M. Rose - The Secret Language of Stones

I’m here. At least right now, I’m here. You believe me, don’t you?

The very last thing I wanted to say was that I did. For surely it would be proof of only one thing: my madness.

Do you believe me? Haven’t I proved I’m here?

“Are you here all the time?” My voice sounded like a child’s.

No.

“And you don’t know where you are the rest of the time?”

No. I don’t know.

I shivered; his voice was heartbreaking. The wind slowed to a breeze and then the breeze was gone. All was still. I shivered again. The room temperature had dropped, and I knew Jean Luc was gone.

If he really had been there at all.

The door opened, and Grigori stepped inside the shelter.

“I heard you talking…” He looked around. “But it appears you are alone.”

I gestured to the room and tried to act as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. “You can see for yourself. No one’s here.”

“Yes, but I thought I heard you talking.”

“Only to myself.” I smiled, trying to make light of his question. I didn’t want to start a conversation with Grigori about my talents. Just like his stepmother’s gypsy readings, my ability to relay messages from the departed disturbed him. Russia, he’d told me, possessed a long history of mystics who attempted to control people with their powers. Like Rasputin, he said with disdain, as he blamed the self-proclaimed holy man for much of Russia’s misfortune.

“You’re too young to be talking to yourself.”

“It’s an occupational hazard of working so many hours alone,” I said.

“Spending too much time by yourself is unwise. It can lead to troubling, even frightening thoughts, especially in a place like this dungeon.” He shook his head as if trying to dislodge a thought. Or memory. “I saw what the trenches could do to a soldier. Confinement is a harsh punisher.”

Noticing my abandoned effort at making tea, he took up where I’d left off. “And why are you down here alone? Where are my father and Anna?”

“Both out. I thought you’d be down sooner, though. What kept you?”

“Seeing a customer.”

I smelled kerosene.

“I insisted we take shelter, but he was adamant to get back home. I went with him as far as the gate where his car waited. Stupid of me, but he couldn’t carry his purchases himself.”

“Couldn’t he return for them?”

“It was his wife’s birthday and he wanted to take them home.”

“What did he buy?” I asked, happy to move the conversation away from myself. I didn’t want to think about the voice, but the charm was still warm in my hand.

“Two small end tables inlaid with porcelain.”

I nodded, picturing the delicate tables in Grigori’s store. His eye for antiques was as fine as his father’s for jewels.

“I’m sorry to see them go, but he didn’t even haggle on the price,” he said, as he poured the water. While he waited for the tea to steep, he looked over at me. His dark brown eyes were unreadable but penetrating. Although he seemed to be able to see through me, I couldn’t even guess what he was thinking.

After Grigori had been wounded and was on his way back home from the front, Anna warned me her stepson was prone to moodiness and quite enigmatic, and she feared his injury would exacerbate both traits. I found his mysteriousness attractive and his sulkiness poetic, but lately his inscrutability had been frustrating.

“This is such a godforsaken hole, isn’t it?” he said. “Let’s imagine we’re in Ladurée, enjoying afternoon tea with delightful pastries.” Unlike his eyes, his smile was uncomplicated, his dimples appealing.

“Yes, let’s.”

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and put it over his forearm, impersonating a waiter. “Would you like some tea, Mademoiselle?” he asked in an exaggerated accent.

“I’d love some.” I laughed with relief that his mood had lightened. And that I could, at least for a while, pretend that mine had too.

He poured the tea with a flourish, placed it on the tray, and then came toward me with a pronounced limp. He’d almost reached me when his knee gave out and he went sprawling and teacups fell and the liquid soaked the rugs.

Too stunned to talk, I immediately went to his aid, but he brushed me off and struggled to get up and then clean up the mess. I knew better than to try and make light of the situation. His infirmity embarrassed him enough. I believed if there were not an air raid going on, he would have bolted.

I let him pick up the cups and the tray and remained silent. I’d let him choose when to talk and what to say. Instead of making more tea, he pulled out a silver flask engraved with ornate initials and poured vodka into one of the cups. He downed it in one gulp, turned to me, and offered me the flask.

I nodded, and he splashed some in one of the cups and handed it to me. After he poured more for himself, he sat beside me as if nothing unusual had happened.

The crystal egg still in my hand grew warmer. I looked down, surprised.

“What are you holding?” he asked.

I didn’t want to show it to Grigori. Didn’t want to share it. I realized I didn’t even want to give it to Madame Alouette. I wanted to keep this one for myself.

Yes, please, hide it.

Even with Grigori there, I’d heard the voice. Or thought I had. Quickly I looked at him. Had he heard it? Or had I imagined it?

“Are you all right? I asked what you’re holding.”

I’d forgotten to answer his previous question.

“Opaline?” He looked at me strangely. Because he’d heard the voice too? I needed to find out and at the same time distract him from wanting to see the talisman.

“Did you just hear something?” I asked.

“Only the silence following my question. Why won’t you tell me what you are holding?”

So he couldn’t hear Jean Luc. I was glad for the confirmation. Now for an explanation of why I wouldn’t show him what I hid in my hand.

“It’s just one of the talismans I’ve been working on, but I’ve messed up the soldering and I’m embarrassed.” I closed my hand even tighter over the crystal. No, I wouldn’t give it to Madame Alouette. It might be wrong of me, but I didn’t want to give it up. I’d make another for her and keep this one for myself. But what about Jean Luc’s hair? Could I get a lock from someone with the same coloring? She’d never know. But what of my transgression? Would I somehow be punished? I almost laughed. By who? I’d never kept one of the talismans before, but I needed to keep this one.

“Let me see,” Grigori insisted, half teasing and half annoyed. “My father says you are one of the finest young jewelers he’s worked with and I haven’t seen one of your famous talismans.”

Grigori didn’t spend much time in the jewelry shop-he was too busy with his furniture and art-and I never displayed the charms. They seemed sacrosanct. A private icon meant only for the one in mourning.

“All the more reason then not to show you this one.” I slipped it into my pocket.

“I promise not to criticize you. Besides, I doubt it is anything but perfect.” He put his hand on my forearm.

He was so close I was afraid he’d feel the heat emanating off the charm and I inched back. Grigori looked askance. Our physical relationship should have allowed for such a simple touch.

“Don’t pressure me,” I said. “I’ll show it to you when I’m finished with it and happy with the workmanship. I don’t want the first one you see to be damaged.”

Yes, damaged is fitting. I don’t deserve to be called any less.

Jean Luc’s sad voice brought tears to my eyes. What had broken him? Why was he still suffering when death was supposed to be a relief for those hurt and destroyed by war?