M. Rose - The Secret Language of Stones

He eyed my smock.

I shrugged. “I didn’t think to take it off. When I feel a headache coming on, the sooner I can get outside, the faster it goes away.” Surely he remembered me talking about my headaches and would believe me. “Why were you looking for me? Do you need something?”

He smiled. I was confused. His eyes were as gentle as his touch when he took my arm. “The empress is indisposed, and I went to your room to see if you’d like to join us for a light supper.”

Yet again, I questioned what I’d seen. Had it been my imagination? Perhaps my mother had been wrong. What if I was ill? What if I saw and heard things like the crazy owl lady after all? And she simply sensed what I saw and believed it to be real. This man holding my arm, whom I’d kissed and made love to, wasn’t capable of anything sinister. He was an antiques salesman. Yes, he was bitter he’d gone to war for France and been handicapped for life. But Grigori wasn’t evil.

“I’m sorry the Dowager’s ill again,” I said to Yasin.

“It’s often difficult for Her Highness to deal with the upheaval and sadness she’s had to endure,” he said. “She said to tell you she’d very much be looking forward to meeting with you in the morning instead of tonight. If, in fact, you will be finished.”

“I will.”

“Good. Now let us enjoy our supper,” Grigori said as he led me to the entrance to the castle and away from help.

As I took a seat and waited for the staff to serve us, we made small talk. The effort of pretending all was well proved almost as painful as the burns on my fingertips, which I tried to keep hidden in my lap. Briggs came in with the food and offered us a choice of cold chicken or meat pie. There was also wine, but I was afraid to take more than a few sips lest it affect my alertness. I sensed I needed to keep my wits.

“How is the talisman coming?” Grigori asked me.

“Almost finished,” I said. “There’s some burnishing and polishing to do.”

“Did you get any information on the fate of the family?” Yasin asked.

“I can’t tell anything until I’m with the person connected to it. Do you think they are alive?”

Yasin shook his head. “I don’t think they are.”

“Why is that?” I was looking for a clue, wanting him to say something to give me some insight into their plans. And at the same time, I tried to appear naïve. My only chance of saving the Dowager was to keep these men from thinking I knew anything. I had to be able to walk away from them when tea was over and summon help. If I seemed nervous or asked the wrong questions, if I made them suspicious, they might trap me too.

“Why would they kill the tsar and keep his family alive?” Yasin asked, rhetorically.

“The children and the empress were, after the tsar, the manifestation of the corrupt royal system,” Grigori added. “The Bolsheviks would have no use for them, other than the pleasure of destroying them.”

Was he saying it with relish? Whenever we’d spoken of this before, I’d always thought he repeated the Bolshevik propaganda in order to explain the atrocities that were occurring in his homeland. But I’d been wrong. It was clear to me now that Grigori Orloff believed in the Bolshevik cause.

The conversation drifted to other topics. The men demolished the pie and the chicken. When we were done, Briggs came in to ask if we needed anything else.

I eyed him. Was he as safe as I thought? Or had he been lying too? Was he in on the plan to kidnap or murder the Dowager? And what of me?

Back in my room, I walked back and forth in front of the windows. And then, reminded of Grigori’s incessant pacing, I stopped. I sat down and worked. And worked. The basket weave I’d chosen was taking much longer than expected. The complicated pattern of gold threads lacing over and under one another occupied my mind and at the same time allowed it to wander, to try to come up with a plan I could execute on my own.

By ten o’clock, I was desperate to take action, but still not sure what I should do. If I could get to a telephone and not be overheard, I could call the local police. But I hadn’t seen a phone and I didn’t know how to go looking for one without arousing suspicion when, for all I knew, everyone in the household was part of the plot.

Still weaving, I must have fallen asleep at the table. When I woke, long past midnight, the moon shone through the windows, illuminating the finished talisman. The crystal looked alive; the gold glimmered. I picked it up. I couldn’t hear any voices but sensed they were indeed there, waiting until a connection could be made via a loved one before imparting their terribly sad information.

It was the first time I’d ever made a piece of jewelry in search of proof of death, and I hated having done it. If I ever saw the Dowager again, if in the morning I figured out a way to help her, to free her, she was sure to ask. How could I be the one to deliver this horrible news?

I barely slept and went down to breakfast early, hoping I might find Briggs alone and talk to him, try to get a sense if he was indeed innocent or part of Grigori and Yasin’s band of thugs.

But both men were already at the dining table, half done with their breakfasts, and I couldn’t figure out how to get the butler alone.

“Did you sleep well?” Grigori asked.

“No, I didn’t. Too anxious about today. About giving the empress the talisman. About what it will tell us.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be possible for you to spend a long time with her,” Yasin said. “We’ve received a message from London and they want her to leave as soon as possible.”

I nodded as if everything made complete sense, but I was confused. Was I really going to meet with her?

“I’ll come and get you as soon as Madame is ready.”

What game was this? How were they going to bring me to the Dowager? How were they going to get her to pretend she was all right when she’d spent the night in a dungeon tied to a chair? Or had she? Was the scene I’d witnessed some kind of torture to get information from her? Had they decided to let her go? But they couldn’t-she’d seen their faces.

At ten o’clock, Grigori knocked on my door and told me the Dowager was ready for me. Together we walked to her rooms. Yasin opened the door and led me inside, through her sitting room into her bedroom. The heavy forest green damask drapes were drawn. Only a small lamp was lit. The room and the woman sitting by the window were shrouded in shadows. Dressed for travel, the Dowager was all in black, with a hat and veil covering her face, black gloves on her hands.

I walked toward her, but Yasin stopped me before I came too close.

“Can I have the talisman?” he asked. “I will give it to Her Highness.”

I handed it to him. He crossed the room and handed it to the Dowager.

She held it in her palm and looked down at it.

“What should she do?” he asked.

“I need to show her,” I explained. “I need to hold it as well.”

He seemed concerned but then nodded and gestured.

I approached and stood close to her. I tried to peer through the veil and into her eyes, but her glance was cast down, looking, it seemed, at my handiwork.

“If Your Highness would hold on to the talisman, I need to put my hands around yours.”

She nodded and did as I asked.

I put my hands around her gloved ones.

I’d expected children’s voices to come all at once. Was sure of it. But I heard only the distant ticking of a clock and waves hitting the rocks. Maybe I’d been wrong. Perhaps I hadn’t sensed the children’s souls waiting for their chance to speak to their grandmother.

“They… your family… your grandchildren… they aren’t talking to me, Your Highness. They are still alive.”