M. Rose - The Secret Language of Stones

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.