The Secret Language of Stones

by M. J. Rose

  “Do you hear that?” I asked Grigori.

  He listened, frowned. “The birds?”

  “Don’t they sound forlorn?”

  “As would you be, living in isolation out here on the edge of the earth.”

  For that’s where we were. The cliffs jutted out over the sea, and the sea went on forever. The horizon line was nonexistent because of the inclement weather—the gray morass of sky and water continuing on and on with no delineation. This was not a lovely view but rather a bleak impasse, a dire warning not to venture forth, not to pass the boundaries of this place, not to try to soar—not with ideas, not with words—but to stay tethered to the earth.

  We climbed out of the car and trudged up to the great gray stone castle, Grigori stumbling on the uneven cobblestones. I wanted to reach out and take his arm, offer him ballast, but would he perceive it as pity? Too proud, he could take umbrage so quickly.

  The front door opened, and the majordomo came out to greet us. He looked to be in his seventies but appeared fit. He introduced himself as Briggs and ushered us inside as a fresh-faced young man—too young to go to war and still awkward—picked up our cases and disappeared with them.

  The castle, Monsieur had told us, belonged to a widowed cousin of the king who worked in the war office and was rarely in residence anymore. The location had been chosen for this assignation because of its isolation as well as its proximity to the port. The Dowager had supposedly arrived directly by boat, under a cloak of secrecy, her identity hidden. We were to address her as Madame Silvestrov. Even King George’s cousin didn’t know who would be using his house, only that he’d granted the Crown a favor by providing staff and allowing a three-day meeting to take place there.

  An attaché waited for us in the foyer. He introduced himself as Yasin Poda, Madame Silvestrov’s aide. Short and round with a balding pate, he sported an elaborate walrus mustache, which made him look melancholy. He smelled of strong tobacco, nutmeg, and cinnamon, which might have been pleasant if it hadn’t been so overwhelming.

  “I’m Grigori Orloff and this is Opaline Duplessi, the mystic,” Grigori said.

  As we shook hands, I wondered at the way Grigori introduced me. “The mystic”? I’d never been called anything but a jeweler before and was made uncomfortable by the designation.

  Then I heard my mother’s voice in my head, offering advice before she went back to Cannes: You need to open yourself up to who you are, Opaline. Denying your powers is dangerous.

  Introductions complete, Yasin informed us Madame remained indisposed after her trip but looked forward to meeting with us at ten o’clock in her suite on the following morning. He spoke French with the same Russian accent as the Orloffs.

  Briggs told us dinner would be served at seven unless we preferred a light meal en suite, which I said I’d prefer. He nodded efficiently and proceeded to show us to our rooms.

  The bleak scenery around us filled me with foreboding. As did the small palace. Though lushly decorated as befitted a property owned by royalty, a pall of abandonment hung over it. In the hallway on the way to my room, we passed prints showing the castle’s development as it had grown over the years.

  While spacious, my lavender-and-powder-blue bedroom contained shabby furnishings. Frayed drapery framed large casement windows looking out over a topiary garden and beyond to a raging sea.

  A maid arrived to help me unpack. She offered and I accepted a glass of sherry, and she asked me if I’d like to freshen up or perhaps take a bath.

  “A bath sounds lovely,” I told her.

  I began to undress, taking off my raincoat and hat. I reached for the necklace of ruby eggs and realized I couldn’t get undressed in front of the maid. No one was to know I possessed the other necklace.

  In the bathroom, I finished undressing, removing both the ruby and the emerald egg necklaces as well as Jean Luc’s talisman. I put them inside my burgundy suede jewel case and slipped them under a stack of towels and then stepped into the tub. At least the verbena-scented water was hot. A luxury I didn’t take for granted.

  As I soaked, I tried to sense if Jean Luc was near. Had he traveled with me out of Paris? Was he even able to do such a thing? How ridiculous—he was a ghost—of course he could travel anywhere he wished. Mentally, I listed the rules I’d noted about his existence.

  Can generate heat.

