The Master Craftsman, page 14
“The date plates on the eggs still read 1904,” Albert replied.
Karl shrugged. “There’s nothing to be done about that. There is no time to change it without damaging the eggs.”
Albert offered a brief nod. “I’ll leave you alone, then. Try to get some rest. You look exhausted.”
Karl nodded in return. “I’ll be alright.”
Albert turned and walked out, quickly ascending the curved staircase and leaving Karl alone once again.
Leaning back, Karl closed his eyes and thought about his secret egg once more. He’d spent the better part of the last few nights working on the secluded place for the egg. Hiding it beneath the floor wasn’t ideal, but he’d devised a plan that he felt would preserve the integrity of the precious egg while also keeping it from prying, curious eyes. Using a similar spring mechanism that they’d employed in the Swan Egg that would now be given to Empress Maria, Karl figured out how to silently slide the floorboard back and forth so that when closed and latched, it was nearly impossible to detect the difference in the boards.
In the floor, Karl had set an airtight box. Using the same insulation that they used inside the safe to preserve the air temperature, he’d nestled the metal box as deeply as he was able to reach, hiding it beneath the shadows, then sliding the floorboard back into place. The irony of it all was that the secret egg was now buried directly beneath the feet of the men who stood in the gallery and answered questions of interested customers.
Karl felt heavy beneath the weight of being the only one who knew of this egg. It consumed his thoughts day and night. On more than one occasion, he considered telling someone about it, maybe one of his boys or Augusta, but he could never quite bring himself to speak of it out loud. Mostly, he wrestled with what to do with the egg. A few months earlier, he’d nearly convinced himself to give it to the tsar himself. It would be a message of sorts, perhaps even a rebellion. But ultimately, Karl knew he couldn’t sacrifice this work of art to the hands of Nicholas Romanov. The moment he’d made the decision, the image of the crumpled boy lying lifeless at the base of the tree on Nevsky Prospekt flooded his mind, and he knew this creation wasn’t meant for the royal family—it was meant for Russia.
He needed to preserve it for the people—not the rich and famous who kept him in business, but the poor and the common—the ones who could never afford the pieces in his shop, but who somehow helped revere his name despite their disdain for all that his creations meant for their country. But for this very reason, Karl knew this egg could destroy him. The stakes grew higher as tensions in the country bubbled. If he revealed this secret creation, and the hidden surprises inside, he could very well be accused of inciting violence. His connection to the royal family already set him apart from the common people in his country. This secret would set him apart from everyone.
Karl stood and walked to the window, peering out at the quiet street. He was solemn these days. Gone were his longings for excitement and glamour. Now, all he longed for was peace and safety. He missed Amalia, and he missed his wife. He missed raising young children and the thrill of building an empire. He missed it all, but really, he didn’t want that life anymore. Now, he only longed for predictability, and life in Russia felt anything but predictable.
Somehow, his secret creation felt like a rebellion. It felt like he was grasping at the younger man he used to be, giving him back a measure of control that had been lost somewhere along the timeline of his life. So he took his time with the secret that plagued him, knowing that there would be a day when he could reveal it to the public. And fearing that that day would come at the cost of his life.
“I am a man at war,” he muttered to himself. With a sigh, he turned back to his desk and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. It was time to make his rounds in the workshop.
Present Day
Ava stepped over the threshold of the building and took in the sights and sounds. She blinked the fatigue from her eyes. Carol put her arm around Ava’s shoulders.
“So, this is Russia.” Ava looked up at her mom, eyes shining. “I can’t believe we’re here.”
“I can’t believe it either,” Carol murmured.
Ava closed her eyes for a brief second to capture the image of the city she’d seen an hour before as their plane descended through the clouds. In the distance, she had seen the city’s grid-like layout, the rows of buildings all joined together on the banks of the Neva and Fontanka rivers. From the vantage point of the birds, she caught a glimpse of the bright colors that gave St. Petersburg its fairy-tale quality. She’d clutched in her hands the book that she purchased at a used bookstore just before they left a few days earlier. It was a book of translated poems by Alexander Pushkin, one of Russia’s literary heroes and a Petersburg man. As they’d made their descent, she read one of Pushkin’s most famous stanzas from his poem “The Bronze Horseman: A Petersburg Story.”
