The Master Craftsman, page 20
“I’m afraid you’re sitting this one out, Carol. You’ll stay here with Zak and help him run tech and organize anything else he finds online.”
“Oh.” Carol’s face fell. She blinked a couple of times, then offered a thin smile. “Well, I suppose another day to recover would be nice.”
Xander clapped his hands together. “Alright then. I’ve got your outfit hanging in a bag in the closet. What say we change and meet by the elevator in twenty minutes, okay?”
Ava stood and followed him to the closet, taking the clothing bag from him.
“Can’t wait to hit the town with you, Mrs. Andrews,” he said.
“Oh, brother,” Ava said. “Is it always this way? Did Nick have to assume ridiculous characters for his hunts?”
Xander laughed. “Apparently. My dad once told me that he and Nick dressed as Italian brothers for a cave hunt in the Swiss Alps. They ran into a snag, though, when they met someone who was actually from Italy and began speaking to them in Italian. Apparently, your dad—”
“Nick. I call him Nick.”
Xander cocked his head and looked at her curiously. “Okay,” he said. “Well, apparently Nick”—he shot her a look—“came up with some cock-and-bull story about how they had moved to the United States as children and he had forgotten most of his Italian. He went on to say that his brother, my dad, was deaf and mute. They spent the rest of the day using fake sign language to communicate to one another while your dad faked an accent when he spoke.” Xander laughed. “Man,” he said with a shake of his head. “I used to love listening to Dad tell that story.”
His voice trailed off and Ava shifted uncomfortably. It was increasingly apparent to Ava that Xander had stories of Nick that she had never heard. There was more depth in the relationship between Nick and this stranger than her father and herself.
“Well, I guess I’d better go change,” she said with a forced smile.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Meet you in a bit.”
He reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder. Ava met his gaze and swallowed hard. There was something in his eyes that gave her pause—a pain that somehow mirrored her own.
Ava turned to leave, but not before she caught Zak eyeing her from across the room. She refused to make eye contact with her mom as she rushed next door and let herself in her own room.
“I’m here on a mission,” she mumbled to herself as she crossed the hall, repeating the mantra she’d started earlier that morning. “No way am I falling for some guy named Xander Majors.”
St. Petersburg, 1913
Alma pushed back from the table and brushed the hair off her forehead. That one curl was forever coming loose from the pins that she used in an attempt to secure it back away from her face, the way that the dignified women did. Of course, she wasn’t one to call herself dignified.
“Alma?”
She turned and stood. “Uncle Albert! How are you today?”
He leaned down and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Very well, my dear,” he said. Standing up, he smoothed out his coat, the dark fabric of his black suit jacket snug around his rounded stomach. “How is Nicholas?”
Alma smiled, her cheeks growing warm at the mention of her husband. They’d been married for nearly a year, but she still found herself giggling like a girl whenever she heard his name. She couldn’t believe he was hers.
“Very well,” she said. “Working hard as always.”
Albert nodded like a father satisfied with his child’s progress. “I’m happy to hear it.”
Albert adored Alma, and she knew it. When her own father had passed away so young, Albert had been quick to come to their side, rushing to Moscow to be with her and her mother as they grieved. Albert took her under his wing that day, and he had looked after her ever since, making sure she was educated, bringing her to the House of Fabergé, and nurturing her talents every step of the way. It was Uncle Albert who was first to see her artistic ability, and he was the one who told her mother she would be better suited to train as an artist than as a homemaker.
And when Nicholas asked for her hand in marriage, Albert made him promise to never squelch her talent.
“She’ll be a better wife when she’s creating,” he told Nicholas. “You remember that.”
Still, Alma had wanted to be a traditional wife, and she tried those first few months after the wedding. It was late at night on their third month as husband and wife when Nicholas had crawled into bed next to her, so handsome in his undershirt and shorts, his face smelling earthy and clean. He snuggled close to her, tickling her neck with his prickly mustache until she giggled and pulled away. He kissed her, then pulled back and looked her in the eyes.
“You need to go back to work,” he said.
She stared back at him with eyebrows raised. “Oh, really? And why is that, Mr. Klee?”
“Because, Mrs. Klee,” he said with a devilish grin. He kissed her again. “You’re better in the design room than you are in the kitchen.”
Alma wanted to be angry with him, and she should feel insulted, but he was right. She was a miserable cook, and keeping their apartment neat and tidy brought her little satisfaction. She loved the thrill of design, the act of placing pencil to paper and bringing an image to life. After a long day sitting at her desk, she went home more energized than she’d ever felt during those months waiting for Nicholas to return from his job.
“What are you thinking, my dear?” Albert asked.
Alma cleared her throat and shook her head, chastising herself for slipping away again and not focusing on the conversation at hand. It was a flaw of hers, the constant wandering of the imagination. “Just a memory.”
Albert studied her. “We would all do well to fall into the memories that make us smile more often than the ones that make us frown.” He gave her a playful tap on the nose, then looked over her shoulder at the pad of paper on the desk. “Did you draw these?”
“Oh, yes.” Alma reached down and picked up her drawing pad, handing it to him.