  Can speak to me, but without sound. I hear him inside my head, out loud. No one else hears him.

  Can move objects but not lift them.

  Cannot visit with me if I’m not wearing the talisman—but I don’t know if that is his failing or mine.

  Unlike in stories I’d read, animals didn’t sense his presence. Anna’s cat that lived in the shop hadn’t noticed him.

  I placed my hands across my breasts, suddenly modest, wondering if he was hovering above me, watching. And what if he was? He’d seen me naked before, in my bedroom. But never during the day. He’d always come to me in the dark. I continued listing Jean Luc’s rules.

  Can see what I see. Almost as if he sees through my eyes. More than once, he’d mentioned sights I’d seen even when I was unaware of his presence.

  Is not all knowing. He can’t ferret out other people’s secrets. He seemed just as confused by the meetings in the tunnels under the Palais as I. Just as worried, but unable to shed light on who the men were or what they discussed.

  Can’t leave me and go into another part of the store or the Palais or Grand-mère’s house when I stay there. He explained he was either in a kind of colorless, odorless limbo or tethered to me.

  Never hungry or thirsty; however, he does feel pleasure and pain. The pain, he said, appeared to be a memory of his injuries, but the pleasure seemed new, unique to being with me.

  Makes love with heat. He said his body thrummed with delight when he joined me in my bed, and he experienced feelings similar to when he was alive, but more intensely.

  Can smell me and prefers my rose perfume to my violet—saying the House of L’Etoile failed with the latter, and it reeked of powder, while the rose smelled redolent and lush, as if he were walking through Rodin’s garden, crushing petals under his feet.

  I must have dozed off because I came awake with a start, shivering in a tub of cool water, hearing voices drifting up through the open window.

  After wrapping myself in an oversize towel, I stood hidden by the heavy damask curtains and looked down. Two men stood in the garden, each under an umbrella, speaking in Russian. At first I couldn’t see either of them clearly enough to identify them. Then one of them moved and I saw Grigori. The other remained concealed.

  Why would they be walking in the rain? What did they need to discuss that they couldn’t talk about in the house? Or were they on their way into town?

  After a few frustrating minutes of listening to them but not understanding anything they said, I gave up. I stayed wrapped in the bath sheet, watching from a distance until the men resumed walking. Still wondering what they’d needed to talk about in the rain, I dug my burgundy suede jewel case out from under the stack of towels. Monsieur had been so adamant I keep the necklace a secret, I’d been afraid to leave it out on the countertop while I’d bathed in case a maid came in.

  In the bedroom, I took out a dressing gown from the closet and slipped it on since I planned on staying in for the evening, reading, eating a light supper, and recuperating from the crossing and the miserable night in the dirty inn.

  As I lowered Monsieur’s enamel treasure over my head, I thought about how secretive he’d been about it and wondered why it was so important. He’d acted as if my life might actually depend on no one knowing it was in my possession. In giving it to me, had he involved me in a mission far more dangerous than he’d suggested?

  Later that evening as I fell asleep, my fingers clutching the emerald eggs, I remembered Anna’s anxious eyes when she had said good-bye to
me the day before. At the time, her words had not struck me as odd or out of place. But now that I’d arrived here and had seen the palace and the grounds, I wasn’t sure.

  “You will be fine. Just rely on your instincts. Trust what they tell you. Even if black looks white. Inside of you . . .” She reached out and pressed her forefinger to the spot between my eyebrows. The skin immediately leapt alive and warmed. “Inside, you possess ways to find the answers to all of your questions. You are brave and you are strong—don’t forget that. Much stronger than you believe.”

  Had she known from gazing into her glass orbs that something was to occur in the English countryside that could be dangerous? And if so, why had she allowed her husband to send me? Was my mission that important? Why did the Dowager really need a seer to tell her if her grandchildren were alive or not? Why did the royal family not have enough spies or friends in governments around the world to suss out that information? Why send a French jeweler across the channel to see if she could raise the voices of the dead?

