M. Rose - The Secret Language of Stones

Was this what lovers were supposed to experience?

Yes.

Only a whisper, I heard his voice all throughout my body. As if the word were being said inside of me, in my blood, against my skin.

Yes. This is what we would have been together.

Almost as if he were the puppeteer and I the marionette, Jean Luc’s voice moved my hand to rest in between my legs and my thighs clamped, trapping it there. I rocked against the pressure.

Yes.

The pressure became a rhythm. The rhythm a dance. The dance a slow build of sensations, growing, growing in intensity until my whole body reduced to a few inches of flesh, until my whole body began to vibrate and shudder and pulsate with pleasure. Jean Luc moved my hand faster and faster until sparks leapt into a fire burning inside of me. Flames, bright orange flames, the colors of fire opals, burst, exploded, shaking me at my core.

My breathing slowing, drifting off to sleep on waves of pleasure, I heard him say yes , again and again, and I fell asleep with his warm hand on mine. Sure of it.

I woke up in the morning convinced I’d dreamed it all. And wouldn’t have doubted myself except the talisman I’d put on before I went to sleep was no longer around my neck, lying between my breasts when I rose.

The unhooked chain, shaped into a crescent, with the talisman nested inside the curve like a single star hanging on the moon, sat on my bedside table.

I had no memory of having removed it, much less taking the time to configure it into a design. Anxiously, I looked over at the key in the lock in the door. Had Grigori come into my room? Somehow been the one to induce my nighttime abandon? I raced to the door and tried it.

No, still locked. What’s more, the bolt Monsieur Orloff had installed so I could rest easy was thrown. It could not have been opened from the outside even with a key.

Since no one had come into my room, there existed only two possible explanations: either I’d removed the talisman and configured it in that curious design, or Jean Luc had.

But he wasn’t real. The soldier was a manifestation of my mind. A mind overwhelmed by war and sadness and grief and guilt. Even if I were to entertain the idea that his spectral form existed and was capable of such a thing, how would he know the symbol of La Lune? For the necklace was arranged in the exact crescent motif she’d adopted and all of her descendants throughout time were born with, imprinted on our skin. I bore two such marks: the one I’d been born with that hid in a dimple at the small of my back, a faint blemish, a simple birthmark unless you understood its significance, and another on the fleshy part of my thumb, the result of an accident with a sharp engraving tool.

When I arrived at the shop that morning, Monsieur Orloff was waiting impatiently. He needed to visit the stonecutter, but wanted to speak to me before he left. After issuing some instructions, he donned his hat and departed. Locking the door after him, I went into the workshop.

The studio at La Fantaisie Russe was Monsieur’s realm, and while I felt privileged to put on my jeweler’s glasses, sit at my station, and work alongside him, I was always a little bit relieved when there alone.

Monsieur Orloff was indeed a magician when it came to jeweled creations. His reputation was impeccable, as might be expected for someone taught by the master Fabergé. Monsieur created the same kind of exquisite enamel pieces his mentor’s studio was known for; from gem-encrusted picture frames to desk sets and decorative boxes of all sizes. He also excelled at objets d’art made from onyx and jade, amethyst and quartz. My favorites were the bouquets. Until you touched them, you believed you were looking at a crystal vase filled with water and cut flowers. You even began to smell the sweet scent flowers give off. But it was all illusion created with gemstones and enamel.

In Paris, Monsieur Orloff took his art to new heights using trompe l’oeil techniques to manufacture creatures of the seas and skies. A most delicate bumblebee made of gold, yellow and white diamonds, and slices of onyx sat on one of the creamy pearls in a necklace. A small fish, pavéd with tsavorite, rubies, and emeralds, swam between the aquamarines in a diadem.

For all the delightful whimsy in his work, Monsieur Orloff was a suspicious man who smiled only at his wife and regarded everyone who entered the store as a potential bother. It was no wonder Anna handled sales while her husband remained behind the scenes.

At his workstation that morning, he’d left an unfinished miniature easel only eight inches high. The gold frame was complete, and he was in the process of creating the design he’d soon pack with enamel.

By eleven, I’d completed my daily requirement of four trench watches and pulled out Jean Luc’s talisman, glad Monsieur was still out so I could make the finishing touches while I was alone.

After a final polishing, I filled in some of the spaces between the gold wrapping with ancient jet. Once driftwood, jet fossilizes and becomes coal in a process that, according to scientists, takes over a million years. Unlike diamonds, which form in the same manner, jet is a soft stone. My book of gems says jet can be used to protect against evil and psychic attacks as well as enhance spiritual quests. Until that morning, I had incorporated it into my designs solely because of its ability to help those grieving by bringing deep-rooted sadness to the surface where it can be calmed and healed with comfort. But suddenly, I was more interested in its properties that enhanced spiritual quests. Would adding the jet help me reach Jean Luc?

No, I chided myself. He wasn’t real. There was no spirit to reach. No magick to help me connect to this ghost. I was overindulging in some romantic notion brought on by all the books I was reading. Between Wharton’s stories, The Phantom of the Opera , The Picture of Dorian Gray , and Poe’s tales, I was becoming too morbid and susceptible.

Turning my attention back to the jet, I inserted another piece in a triangular space. Although it’s dull when harvested, polishing jet turns it into a dark mirror. I always thought that also made it ideal for mourning jewelry. While the black stone honors the dead, looking into its reflective surface, you see yourself, the one left behind. Both a memorial and a reminder that we must go on living.

One of jet’s oddest properties, which I thought could explain why my talismans became conduits, was that, when rubbed on fabric, the stone becomes electrically charged. That spark, I believed, brought the piece to life.

Done with the talisman I would be keeping, I slipped it around my neck. Then I chose another rock crystal orb and went to work creating a new amulet, the one I would give to Madame Alouette.

Since I’d promised it for that evening, I didn’t stop to lunch with Anna but instead went out on a hunt.

The Palais was like a small village where we all knew one another. During lunchtime there were always children playing in the gardens. Without any trouble, I spotted one whose hair was the same shade of dark brown as Jean Luc’s. For a few sous and a piece of chocolate, Ricard was happy to let me cut a small lock.

Back in the studio, ashamed of myself for the deception I was planning and exhilarated at the same time, I set to crafting a piece similar to the one hiding under my dress.

I inserted the crystal segments into the vise, etched Jean Luc’s name and birth and death dates and the symbols into the crystal, positioned the lock of hair, and sprinkled peridot dust. Then, to save time, I used a gold binding made of chain so it wouldn’t need polishing. Guilt tempered my elation that I was going to be able to keep the talisman that connected me to Jean Luc while not disappointing his mother.