“These are stunning.” Albert studied the pencil drawings closely, each stroke woven so perfectly into the next. “Where did you get this inspiration?”
Alma jutted her chin toward the small window beside her desk. Albert turned to looked at the icy crystals that had formed outside the window, cutting a pattern from one corner to the next, an intricate web of winter.
“Very interesting,” he murmured.
Alma blushed. “I’ve had little to do these last few days, and I noticed the ice crystals on the window. They looked so delicate and dainty. I wondered what they would look like as earrings.”
Albert smiled down at her. “You know, you’ve always had a magic eye for detail. Your father noticed it when you were very young.”
“He did?” Alma’s eyes lit up. She loved to hear stories of her beloved papa.
“Indeed,” Albert nodded. “He used to write to me all about your drawings and imagination. He was quite taken with you.”
Alma blinked up at him with eager, shining eyes. “I miss him every day,” she said softly.
“As do I, my dear.”
Albert studied the drawings she had made for a few moments, running his rough thumb over the elaborate designs. “May I borrow your sketch pad?”
“Yes, of course!”
“Good girl, I’ll soon return with it.” He leaned in and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then turned and left.
Alma watched him walk away, her brow furrowed as she wondered what he was up to.
Ducking out of the room, Albert quickly descended the stairs to Fabergé’s office. The boss had grown increasingly agitated lately. Albert believed it was a series of events frustrating the head of their shop: tensions at home, the pressures of his job, the demands that came with operating several branches remotely, and of course, what Albert suspected caused him the most consternation, the sensitive matter of his mistress marrying another man a few months ago.
It wasn’t information that he wanted to know, or perhaps even should have known. But the high society circles were small, and gossip ran rampant, which was why Albert knew that the woman Karl Fabergé took with him on trips as his “assistant” had finally, officially, moved to Russia. Albert suspected she had wanted to come for some time, and that she’d wanted Karl to be the one to marry her. It was the only way she could gain citizenship, after all. Karl, however, flawed as he was, was still a family man, and he would never do that to his wife and sons. Still, Karl was quite bothered by her marriage.
Albert found the whole affair in bad taste, personally. Amalia had married seventy-five-year-old Georgian prince Karamon Tsitsiasov, quite hastily, taking his title and his money but, Albert heard, leaving him the day after the wedding. She’d gotten what she wanted: the title of princess and Russian citizenship. It was all difficult to stomach. Why his employer continued to harbor any feelings for that woman was a mystery to all. Though Albert had not met her, he’d heard stories of her arrogance and demeanor. She was beautiful, yes. But her beauty ended on the surface of her skin.
Augusta, on the other hand, did not possess a physical beauty, though she wasn’t terribly homely. But her care for others, the nurturing nature of her personality, the way she loved and doted on her sons and, likewise, cared for the employees inside the House of Fabergé—these made her more beautiful than any fake princess Albert could imagine. For all of his boss’s many wonderful qualities, his decision to be with Amalia was a character stain that was difficult to ignore.
Still, Albert loved Karl Fabergé just as his father before had loved him. And as he approached his office with Alma’s sketches clutched in hand, he felt that familiar rush of excitement he always got when he knew he was about to please the master craftsman. He raised his fist and knocked gently.
“Come in,” came the reply.
Albert pushed open the door and stepped inside. It was cold today, and Karl sat behind his desk with a blanket over his shoulders, hunched over a stack of drawings with a magnifying glass in hand, studying each one with his expert eye. A forgotten mug of chai sat beside him, as did a plate of black bread. Albert knew that Karl would be in a genial mood when he was this intent on working and studying the drawings of his creators.
“Ah, Albert my friend,” Karl said glancing up. “Forgive me for not standing. It’s too cold and my knees hurt terribly. Augusta says I should stand and walk, but it’s more comfortable to stay sitting.”
“Your wife may be correct, though.”
“Yes, I suppose.” Karl set down his magnifying glass. “She often is.” He looked up at Albert, who shifted from one foot to the other. “What can I do for you? I trust everything upstairs is running smoothly today?”
“Yes, there are no issues. But I’ve come to show you some drawings and see what you think we should do with them.”
He set the drawing pad on the table in front of Karl, who leaned over them and looked carefully.
“These are stunning,” he said, glancing up. “Who drew them?”
Albert cleared his throat. “Well, young Alma did.”
Karl leaned back over the drawings. “Of course she did,” he said with an affectionate smile. “She is so skilled. Look at the way the shadows move to give the image a quality of realness. It’s as though they are laying on top of the paper and could be plucked up and whisked away.”
Alma had drawn a series of snowflakes and icicles, all so expertly sketched that they almost looked like they were melting. She had drawn them in patterns so that they could be designed into earrings or brooches, and beneath each sketch she’d written specifications for what materials to use to bring the drawings to life, namely diamonds.
“Do you know who Emanuel Nobel is, Albert?”
“Yes, sir. The nephew of the man who invented dynamite, correct?”
“Indeed.” Karl handed the sketch pad back to Albert. “He’s incredibly wealthy in his own right, of course. I’ve just gotten off the phone with him a few hours ago. He’s placed an order—a rather pretentious order, if you ask me, but I suppose most such orders could be classified as such—for forty pieces that he can use as gifts. He and I settled on brooches. Those will be the most cost effective. He wants his pieces to be, in his own words, ‘of a value so low that cannot be understood as bribes.’”
