The Secret Language of Stones (18 page)

“I'm careful. The sirens warn us and the shelter at the Palais is very safe.”

“Yes, the war is hazardous, but I meant what you are doing with the talismans and how it is affecting you. That's the true and real danger.”

“No, I can't leave my job.”

“But I can see it in your eyes,
mon ange
.” It was what her grandmother called her, “my angel.”

“How did you find me? I didn't tell anyone I went out.”

My mother gave me her most beguiling smile. The one that said everything:
I love you. You know who I am. You know what I can do. We are mother and daughter—how can you even wonder?

“But why now?”

“You haven't finished working out the message in the painting?”

“No.”

“And you're questioning everything you should be embracing. It's all a gift, Opaline, but you're being tortured.”

“A gift? You mean the voices?”

She nodded.

“Some gift. I think I'm becoming as crazy as the owl lady who used to live next door to us in Cannes.” I hadn't thought of Madame Sorette in so long. Our delightful but crazy neighbor who kept an aviary of almost a hundred owls she believed were all Greek gods.

My mother laughed at the memory. Deep throated and velvety. My father always said my mother seemed sensual even when she buttered bread. He was right. If there were any men around, they would have come running at the sound of that laugh, like dogs sniffing out a bitch in heat.

“You need to come home so I can teach you how to use your talents. Every Daughter of La Lune is born with them, but only through training can you control them.”

“How do you know what's happening to me?”

“I studied. I trained. And lest you think I'm so prescient, Anna wrote me, Opaline. Mystics like her can help, of course, but not teach. You need to come home. This Jean Luc is torturing you, isn't he?”

“I didn't tell Anna about Jean Luc.”

“No, you didn't.” She smiled again.

“You think he's real?”

“I don't know. I can't travel your threads.”

“Threads?”

“I wish I'd convinced you to study with me when we had the chance instead of rushing through the lessons now. La Lune taught me that each of us has silver or gold threads that tie us to other realms. On them, we can travel past this plane and go back and forth to other planes. I believe you are walking out into time and encountering all these lost souls who need help in cutting their threads and moving on. None of us can walk on one another's threads, though. You can't on mine; I can't on your sisters'. But I can see them—” She took my hands and pressed her fingertips to mine. “I can feel them here, Opaline.”

As she spoke, I became conscious of a slight warmth where our fingertips touched.

“I can't come home, not yet. I have to stay here and help the widows and mothers as long as the war rages. I would be selfish to leave. I feel as if what I'm supposed to do here isn't finished.”

My mother's silence lasted for a full minute.

“But so far sweet Anna hasn't helped. Are you sure you won't come home with me?”

I nodded.

“Always so stubborn.
So
stubborn. You know I can't stay here and train you. I have the twins and Jadine to take care of. Please, reconsider.”

At that moment, the sirens screamed. I looked around in a panic. There was nowhere to go. We were too far from either bank. Maybe it was all for the best. If the bombs fell on us, if they took us, then I'd go to Jean Luc in whatever place he was and we could be together. My mother was a fully evolved witch; she'd most likely be able to keep herself safe no matter where she was.

The first bomb hit deep in the city to the right. Close enough that we could feel the vibration through our feet. A huge explosion of orange-red flames and smoke filled the sky.

Grabbing my hand, my mother pulled me. I resisted. I wanted to stay. To watch the fireworks, to tempt fate.

“Opaline,” she yelled just as the second bomb hit not as far away. The bridge shook as the sound echoed through the canyon of the city streets. The lights were brighter, this one much closer.

My mother screamed my name, tightened her grip, and dragged me, using an inhuman force I couldn't withstand. She ran, towing me with her to the end of the bridge just as the third bomb hit the far end of Pont Neuf. The explosion rocked the ground. We went flying. Thrown by the power of the blast. Incredibly, my mother never let go of my hand, and we landed more softly than seemed possible on a patch of grass quite close to a large plane tree.

Gasping for breath, I sat on the ground, the trunk of the tree at my back, looking at my mother. At her disheveled hair, dirt-streaked face, ripped duster. Smiling at me, she shook her head.

“You were born stubborn, Opaline. The next time I tell you to come with me, you come. Do you understand? We're going home.”

