide open.