“What does that mean?” Albert asked.
“He wants to buy his way into high society without looking like he’s buying his way into high society,” Fabergé replied wryly. “I think Alma’s design will suit this occasion perfectly. It’s different and unique and will end up in the hands of the elite, which will ensure more orders and requests for her unique style. Tell her we’re putting in the order now for forty of her icicle brooches.”
Albert gave a slight bow. “She will be delighted.”
Karl smiled. “I’d go up and tell her myself, but I’m afraid I’m just too stiff today to make it up the stairs.”
“Of course. It’s not a problem. I’ll go tell her now.” Albert turned to leave, then paused and turned back. “Oh, and sir? I would listen to your wife about getting up and moving around. She’s a smart woman, and she cares about you.”
Karl’s eyes softened. He gave Albert a nod.
Albert bowed slightly in return, then turned and slipped through the door and maneuvered across the hall to the stairs. He quickly wove his way back to Alma’s desk in the corner. He paused for a moment as he approached her. She’d pulled out another sheet of paper and was bent over, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, as her hand moved in the smallest of strokes over the page. What a gem of a young woman she had turned out to be. Albert felt the familiar pang of sadness wash over him as he thought of his dear brother who had loved his little girl so dearly. What pride he would have in seeing her now. Albert smiled at the drawings in his hand.
Few people would have stopped to study something so simple and unassuming as the ice forming on a windowpane, but of course Alma was not few people. She was the girl with a magic eye for detail. She saw the patterns most everyone else missed. Albert’s brother had written him of Alma’s talent when she was a young child. He still remembered one of the descriptions perfectly.
“Yesterday, she held a leaf up to the sun and commented on the veins inside the greenery. Before I knew it, she had taken a pencil and drawn a pattern on the page that exactly mirrored the leafy pattern, only she’d drawn the veins alone. It was a haunting, beautiful drawing by a seven-year-old. Dear brother, I must admit I’m quite taken with her gift.”
“Well, brother,” Albert murmured into the void of the stairwell. “Your girl is making quite the name for herself inside the House of Fabergé.”
He entered the artist’s room and walked the final steps to her desk, tossing the notebook down on the table in front of her. She jumped and looked up at him, then broke into a wide grin and let out a laugh.
“You scared me!”
“You work too hard,” Albert replied.
Alma shrugged. She pulled her sketchbook toward her. “Where did you go?”
“Well”—Albert leaned forward, his broad hands resting on the desk, and looked in her eyes—“I’ve just been with Fabergé. He’s ordered your design be made into forty brooches to be sent to Emanuel Nobel.”
Alma’s eyes widened. She pushed back in her chair and stood up, throwing herself into Albert’s arms.
“Thank you, Uncle Albert!” she exclaimed. “Is it true?” She pulled back and stood before him. “My design will be made?” Her face lit up and she bounced from foot to foot like a child.
“I’m afraid it’s true, my dear,” he replied. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “I am very proud of you.”
“Who is Emanuel Nobel?”
“It’s of no real importance,” Albert said with a wave of his hand. “He’s wealthy, and he wants jewelry, and you’re going to give it to him. So, you’d better get to work because you’re going to be busy. You need to finish writing the specifications and materials list, and you need to get this over to the jewelry maker to begin building them. There’s no time to waste.”
“Yes! Yes!” She clapped her hands and turned back to her desk. The light from the window streamed in, illuminating her face. She looked angelic and as happy as Albert had ever seen a person.
He leaned forward and spoke in her ear. “This is only the beginning, my dear. It starts with brooches, but your path is only just now being laid out. Soon, you will be the one designing the royal Easter eggs.”
Alma sank back into her chair and studied her design carefully. She felt her cheeks grow warm at the thought of being the one in charge of this order. “Imagine,” she murmured. “Me—a woman—a master craftsman in the House of Fabergé.”
“Imagine that, indeed,” Albert replied.
Present Day
Ava?”
“I’m in the bathroom, Mom!” Ava adjusted her top and stared at herself again in the mirror, not sure what to think about her reflection. Today’s disguise included a red-haired wig that had been cut into a trendy bob with bangs that hung to her eyebrows. The auburn strands framed her small face, and she turned her head from side to side.
Her outfit was even more puzzling. She wore black moto leggings with a crop top, and a long, oversized sweater over top. She looked like a college girl who was trying too hard to convince people she was fashionable.
“Can I come in?” Carol asked, knocking on the bathroom door.
Ava reached over and pulled it open, turning to her mom.
“Oh!” Carol stepped back and took in the sight of her daughter. “Well, this is . . . interesting.”
Ava made a face and turned back to the mirror. “This is weird.”
Carol smiled. “Actually, I think you look stunning with red hair.”
“You have to say that because you’re my mom.”
“It’s true. I am contractually bound to give you compliments, whether they’re accurate or not,” Carol replied. “I’m serious, though. You look lovely as a redhead. But you need a little more makeup so you don’t look so washed out.”
