The Master Craftsman, page 5
Nick smiled, a fleeting look of pride flashing across his face. Ava watched the smile slowly fade, and she wondered if he was thinking the same thing as her—so many wasted years hung between them. Nick opened his mouth, then closed it again, almost as though he were trying to catch the words he longed to say but couldn’t.
“Look,” Ava said. “I get it, okay? You didn’t want to be a dad. You had a life to live, and sticking around with Mom and me would have held you back. It was a choice you made.” Ava shrugged. “But here we are now, and you’re stuck in that bed while there’s one more—I don’t know—something that’s out there waiting to be found. Obviously, you can’t be the one to find it, but why can’t I?”
“It’s not that simple,” Nick answered.
“So, explain it to me!”
“Man, you look like your mom,” Nick said.
Ava crossed her arms and stared back at him pointedly.
“Even more so right now,” he murmured, a hint of laughter dancing through his eyes.
Ava pursed her lips, dropping her arms to her sides.
“Look, this sort of mission isn’t glamorous,” Nick said defensively. Ava blinked but didn’t respond. “The news articles make it sound like it is, but it’s not. And you’re never the only one seeking something. There are always others who are trying to find the same thing you’re looking for.”
“So, it’s a race, then,” Ava said.
“Kind of. I guess. But it’s a race with higher stakes, because you never really know who you’re racing against, and there aren’t really rules. It’s every man for himself.”
“I like competition.” Ava leaned forward. “So, what are we racing for, then?”
Nick took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Ava could sense his resignation.
“What do you know about the Russian Imperial family?” Nick said.
Ava leaned back. “The Romanovs?”
Nick nodded.
“Let’s see.” Ava closed her eyes and tried to remember as much as she could from her unit on Slavic history in college. “They ruled for about three hundred years. Nicholas the Second abdicated the throne in 1917 when the Russian Revolution broke out. He and his family were exiled to Siberia and were later murdered in July 1918.”
“Impressive,” Nick said.
“History major,” Ava replied with a smirk. “It doesn’t come in handy often, but every once in a while . . .”
Nick chuckled. “Alright. Well, what is one of the things that made the Russian people most loathe the Imperial family?”
Ava shrugged. “It wasn’t one thing. Nicholas Romanov was a terrible leader. He was weak-willed and intent on protecting the aristocracy at the expense of the people. He had no clue what was happening outside the palace walls. And then there was the grotesque display of wealth—”
Nick snapped his fingers and pointed at Ava. “That’s it right there!”
“What’s it?”
“The grotesque display of wealth. That was the visual representation of the Romanov family that the Russian people loathed. Do you know which items in particular were most unsettling to the people?”
Ava sat back and searched her memory for the answer. Her eyes widened. “The Fabergé eggs.” Leaning forward again, she stared at him incredulously. “You’re searching for a Fabergé egg?”
Nick nodded slowly.
“I don’t know much about the eggs,” Ava said. “Only that they never recovered all of them.”
“Right. Fabergé and his master craftsmen created fifty-two eggs between the years 1884 and 1916, but so far only forty-one of them have been found.”
“So, you’re trying to find one of the missing eggs?”
Nick shook his head. “Not exactly.”
Ava looked back at him, confused.
“I’m looking for the fifty-third egg,” he said.
“But you said there were only fifty-two.”
“Right. There were fifty-two official eggs, but Fabergé created one more that he never gave to the family, and this one was a bombshell.”
Ava stared at Nick long and hard. She pressed her hands into the bed. “I’m in,” she said.
She held his gaze without flinching. Nick drew in a deep breath, then nodded. Ava dipped her chin, then pushed to a stand. She held out her hand, her eyes still locked on his. He reached up and put his thin, frail hand in hers, and they shook.
“I’m going to go check on Mom,” Ava said, releasing his hand. Her eyes softened and her mouth turned up in the smallest of smiles.
“Bring her back in here when she’s ready.”
Ava nodded, then turned and exited the room, hands shaking at the deal she’d just struck.
Nick watched his daughter leave, then laid his head back on the pillows and studied the ceiling. His mind drifted back to the many years he’d spent traveling and digging and seeking for those lost artifacts that most people had given up on. Early on, when he met Carol, he’d thought that treasure hunting would be just a hobby—something he’d do on the side. He had every intention of settling down, but it didn’t work out like he’d hoped. Maybe settling had never really been in his blood. He supposed his genetic makeup made sitting still too difficult. And once he made the choice to leave, he committed all the way because he couldn’t see any other way. It had to be all or nothing.
He glanced at the door where Ava had retreated, and he thought about the look in her eyes when she told him she wanted to hunt. He knew that look. She had her mom in her, for sure. The pursed lips and crossed arms were all Carol. But that look? He knew it. It was a mixture of determination and stubbornness. It was a reflection of himself.
“Alright, then,” he spoke into the empty room. “My daughter and I are going to find the fifty-third egg.”