Even there, sitting under the sky smoky from the bombs, hearing the cries of people who were scared and hurt, not knowing what would happen next, I remained sure. I shook my head.

“I can't.”

“Then you are going to go on suffering.”

I stood. Stumbled. I'd twisted my ankle in my fall. “I'm going back to the Palais,” I said. “Do you want to come with me? I'm sure Anna would be happy to put you up.”

“No, I'm going to your great-grandmother's. I want to see how she is. Why don't you come with me? I brought something I need to give you. It's there with my bags.”

The maison remained undamaged. Grand-mère and all the soldiers were awake and drinking champagne—celebrating, they said, that they'd survived this most recent encounter with Bertha.

I retired to my room, my mother to another. I undressed, turned off the light, and climbed into my bed. On the bridge I hadn't been frightened. But now, with all quiet once again, with the smooth cool sheets pulled up and the down pillows under my head, I began to shake.

And then I heard a knock on the door.

“
Entrez
,” I called out, expecting my great-grandmother had sent her maid to make sure I didn't need anything.

The door opened, and in the pale yellow light from the hallway I saw my mother. Her long wavy auburn hair tumbled down around her shoulders. She wore a peach-colored dressing gown cut low. The lamplight in the hallway illuminated the ruby necklace encircling her pale peach skin and set the stones on fire. I'd never seen them glowing like they were then—like embers, I thought, about to burst into flames.

Stepping into the room, my mother switched on the bedside lamp and then sat on the edge of the bed. Reaching out, she smoothed my hair.

“I'm sorry we argued. Sorrier still you won't come home with me. I guessed as much. I understand you feel like you have a mission to fulfill here. I brought this for you. It won't solve all your problems, but it will help some . . .”

She handed me a book. It fit in the palm of my hand. Made of cordovan leather with gold tooling on the front, elaborate letters spelling out five words.

THE DAUGHTERS OF LA LUNE

“It's our history, and our rules. La Lune guided me to find it in the bell tower when I was just about your age. She taught me its lessons. I always dreamed I'd be the one to teach them to you. Promise me you'll study it?”

I took the book from her, held it, and heard far-off music. Soft and lilting. Bells and harps. If the stars sang, certainly this would be their song.

The music grew louder when I opened the book. I touched the smooth parchment paper and breathed in its antique scent. I read my name printed on the frontispiece.

OPALINE DUPLESSI, THE 44TH DAUGHTER OF LA LUNE

Turning the pages, I discovered a highly illustrated account of our family, going back to the sixteenth century, followed by a list of rules of witchcraft and then . . .

“What are these?” I asked my mother, pointing to what appeared to be the first of many complex recipes.

“Spells. Those we've collected over the years, and some new ones I've created.”

“This is a grimoire?”

She nodded. “Yes, your grimoire. And it's protected so no one else can steal it or alter it.”

“But why is the last third empty?”

“Each of us is charged with creating our own magick, Opaline. There's room there for you to make notes and preserve your discoveries for future generations. You found the silver sheets, didn't you? Those fit into the book, with space on them for you to engrave your own spells.”

“How can there be so much I don't know about you, about us?” I asked.

“You didn't want to know.” She smiled her mystical smile again, leaned forward, and kissed me on the forehead. “I know you won't come home now, but you will come home when the war is over; promise me you'll come then?”

“Yes, as soon as the war is over, Maman.”

Getting up, she turned off the light and walked to the door. She stopped, her hand on the jamb, and looked back at me.

“
Mon ange
, your Jean Luc is real. How else could I have seen him to paint if he wasn't?”

Chapter 18

The following afternoon, I went down to the vault again, this time to choose tsavorites and emeralds and amethysts of various shades for a brooch of my own design. The large cluster of grapes could be pinned to a lapel or taken apart to make a set of earrings and a smaller cluster brooch.

Monsieur Orloff offered me a rare compliment, saying “Your piece is very well conceived,” and then he added several more grapes to the top, making the triangle a more interesting shape after the two grapes were separated out for the earrings.

I'd found eight amethysts so far, large ovals with a lovely deepness. The facets flashed a tiny bit of pink when I held them to the light. My book of gems said that the royal purple stones becalmed their wearer but also increased awareness and psychic ability. Considering my state, I was almost afraid to handle the gems.

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.”