I love thee, work of Peter’s hand!
I love thy stern, symmetric form;
The Neva’s calm and queenly flow
Betwixt her quays of granite-stone.
Ava opened her eyes and blinked, staring up at the sky. It was one of those hazy gray days—the kind that makes you think that the sun wants to push its way through the clouds but just doesn’t quite have the strength.
Cars and buses wove in and out on the street before them, men and women dressed in stylish business attire, walking assuredly from the airport to their waiting transportation. Ava pulled the scarf up around her chin to try and stave off the chill as she took it all in, her heart thumping beneath her layers of clothes.
“It’s really cold here, isn’t it?” Carol asked with a shiver.
Zak stepped up beside the two women, his neck pillow atop his shoulders. He looked around at the bustling street outside the airport, and he drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly.
“It smells different than I expected,” he said.
Carol and Ava turned to him, Carol’s mouth turned up in an amused smile. Ava knew her mother had grown fond of Zak’s quirky manner. They’d spent hours talking on the plane.
“You expected a smell?” Ava asked.
“Well, sure,” Zak said. “Every country has a smell.”
“Um . . . what?” Ava asked.
“Yes,” Zak continued. “India smells like curry and heat. London smells like baked bread and expectation.”
“Heat? Expectation?” Ava gaped at him.
Zak nodded as though what he said was obvious and sensible. “America smells like sugar and potential. And this place smells like . . .” He paused and sniffed the air. “Well, it smells like beets and survival.”
“That’s very . . . astute of you, Zak.” Carol pinched Ava’s arm.
“Oh, um . . . yeah. Good observation,” Ava said with a nod.
Zak smiled and adjusted his neck pillow. “Thank you. And might I add this morning, Ava, that you look quite ravishing despite our long hours of travel.”
Carol tried to cover her laugh as Ava stuttered out a quick thank-you to Zak. The three turned to the right, walked away from the doors, and down the sidewalk outside the bustling airport. They stopped again and looked around.
“Nick said that Xander would already be here and would take us to our place. I want to grab a hot shower and some coffee, then I want to get to work.” Ava pulled her phone from her bag and glanced over their itinerary again. They would spend their first day touring the city and formulating their plans to retrace Fabergé’s steps.
On their last day of preparations before leaving, Nick had told Ava that she was to visit St. Petersburg under the guise of a writer who was looking to write up a new book on the House of Fabergé.
“Don’t let anybody know why you’re really there,” Nick said. “They’ll be wary enough of you as it is, coming in as an American writer. If they suspect you’re fishing for information for anything other than writing a book, it could get dicey.”
“Dicey how?” Carol asked. Nick had just shrugged his shoulders in response.
“Do we know what this Xander fellow looks like?” Zak asked, scanning the crowd.
Ava shook her head. “All I know is that he’s British, and he’s meant to be our ‘muscle.’”
Zak cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, attempting to stretch out his height. “Oh, right. The muscle.”
“Ava? Carol?”
The three turned toward the honeyed voice that called out their names. A man walked toward them, tall and confident, his broad chest obvious even beneath the puffer jacket he wore. His blue jeans clung to thick thighs, and he wore a skullcap, which only highlighted the sharp features of his face, his dark eyes, strong jaw, and stubbled chin.
“Oh my gosh, you have got to be kidding me,” Ava muttered as he walked toward them.
“Easy,” Carol murmured.
“That guy looks like he stepped out of an Abercrombie and Fitch ad,” Ava hissed.
The man stepped up to them and smiled, a single dimple appearing on his right cheek, and held his hand out to Ava.
“I’m Xander Majors,” he said, his British accent as perfect and lilting as Colin Firth’s.