St. Petersburg, 1904
Sitting back and pushing his glasses up high on his balding head, Karl rubbed his eyes. With a yawn, he began to gather his materials, packing up for the evening. The workshop was quiet, most of his employees having long since left. It was his favorite time to work, when he was alone with the silence, and the lights were off in the room with only the lamp at his desk to illuminate his creations.
The sound of footsteps drew his eyes upward, and Karl squinted as Albert Holmström stepped from the shadows.
“Hello,” Karl said, the surprise in his voice evident. “What are you doing here so late?”
“I was upstairs finishing my own work for the evening,” Albert said with a slight bow of his head.
Karl reached over and shook the hand of his friend and longtime employee. Albert had worked in the workshop since he was a young boy, apprenticed under his father, August Holmström, and was one of the most skillful jewelers Karl had ever employed. His design of the miniature cruiser that had been the surprise inside Empress Maria’s egg in 1891 had been so breathtaking that Karl himself was mesmerized. They had named the egg that year the Memory of Azov Egg.
At that time, Tsar Alexander III and Empress Maria were thinking of their two sons, the future Tsar Nicholas II and his younger brother, George, who had been sent on a nine-month tour of southern Asia on the Russian naval vessel, the Memory of Azov. Empress Maria fretted terribly throughout the trip over her younger son. George had never been a strong child, and his health had declined with age. The hope was that the tour south would allow him time to heal and gain strength.
Likewise, Tsar Alexander was concerned about his older son’s infatuation with Mathilda Kschessinka, the seventeen-year-old nymph who danced with the Imperial Ballet. To ease the concerns of his employers, Karl carved the Memory of Azov Egg out of a single piece of bloodstone, flecked with red and blue. He then decorated the egg with golden rococo scrolls.
But while the four-inch egg was itself a remarkable piece of art, it was the surprise inside that pushed the design to an entirely new level. Karl pulled August Holmström into the design, having trusted him implicitly with the details and vision needed to create something never before seen. August managed to craft a replica of the naval cruiser made entirely of gold and platinum. He used diamonds to create the portholes, then constructed movable riggings, anchor chains, and guns using pure gold. He rested the miniature model on a plate of aquamarine, shined to perfection and looking like a small body of water. It was not the first time Karl had felt a swell of pride in the art he delivered to the tsar and his wife, but he never quite forgot the delight that he felt in delivering that particular egg.
August had died just a year earlier, and it had been Karl’s supreme honor to pass on the legacy of design and creation to his son, Albert, who shared his father’s keen eye for detail as well as his confidence to try new things.
Karl finished gathering his tools and brushing shavings off his worktable, then tucked the piece he was working on in the drawer beneath the desk, locking it with a key that hung from a ring on his belt.
“What keeps you here so late tonight?” he asked Albert.
“Well, I’ve been thinking. I wondered if I might bring my niece in to the design shop from time to time to show her the ways of our work.”
“Do you mean young Alma?”
“Yes, sir. As you know, she is attending Annenschule, and she’s very talented in design. She’s eager to learn the business as a whole.”
“Ah! I had quite forgotten that she was attending Annenschule, as I did.” Karl smiled. “Well, of course that makes me want even more to bring her here.”
Albert smiled in return. “Yes. She is enjoying her time there very much. She’s even receiving some private lessons from Eugen Jakobson.”
Karl nodded in approval as he thought of his former artist. “She will do excellently under his supervision.”
Albert nodded. “I fear the girl has been lost without her father. When she finishes school, I’d like to apprentice her here, with your permission.”
Alma’s father, Oskar, was also a talented master goldsmith like his father-in-law and brother-in-law. Oskar had married Albert’s sister, and together they’d had five children, each one artistically gifted. Oskar headed up the jewelry shop in Moscow but had died quite unexpectedly at age thirty-seven of blood poisoning after stepping on a rusty nail—a terrible tragedy that had affected everyone deeply.
“You say she has a talent for design?” Karl asked.
“Yes. I’m also told that she’s a gifted artist and has a mind that dances with creativity.”
Karl nodded. “Wonderful. I remember meeting her as a child. She was such a delight. I would be honored to have her here studying under you when the time is right. Until then, bring her in when she has some free moments and let me see her. It’s been quite some time.”
Albert bowed his head. “Thank you. I’ll see her mother this Sunday at our weekly family gathering, and I will tell her then.”
Karl nodded, then reached out and shook Albert’s hand. “Go home to your family now,” he said with a friendly wink. “You work too hard.”
Albert smiled. “Thank you, sir,” he said.
The two walked into the hallway. Karl turned and locked the door of his office, then gave Albert a nod and headed up the stairs toward the flat he shared with his wife.
Albert hurried to the coatroom and pulled his coat off the hanger, anxious to rush home and write his sister to send Alma to live with him. He felt a swelling of gratitude at his boss and friend’s generosity.
Karl Fabergé was known to be a wonderful employer. Anyone looking to find work in jewelry making and design wanted to be hired by Peter Karl Fabergé. He treated his employees fairly, and no one hoarded their creativity. It was a place where they all came to work together to create the finest pieces because they took pride in working for the Fabergé name.
