The Secret Language of Stones Read Free Page B

Soldiers required timepieces they could count on to be efficient and sturdy enough to withstand the rigors of combat.
    Monsieur Orloff taught me how to execute the open crosshatched grates that fit over the watch crystal through which the soldiers could read the hour and the minute. While I worked, I liked to think I projected time for them. But the thought did little to lift my spirits.It was their lives that needed protecting. France had lost so many, and still the war dragged on. So as I fused the cages, I attempted to imbue the metal with an armor of protective magick. Something helpful to do with my inheritance. Something I should have known how to do. After all, I am one of the Daughters of La Lune.
    But as I discovered, the magick seemed to only make its way into the lockets I designed for the wives and mothers, sisters and lovers of soldiers already killed in battle. The very word “locket” contains everything one needs to know about my pieces. It stems from old French “ loquet ,” which means “miniature lock.” Since the 1670s, “locket” has been used to describe a keepsake charm or brooch with a personal memento, such as a portrait or a curl of hair, sealed inside, sometimes concealed by a false front.
    My lockets always contained secrets. They were made of crystal, engraved with phrases and numbers, and filled with objects that had once belonged to the deceased soldiers. Encased in gold, these talismans hung on chains or leather. Of all the work I did, I found that it wasn’t the watches but the solace my lockets gave that proved to be my greatest gift to the war effort.

Chapter 2
    â€œYes, I’m Opaline Duplessi,” I said to the woman who’d stepped into the workshop. “Can I help you?”
    â€œI hope so. I was told you are able to—” She broke off. “It’s about my son—” She couldn’t finish.
    The desperation in her voice told me everything. This tall woman with dark curls framing her pale face, with almost night-sky navy eyes, with her lovely lips trembling just a fraction, was shopping for solace.
    My stomach clenched. No matter how often women called upon me to help, no matter how many lockets—or “speaking talismans,” as I called them—I made, each time I took on a new assignment I felt as if I were being cut and bleeding afresh. The pain never lessened, and I never became inured to it.
    â€œMy name is Denise Alouette and I have a son—” She shook her head. The curls fell, hiding her high cheekbones. “I had a son . . . who . . .” Her voice reduced to only a whisper, she couldn’t finish.
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    She quickly lowered her head, but not before I saw the single diamond tear.
    â€œMy only son.”
    There was nothing I could say.
    She took a moment to compose herself. “I’ve heard about you,” Madame Alouette continued, finally raising her face. “About what you do. At first I thought surely you must be a fake and make it all up. There are so many charlatans in Paris now, the police are finally cracking down.”
    I knew all about the ancient French laws that were once again being enforced forbidding talking to the dead and reading fortunes. Monsieur Orloff warned me and his wife almost daily. With his strong Russian accent, the caution carried gravitas.
    Madame Alouette fussed with her reticule. Taking out a lavender-­colored tin, she opened it and offered me one of the deep purple sugarcoated violets and then took one for herself. In a moment, the candy’s sweet scent suffused the air.
    â€œA friend of mine told me about the message you passed on to her from her son. She seemed better afterward . . . almost at peace. So I’ve decided it might be worth a try.”
    I’d heard a version of this same speech many times before. Women who visited me at the shop were usually both skeptical and