The Secret Language of Stones

Chapter 25

I don’t think we saw the sun once while in England. From the moment we stepped off the ship, during that first night at a dark, dismal inn, in a room too dirty to take off my clothes, and then all during the long drive to Cornwall, the winds and rain never abated.

Winding through a thick forest dripping with rain and smelling of pine, we rounded a bend and got our first foggy glimpse of Fordingbrook Castle. I sucked in my breath as an overwhelming sense of doom settled upon me. Overhead, seagulls flew, their cries sounding like women weeping.

“Do you hear that?” I asked Grigori.

He listened, frowned. “The birds?”

“Don’t they sound forlorn?”

“As would you be, living in isolation out here on the edge of the earth.”

For that’s where we were. The cliffs jutted out over the sea, and the sea went on forever. The horizon line was nonexistent because of the inclement weather-the gray morass of sky and water continuing on and on with no delineation. This was not a lovely view but rather a bleak impasse, a dire warning not to venture forth, not to pass the boundaries of this place, not to try to soar-not with ideas, not with words-but to stay tethered to the earth.

We climbed out of the car and trudged up to the great gray stone castle, Grigori stumbling on the uneven cobblestones. I wanted to reach out and take his arm, offer him ballast, but would he perceive it as pity? Too proud, he could take umbrage so quickly.

The front door opened, and the majordomo came out to greet us. He looked to be in his seventies but appeared fit. He introduced himself as Briggs and ushered us inside as a fresh-faced young man-too young to go to war and still awkward-picked up our cases and disappeared with them.

The castle, Monsieur had told us, belonged to a widowed cousin of the king who worked in the war office and was rarely in residence anymore. The location had been chosen for this assignation because of its isolation as well as its proximity to the port. The Dowager had supposedly arrived directly by boat, under a cloak of secrecy, her identity hidden. We were to address her as Madame Silvestrov. Even King George’s cousin didn’t know who would be using his house, only that he’d granted the Crown a favor by providing staff and allowing a three-day meeting to take place there.

An attaché waited for us in the foyer. He introduced himself as Yasin Poda, Madame Silvestrov’s aide. Short and round with a balding pate, he sported an elaborate walrus mustache, which made him look melancholy. He smelled of strong tobacco, nutmeg, and cinnamon, which might have been pleasant if it hadn’t been so overwhelming.

“I’m Grigori Orloff and this is Opaline Duplessi, the mystic,” Grigori said.

As we shook hands, I wondered at the way Grigori introduced me. “The mystic”? I’d never been called anything but a jeweler before and was made uncomfortable by the designation.

Then I heard my mother’s voice in my head, offering advice before she went back to Cannes: You need to open yourself up to who you are, Opaline. Denying your powers is dangerous.

Introductions complete, Yasin informed us Madame remained indisposed after her trip but looked forward to meeting with us at ten o’clock in her suite on the following morning. He spoke French with the same Russian accent as the Orloffs.

Briggs told us dinner would be served at seven unless we preferred a light meal en suite, which I said I’d prefer. He nodded efficiently and proceeded to show us to our rooms.

The bleak scenery around us filled me with foreboding. As did the small palace. Though lushly decorated as befitted a property owned by royalty, a pall of abandonment hung over it. In the hallway on the way to my room, we passed prints showing the castle’s development as it had grown over the years.

While spacious, my lavender-and-powder-blue bedroom contained shabby furnishings. Frayed drapery framed large casement windows looking out over a topiary garden and beyond to a raging sea.

A maid arrived to help me unpack. She offered and I accepted a glass of sherry, and she asked me if I’d like to freshen up or perhaps take a bath.

“A bath sounds lovely,” I told her.

I began to undress, taking off my raincoat and hat. I reached for the necklace of ruby eggs and realized I couldn’t get undressed in front of the maid. No one was to know I possessed the other necklace.

In the bathroom, I finished undressing, removing both the ruby and the emerald egg necklaces as well as Jean Luc’s talisman. I put them inside my burgundy suede jewel case and slipped them under a stack of towels and then stepped into the tub. At least the verbena-scented water was hot. A luxury I didn’t take for granted.

