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

Grigori’s lips moved against mine, and I returned his kiss. His hand moved farther, finding my cleft, tickling me, making me buck. He unbuttoned my blouse, exposing my skin to the cool air. The oblivion his passion promised excited me. I thrust my breasts up toward him, and he pulled down my brassiere to kiss my nipples, holding first one then the other between his teeth. I ran my fingers through his soft hair. He moaned, and I felt him, hard against my thigh, ready for more, ready for me.
    But we didn’t reach a pleasured place because that night, as Grigori always did, he suddenly stopped, turned from me, and stood, leaving me on the couch, gasping and waiting, ready.
    I felt sympathy, despite my frustration. As long as he eschewed that ultimate intimacy, as long as he continued to be ashamed to be with a woman because of his mangled body, we would never move past the awkward stage of undressing. But I didn’t know what to do or what to say. I wasn’t an experienced enough lover to know how to coax a man into relaxing. I’d lost my virginity to Timur, but we’d only been together a few times. I remained naïve in bed. One of my great-grandmother’s courtesans would have been of more use to him.
    I longed for the connection women whispered about, the desire to be one with your lover, the willingness to give up your body, especially in a time of war, when romance had been swept away and replaced with fear, when most eligible men my age were off fighting. But my shyness and his embarrassment kept us apart.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said.
    He spun around, his brown-diamond eyes flashing. “For what? I stopped because I cannot take advantage of you. Not in my father’s house, not under his roof. And not when I have a meeting to attend.” He pulled out an elaborate ruby-studded gold pocket watch. “And not when my meeting starts in fifteen minutes.”
    Grigori left my suite abruptly to collect his father and Vanya for the meeting. For a few moments, I contemplated getting into bed with a book. Far too restless, I straightened out my clothes and returned to the shop.

Chapter 4
    I sat at my workbench, prepared my tools, and listened to Monsieur, his son, and his friend Vanya descend the steps leading deep beneath the store’s basement.
    Under the marvelous Palais courtyard and fountains and gardens lay a mysterious world where no light penetrated and the only sounds were made by rats, falling rocks, or men stealing through secret spaces.
    At least that was all most people heard. Other sounds, terrible sounds, haunted me.
    All of Paris sits atop limestone and gypsum mines, known as the carrières , some of which date back as far as the thirteenth century, when the stones that built the city were first excavated. No longer worked, the mines run for miles, a long network of empty tunnels and caves. Some were appropriated for the metro, others as havens for criminal, religious, and occult groups. During the war, the underground had turned into a secret highway for spies as they maneuvered around the city undetected.
    Soldiers policed the caves, trying to protect us from enemies who might attack us from underneath, but the labyrinth was too complex for them to safeguard all of it at any one time.
    Ironically, while spies hid in some caverns, Parisians used othersas shelters during bombings. There were several beneath the Palais. The small one we used could hold approximately twenty people comfortably. Monsieur Orloff also held his Two-Headed Eagles meetings there.
    Close by the shelter, through a door and down an incline, was another cavern that Monsieur had transformed into a vault for his materials and assets. Access to both was gained through the store. Continuing on past the shelter and the vault, one came to a locked door. Through it, a series of secret tunnels eventually led to the other side of the river.
    There are no signs, no landmarks aboveground, to advertise the