The Secret Language of Stones by M. J. Rose Read Free Book Online

tablecloth, sparkling crystal, and fine china. The heavy and ornate silverware, decorated like the plates with the tsar’s imperial insignia, took on a greater poignancy.
    Our conversation continued to revolve around the tragedy, and no one had much of an appetite, even for the cook’s tempting food. Only the wine was consumed with any relish.
    â€œThis is the kind of night when I could drown in a bottle, but will stop at two glasses,” Vanya said when Monsieur Orloff attempted to refill his wine goblet for a third time. “We have work to do and plans to make.”
    After the plates were cleared, Monsieur Orloff and Vanya went to the library to prepare for the meeting. Anna went to the kitchen to speak to the cook.
    â€œCan I see you to your rooms?” Grigori asked. “I’d appreciate some brandy if you don’t mind. This has been a trying night.”
    I’d come to Paris expecting to live at my great-grandmother’s fine mansion on rue des Saints-Pères. But with the city under siege and without the light from street lamps, the half-hour walk was far too dangerous for me to undertake alone at night. And so, Monday through Saturday, I lived beneath Monsieur’s shop. The Orloffs hadcreated a warren of rooms in their large basement, including a stock room, with enough tools and workbenches to serve as a second workshop, as well as three bedrooms. Two of them were often used by new émigrés during their first few nights in Paris. The third room, actually a suite with a bedchamber and sitting room, belonged to me. The walls had been covered in pale aquamarine blue with dark sapphire trim and matching upholstery. This tiny enclave was my sanctuary in a way my room at my great-grandmother’s house wasn’t. Her mansion offered no solitude. Open to soldiers on leave from the war who craved excitement, titillation, and escape, her salons and “fantasy bedrooms,” as she called them, had never been busier. In the old days, only rich men had been able to afford the many pleasures found in them. But now, this was Grand-mère’s gift to the soldiers fighting. Whatever the desire, there was a room to match. One recalled the mirrored palace of Marie Antoinette; another resembled a monk’s chamber with a narrow bed, straw rug, and religious frescoes on the wall. There was an Egyptian room, as well as a Chinese pagoda and a Persian garden room with fanciful walls painted with trees and flowering bushes against a midnight blue sky complete with stars, a perfect crescent moon, and the onion-shaped minarets of Persepolis in the distance.
    When I visited, I made a habit of hiding from the forced gaiety as soldiers overindulged in food, wine, and sex in order to forget. My great-grandmother provided a great service, but for me, being at Maison de la Lune, as her house is called, was like attending theater and suffering through a desperate, debauched, and sometimes depressing play.
    As Grigori and I descended the staircase leading to my room, both of us were all too aware of the uneven cadence of his steps as he struggled with his damaged leg. I hated the sound for his sake.
    At my door, I invited him in, as was our ritual. Whenever he dined with Anna and Monsieur, or whenever he surfaced from his melancholy and asked me to the theater or dinner, an art show oropera, at the end of the evening I would always invite him in and he would always accept my invitation.
    He made himself comfortable on the couch while I poured us both brandies and sat down next to him. Usually we talked for a while, but that night he seemed unable to wait and reached out—­almost as if it was causing him pain—and pulled me to him.
    His hands and his lips were, as usual, insistent, hungry. As if he were capable of devouring me. He slid his hand up my skirt. The feel of his fingers on my stocking leg sent shivers farther up. He moved from calf to knee to thigh. I heard my breath catch.