As I soaked, I tried to sense if Jean Luc was near. Had he traveled with me out of Paris? Was he even able to do such a thing? How ridiculous-he was a ghost-of course he could travel anywhere he wished. Mentally, I listed the rules I’d noted about his existence.

Can generate heat.

Can speak to me, but without sound. I hear him inside my head, out loud. No one else hears him.

Can move objects but not lift them.

Cannot visit with me if I’m not wearing the talisman-but I don’t know if that is his failing or mine.

Unlike in stories I’d read, animals didn’t sense his presence. Anna’s cat that lived in the shop hadn’t noticed him.

I placed my hands across my breasts, suddenly modest, wondering if he was hovering above me, watching. And what if he was? He’d seen me naked before, in my bedroom. But never during the day. He’d always come to me in the dark. I continued listing Jean Luc’s rules.

Can see what I see. Almost as if he sees through my eyes. More than once, he’d mentioned sights I’d seen even when I was unaware of his presence.

Is not all knowing. He can’t ferret out other people’s secrets. He seemed just as confused by the meetings in the tunnels under the Palais as I. Just as worried, but unable to shed light on who the men were or what they discussed.

Can’t leave me and go into another part of the store or the Palais or Grand-mère’s house when I stay there. He explained he was either in a kind of colorless, odorless limbo or tethered to me.

Never hungry or thirsty; however, he does feel pleasure and pain. The pain, he said, appeared to be a memory of his injuries, but the pleasure seemed new, unique to being with me.

Makes love with heat. He said his body thrummed with delight when he joined me in my bed, and he experienced feelings similar to when he was alive, but more intensely.

Can smell me and prefers my rose perfume to my violet-saying the House of L’Etoile failed with the latter, and it reeked of powder, while the rose smelled redolent and lush, as if he were walking through Rodin’s garden, crushing petals under his feet.

I must have dozed off because I came awake with a start, shivering in a tub of cool water, hearing voices drifting up through the open window.

After wrapping myself in an oversize towel, I stood hidden by the heavy damask curtains and looked down. Two men stood in the garden, each under an umbrella, speaking in Russian. At first I couldn’t see either of them clearly enough to identify them. Then one of them moved and I saw Grigori. The other remained concealed.

Why would they be walking in the rain? What did they need to discuss that they couldn’t talk about in the house? Or were they on their way into town?

After a few frustrating minutes of listening to them but not understanding anything they said, I gave up. I stayed wrapped in the bath sheet, watching from a distance until the men resumed walking. Still wondering what they’d needed to talk about in the rain, I dug my burgundy suede jewel case out from under the stack of towels. Monsieur had been so adamant I keep the necklace a secret, I’d been afraid to leave it out on the countertop while I’d bathed in case a maid came in.

In the bedroom, I took out a dressing gown from the closet and slipped it on since I planned on staying in for the evening, reading, eating a light supper, and recuperating from the crossing and the miserable night in the dirty inn.

As I lowered Monsieur’s enamel treasure over my head, I thought about how secretive he’d been about it and wondered why it was so important. He’d acted as if my life might actually depend on no one knowing it was in my possession. In giving it to me, had he involved me in a mission far more dangerous than he’d suggested?

Later that evening as I fell asleep, my fingers clutching the emerald eggs, I remembered Anna’s anxious eyes when she had said good-bye to me the day before. At the time, her words had not struck me as odd or out of place. But now that I’d arrived here and had seen the palace and the grounds, I wasn’t sure.

“You will be fine. Just rely on your instincts. Trust what they tell you. Even if black looks white. Inside of you…” She reached out and pressed her forefinger to the spot between my eyebrows. The skin immediately leapt alive and warmed. “Inside, you possess ways to find the answers to all of your questions. You are brave and you are strong-don’t forget that. Much stronger than you believe.”

Had she known from gazing into her glass orbs that something was to occur in the English countryside that could be dangerous? And if so, why had she allowed her husband to send me? Was my mission that important? Why did the Dowager really need a seer to tell her if her grandchildren were alive or not? Why did the royal family not have enough spies or friends in governments around the world to suss out that information? Why send a French jeweler across the channel to see if she could raise the voices of the dead?