“Of course you are,” Ava said, placing her hand in his and trying not to blush.
Carol reached over and shook Xander’s hand next. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Xander. We’ve heard wonderful things about you and your father from Nick. I’m Carol.”
“Yes,” Xander replied with a smile. “And I’ve heard equally lovely things about the pair of you.” He turned to Zak and held out his hand. “Hello, mate,” he said.
Zak gripped his hand and stood as tall as he could, his head only reaching as far as Xander’s chin. “Yes, and hello to you.”
Xander eyed Carol’s and Ava’s bags and held out his hands. “May I carry those for you?”
“Of course.” Carol handed him her bag.
“I’m good,” Ava answered, chin held high.
Xander nodded. “Right. Well, follow me. I’ve got the car waiting for us.”
They walked several paces down the sidewalk, and Ava watched as just about every single person they passed did a double take when they saw Xander. She shook her head in frustration.
“What is the problem?” Carol whispered in Ava’s ear.
Ava turned to her mom and rolled her eyes. “I feel like this is some kind of elaborate prank. How are we supposed to be inconspicuous walking around with someone like him?”
“What are we discussing, ladies?” Zak asked, jogging alongside Carol and Ava, his backpack bouncing on his back as the wheels of his roller bag tapped out a frenetic rhythm behind him.
“Nothing, Zak.” Ava glanced at her mom and saw the look in Carol’s eyes. It was a look she’d grown accustomed to through the years—the look that said she’d better shape up if she wanted Carol to back off. Ava clamped her mouth shut and sped up her pace behind Xander.
Several minutes later, they approached a black car. Xander tapped the trunk, which popped open, and they all set their bags in the back, then walked around and slid into the back seat of the car. Xander sat in the front seat next to the driver.
“This is Anatoly,” he said, looking at them over his shoulder. “He’ll be taking us from place to place this week.”
“Oh!” Ava smiled. “Um . . . privyet, Anatoly. Nick told us a lot about you. He said there wasn’t any Russian that he trusted more.”
Anatoly nodded from behind the wheel. “Hello.” He sat back against the front seat, broad-shouldered and thick, his dark hair thinning in a round patch on the back of his head. He looked at them in the rearview mirror, heavy-lidded eyes over a pockmarked face, cheeks that looked swollen, like he’d spent too much time drinking for too many years. He had a bulbous nose, thick and round. His dark suit stretched tight across his back, and his fat fingers wrapped around the steering wheel.
Ava stared at him curiously for a long moment before shifting her eyes away. Though Nick hadn’t described Anatoly to them in detail, he didn’t look like the image she had conjured up in her mind of Nick’s trusted Russian comrade.
“Right,” Xander said. “Why don’t we head back to the hotel and let them get freshened up.” He glanced down at his watch. “It’s nine thirty now,” he said, turning around to look at Ava. “Would you like to have some breakfast before we go to the hotel?”
“Is there food at the hotel?” Ava asked.
Anatoly shook his head. “No food left in hotel,” he answered in a thick, Russian accent. “Breakfast is finished.”
“Oh,” Ava said. “Well, I guess if there’s someplace we can run into quickly, that would be good.”
Xander nodded. “Of course. We’ll stop at the supermarket and let you get a few items that you can eat on the go, then we will go to the hotel.”
“Okay,” Ava answered. She turned and looked out the window, watching as they maneuvered their way from the airport and onto the road. Cars were everywhere, the lines in which they drove less structured than in America. Horns honked endlessly as vehicles weaved in and out. Carol gripped her handbag in her lap while Zak sat next to her smiling at nothing.
“Is this what it’s like driving in India?” Carol asked Zak.
“Oh, heavens, no,” Zak said. “This isn’t nearly as chaotic.”
Ava soaked it all in, the sights and sounds. Her heart thumped with excitement, and her mind raced as she thought of all she needed to accomplish. Her number one priority was discovering why Peter Karl Fabergé would have created a secret egg and hidden it. She’d read countless materials in the past week, looking for any clues that would tell her more about this egg and where it could be now, but she’d come up empty every time. All she had was Alma’s poem and Nick’s hunch.
