The Secret Language of Stones by M. J. Rose Page A

his frustration. He wanted to prove to me that he was real. Or as real as a dead man might be.
    Suddenly I felt a bit of warm wind in the shelter, almost as if someone had opened the door, but it remained shut. Then a lock of hair blew off my forehead. I quickly reached my hand out, as hopeful as I was terrified I might feel his fingers.
    You felt that, didn’t you?
    My shoulders started to shake. Inside of my chest I felt the wings of the trapped bird fluttering to be let out. My fear. I didn’t want to feel it. I closed my eyes. The wind brushed against my cheek.
    I’m here. At least right now, I’m here. You believe me, don’t you?
    The very last thing I wanted to say was that I did. For surely it would be proof of only one thing: my madness.
    Do you believe me? Haven’t I proved I’m here?
    â€œAre you here all the time?” My voice sounded like a child’s.
    No.
    â€œAnd you don’t know where you are the rest of the time?”
    No. I don’t know.
    I shivered; his voice was heartbreaking. The wind slowed to a breeze and then the breeze was gone. All was still. I shivered again. The room temperature had dropped, and I knew Jean Luc was gone.
    If he really had been there at all.
    The door opened, and Grigori stepped inside the shelter.
    â€œI heard you talking . . .” He looked around. “But it appears you are alone.”
    I gestured to the room and tried to act as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. “You can see for yourself. No one’s here.”
    â€œYes, but I thought I heard you talking.”
    â€œOnly to myself.” I smiled, trying to make light of his question. I didn’t want to start a conversation with Grigori about my talents. Just like his stepmother’s gypsy readings, my ability to relay messages from the departed disturbed him. Russia, he’d told me, possessed a long history of mystics who attempted to control people with their powers. Like Rasputin, he said with disdain, as he blamed the self-proclaimed holy manfor much of Russia’s misfortune.
    â€œYou’re too young to be talking to yourself.”
    â€œIt’s an occupational hazard of working so many hours alone,” I said.
    â€œSpending too much time by yourself is unwise. It can lead to troubling, even frightening thoughts, especially in a place like this dungeon.” He shook his head as if trying to dislodge a thought. Or memory. “I saw what the trenches could do to a soldier. Confinement is a harsh punisher.”
    Noticing my abandoned effort at making tea, he took up where I’d left off. “And why are you down here alone? Where are my father and Anna?”
    â€œBoth out. I thought you’d be down sooner, though. What kept you?”
    â€œSeeing a customer.”
    I smelled kerosene.
    â€œI insisted we take shelter, but he was adamant to get back home. I went with him as far as the gate where his car waited. Stupid of me, but he couldn’t carry his purchases himself.”
    â€œCouldn’t he return for them?”
    â€œIt was his wife’s birthday and he wanted to take them home.”
    â€œWhat did he buy?” I asked, happy to move the conversation away from myself. I didn’t want to think about the voice, but the charm was still warm in my hand.
    â€œTwo small end tables inlaid with porcelain.”
    I nodded, picturing the delicate tables in Grigori’s store. His eye for antiques was as fine as his father’s for jewels.
    â€œI’m sorry to see them go, but he didn’t even haggle on the price,” he said, as he poured the water. While he waited for the tea to steep, he looked over at me. His dark brown eyes were unreadable but penetrating. Although he seemed to be able to see through me, I couldn’t even guess what he was thinking.
    After Grigori had been wounded and was on his way back home from the front, Anna warned me her stepson was prone to moodiness