  Chapter 26

  The next morning, I found Grigori and Yasin Poda having breakfast in the dining room. I couldn’t be certain, but hearing the tone and timber of Yasin’s voice, I assumed he was the man I’d heard talking with Grigori in the garden the night before.

  Both greeted me and I sat down. Briggs appeared to see if I wanted tea or coffee. I requested coffee.

  “There are strange but delicious things on the buffet,” Grigori said, gesturing to the sideboard, where silver domes covered half a dozen dishes. “We’re to help ourselves.”

  Inspecting the chafing dishes, I recognized eggs, tomatoes, and sausages, but needed to ask what the other two contained. One held kippers and another kidneys, I was told.

  Nervous about the day ahead of me, I sat back down without taking any of the prepared food. When Briggs came in with my coffee, I asked for some toast but only managed half of one slice.

  “Madame Silvestrov,” Grigori said, “is in her suite, dining on her own. We’re on to see her in an hour, at ten, as planned.”

  Precisely at ten, Grigori and I stood in front of the Dowager’s door. Grigori knocked; Yasin opened it promptly. Beyond him, I saw a pale yellow sitting room decorated with violet accents. Although it too was a bit shabby, the profusion of flowers cheered it up. Crystal vases of roses and freesia rested on the fireplace, the desk, and the coffee table. I smelled their scent and something darker.

  Seated by the window, I saw a young man and a middle-aged woman, both in simple garb. Yasin didn’t introduce either of them, and I assumed they were part of the Dowager’s retinue.

  “Have a seat, please, both of you,” he said. “I’ll tell Madame you are here.”

  Yasin walked to the door at the far end of the room and knocked.

  The Dowager must have answered him even though I couldn’t hear her, because he opened the door. Through the doorway, I glimpsed a small figure in shadow, her back to us, looking out of the windows at the rough sea. Her posture was straight and tall and proud. But the set of her shoulders was defeated. Slowly, she turned to Yasin. Backlit, her face was too dark for me to see. They spoke in hushed tones for a moment. He turned and came back out, forgetting to close the door behind him blocking my view into the other room.

  “I’m sorry, Madame Silvestrov isn’t well. The trip proved more arduous than she expected. She prepared this, though.” He looked at the envelope he now held in his hands. I noticed a gold signet ring on his pinkie of the same two-headed eagle Monsieur revered. It drew my attention because of its tarnish. Gold doesn’t tarnish, yet from its color and hue, there was no question it was eighteen-karat gold. Had it been treated? And then, over Yasin’s voice as he continued speaking, I heard an off-key whine coming from the jewelry as if it were crying out.

  “Excuse me?” I’d missed part of Yasin’s explanation.

  “I said, inside the envelope are the locks from all of the children’s hair, as you requested. How long will it take you to make the charms?”

  “I think I’ll be making one talisman incorporating all of the locks. Hopefully I can be done by this evening.”

  He stepped forward to hand me the envelope, and as he moved, I saw behind him, into the Dowager’s bedroom. A suite of sapphire-colored enamel objets d’art decorated the desktop. A jewel box, no bigger than the palm of my hand, decorated with the familiar gold double-eagle insignia; beside it, one of the Easter eggs Fabergé was famous for (a larger version of those hanging over and under my chemise). Monsieur had worked on many of the royal eggs, and framed drawings of their designs hung on the walls of our workshop in the Palais. But to see one in person! I stared at the sapphire enamel egg, decorated with the same gold double-eagle insignia, and wondered what treasure it held inside. The last of the trio of objects, a small oval frame, hosted the same insignia at its top. Inside the frame, Tsar Nicholas and his wife and children gazed out, frozen in time by a photographer’s efforts.

  I became aware of a low-pitched humming. Not the grating sound of Yasin’s ring, but a sorrowful thrum. And it was coming from the frame.

  Returning to my room, I placed the envelope on my desk, arranged my tools, and set to work at the card table.

  When the maid arrived at one o’clock to tell me luncheon was served, I asked her to just bring me something light in my room. I wanted to keep working.