After a quick but interesting stop at the local supermarket, Anatoly took them to their hotel in the heart of St. Petersburg. Before they turned into the front courtyard, Xander turned in his seat and faced them.
“Grab that bag down there by your feet, please,” he said.
Ava pulled a large bag up and handed it to him. Xander opened it and reached inside.
“Put these on,” he said. He handed Ava a black hat and a pair of oversized sunglasses. He gave Carol a scarf as well as sunglasses. Finally, he pulled out a fedora for Zak and handed it to him, along with a large scarf.
“Cover your faces as much as possible. When we get inside, I’ll trail behind you a few paces. I’ve already checked you in. Go straight to the elevators and take them to the fifth floor. Don’t look at anyone or make eye contact. We want to keep you as hidden as possible.”
Ava looked at her mom with wide eyes, pulling the hat onto her head and putting the sunglasses on. “I can hardly see through these things!”
“You’ll manage,” Xander replied, the smile evident in his voice. He turned to Anatoly and offered a few instructions in Russian. Anatoly nodded and turned into the courtyard, stopping in front of one of the side doors rather than right in front.
“Nick put you all up in one of the best hotels in the city,” Xander said, glancing back at them over his shoulder.
Ava squinted through her glasses at the State Hermitage Museum Official Hotel and drew in a deep breath. The pale yellow exterior was lined with grand, white columns. Anatoly pulled the car to a stop and put it in park.
“You all get out here and walk through the lobby like you’ve been here before and you own the place,” Xander said. “Here are your room keys. When you get to the fifth floor, go straight to your rooms and wait for me to get there. I’ll bring your bags up.”
Ava and Carol nodded. Zak fumbled with his fedora, then wound the scarf around his neck so that it covered the bottom half of his face. The three pushed open the doors and stepped into the frigid air. Ava squared her shoulders and blinked a few times, wishing she could better see the hotel without the barrier of the sunglasses. She walked briskly into the lobby, Carol and Zak on her heels, and took in the opulent interior. High ceilings and an arched entryway showcased a marbled staircase that curved upward. Yellow and gold accents marked the furniture, the details in the ceilings and walls lined in gilt. Ava’s mouth fell open as she peered at the dimmed grandeur through the dark lenses of her glasses.
“Well, this beats the Holiday Inn, now, doesn’t it?” Carol murmured, stepping up beside Ava.
“I have never seen anything like this,” Ava breathed.
“Right then, ladies.” Zak walked up next to them. He kept his eyes trained forward and jutted his chin out. “There are the elevators. Shall we?”
The three walked confidently to the elevators and pushed the button. As they waited, they heard the click-clack of a woman’s heels coming toward them.
“Izvinite pozhaluysta, a vy kuda?”
Ava and Carol froze. Zak turned to the woman and offered a broad smile. “I’m so sorry,” he answered. “But we do not speak Russian.”
“Oh, of course. Please excuse me,” the woman said. She wore a crisp uniform, her blond hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. “I was curious to know if you were guests at this hotel?” Her thick Russian accent made her words sound exotic and terrifying all at once.
Ava turned and gave her a tight-lipped smile.
“Oh, yes. Of course!” Zak held up his room key and grinned. “We checked in late last night. We just enjoyed our first walk in the city this morning. It is quite lovely here. It’s our first time to St. Petersburg.”
The elevator dinged and the door opened.
The woman nodded, offering a perfect smile in return. “Yes,” she said with a nod of her head. “It is a wonderful city. If you need any suggestions on things to do, please come visit me.” She gestured toward her desk across the lobby. She then reached into the elevator and held the door for them as they stepped inside.
“Spasibo,” Ava said softly.
“You are very welcome here at the State Hermitage Museum Hotel,” the woman said. “Thank you for choosing to stay with us.” She stepped back and let the door close between them.