  A few minutes later, I heard another knock.

  “Come in,” I called.

  I didn’t glance up as she entered. I was engraving the symbols and didn’t want to interrupt my effort. “You can just leave it on the desk, thank you so much.”

  “I’m sorry, perhaps you were expecting the maid? I am not she.”

  I looked up then and discovered the Dowager, Maria Feodorovna, at my doorstep. Despite her seventy years, she was quite beautiful, with dark, intelligent eyes, very black hair, delicate features, and iron-straight posture.

  “May I come in?” she asked in perfectly accented French.

  I lowered my tools and stood. “Of course.”

  She smiled and swished into the room, her old-fashioned long black silk skirts harkening back to an era before the war. Reaching my side, she took my hands in hers.

  “I wanted to see you alone,” she said. “Without the entourage. I don’t know them well. Yasin arrived to be my escort only a few days before the journey. I’m not comfortable around strangers.”

  “Of course.”

  “So you are Opaline?” Each word, every movement and glance, bespoke her royalty.

  Anna had schooled me in what to do when I met the Dowager, and so I said yes, and then bent into a deep curtsy.

  “That’s all right, child. Let’s forgo the formalities for now. I don’t want them to find me afoot. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  I rose from my bow, looked into her face, and saw her humanity etched in deep lines around her mouth and swimming in the sadness in her eyes. The woman’s pain, so intense on her lovely face—I felt as if I might drown in it if I wasn’t careful.

  “Thank you for risking so much to come to me,” she said.

  “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Your Highness. It’s the least I could do.”

  “But it is my loss, and yet you put yourself in danger to help me.” She patted my hand, and I relaxed a bit. As imperious as she first appeared, she showed kindness and empathy. “Let us sit so you can tell me about what you do and how you do it. There are many mystics in our country, some quite famous, others quite infamous.”

  She must have been referring to Rasputin, I thought. “I’m humbled, but I’m not a mystic, Madame. My talent is minor.”

  “Humility isn’t necessary with me. I don’t find it all that attractive when people make light of their abilities. And from what I hear, you are quite gifted as both a mystic and a jeweler. Monsieur Orloff made some of my favorite pieces. Anyone he’s chosen to
mentor must be very talented indeed. And I’ve heard his wife is equally talented in another art form . . . If she is training you as well, I’m sure you will be of great help to me.”

  The Dowager sat in one of the tapestry-covered chairs at the card table in front of the window I was using as a workstation, and gestured for me to take one of the other chairs.

  “Show me how you work,” she said.

  Even though she sat up straighter than anyone I’d ever seen, her every movement precise and careful, she seemed less a royal and more like a curious grandmother as she pored over my tools and supplies.

  I described how I crafted the talismans and then answered her questions about how I came to make the first one. When I explained about hearing the first dead soldier talk to me, she leaned forward a little.

  “And how many of these charms have you made? How many soldiers have you spoken with?”

  “More than fifty by now.”

  She put her hand on mine. “Isn’t that too difficult a toll on you? Aren’t you being emotionally bruised?”

  Tears welled up in my eyes. Oddly, no one had guessed. Not even Anna. And I’d never volunteered it. Not even to my mother. My tremendous sense of guilt prevented me from complaining. And now, of all the people asking, offering empathy, it was a woman who’d been consort to the tsar of one of the largest countries in the world and witness to its entire government toppling. She’d lost everything and yet offered me sympathy.

  “It’s the very least I can do. Millions of men have died, leaving behind tens of millions of grieving mothers and fathers, wives, daughters and sons. How it makes me feel—” I shrugged. “That’s unimportant.”

  “That’s very noble, my child, but you must take care of yourself as well. Listening to the dead has to be very painful. Do they tell you how they died?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Do they speak of the suffering they endured?”

  “Except for one”—I thought of Jean Luc—“no, no, they don’t. They aren’t suffering when they find me, or I find them. They’re haunted by the grief of those left behind and need their loved ones to let them go, so they, the soldiers, can move on. That’s why they give me messages to deliver.”