Though kind, Fabergé had a high standard, and he demanded perfection from his craftsmen. Albert chuckled as he thought of the few times when Fabergé had strolled through the workshop, stopping to observe their work and offering critiques when he deemed it necessary. He was known on occasion to take a hammer and smash any piece that he didn’t find satisfactory. But even in this, his people did not fear him or grow angry.
“You can do better,” he would say when he forced them to start from scratch. “Start again and do it right.”
And so they did. No one working at the shop on Bolshaya Morskaya was willing to settle for anything less than perfection, and this is what elevated Fabergé above all the others. It was this attention to detail that made every master craftsman want to give their very best, and this is why the Imperial family held the House of Fabergé in such high esteem.
This was also why his father had placed his full trust in the master craftsman. Working for Fabergé had become a family business, and Albert had long wanted to take in his niece and properly train her in the artistry of jewelry design. She was such a natural talent, and Albert felt full confidence that she could thrive under his tutelage and inside the environment of the House of Fabergé.
Pushing out into the cool night air, Albert began to whistle a sprightly tune of contentment. He turned toward the banks of the Fontanka River to begin his walk home. The sprawling city stretched out before him, the gilded spire in the center of the Peter and Paul Fortress glinting in the distance beneath the light of the full moon. St. Petersburg was a magical place to live, colorful and grand. Albert loved when visitors came to the shop, foreigners from America and Europe who stepped delicately into the showroom, wide-eyed and breathless.
“It is like a fairy tale,” one woman had remarked earlier this week—an American who had recently married a wealthy European merchant. She had a lilt to her voice that indicated she came from a refined background, as refined as one might be, living in America.
“The buildings are so bright. I can hardly stop staring in wonder,” she’d exclaimed. He had gone on to help sell her a pair of diamond earrings as her husband, clearly a man much older than her, looked on sternly from the corner.
Albert turned the corner and walked along the water. The air was cool and crisp tonight, winter having not quite settled in. It was quiet as he strode next to the waters, which gently lapped at the stones below.
St. Petersburg had been constructed by Peter the Great. The tsar had chosen the banks of the Neva River to build a city that would be set apart from the rest of Russia. Far from the typical fortifications that comprised other big cities, Petersburg had been purposed for refined civility. It was a city meant for royalty, and Peter’s plan had succeeded.
Of course, the construction of such a city wasn’t without its pitfalls. St. Petersburg was built on the backs of serfs—a city of corpses, a fact that few liked to mention when talking about the tsar’s home. This had been his playground, and the neoclassical buildings that stretched long and wide made it a unique home for the rich and famous.
The buildings lined the riverbanks in a variety of colors from coral and pale blue to bright pink and honey brown. In the light of the moon, it seemed that the city itself glowed, as though the favor of heaven itself had been cast down on the gilt-trimmed façades. Truly, it was a delightful place to behold, though Albert supposed it was all just a mask, for beneath the watercolor exterior rumbled a less colorful truth: Petersburg was a false face on a failing body. Albert paused for a moment, standing before the Anichkov Bridge and turning to take in the row of buildings across the wide boulevard. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, a familiar sorrow pressing down upon him and threatening to force out the beauty of this peaceful moment.
For the first time, he felt a slight lifting of his spirit. Taking over his father’s place in the House of Fabergé had been a daunting task, though one he’d been trained and prepared for since his youth. His father had been a true Master of Design, his initials AH engraved into many memorable pieces of art throughout the echelons of royalty, but none more prestigious than those of the Fabergé eggs. The first time Albert had carved his own initials into a completed design, he’d felt the weight of the responsibility he bore. AH. Two small letters that carried great meaning. Albert had been determined to make his father proud, more so since August’s death.
Bringing Alma into the fold of design only made sense. Her grandfather had always been smitten with the girl, ever since she was a cherub of a child with wide, inquisitive eyes and more confidence than perhaps was healthy.
“That one has an important future, you mark my words,” August Holmström had said on more than one occasion.
Albert smiled. “Well, Papa,” he whispered into the night air. “Let’s see if you’re right.”
Present Day
Ava glanced at Carol and offered a small smile as her mom raised her fist and knocked lightly on the door.
“Come in,” Nick called from the other side of the door.
Carol pushed it open and stepped into the room, her eyes still red, but the expression on her face showing the determination that Ava had come to know well. Her mother had control of herself now, and Ava knew she wouldn’t lose it again.
“Nick—” Carol began.
Nick lifted his hand. “Carol, you don’t have to apologize,” he said. “I deserved it.”
Carol cocked her head to the side with an amused smile. “Oh, I wasn’t going to apologize,” she said. “I know you deserved it.”
Ava grinned and glanced at Nick, who looked sheepish.
“What I was going to say is that I’m glad you let us come to see you today. Maybe it was too little too late, but it was something, so . . . thank you.” She squared her shoulders.
“I’m glad you came.” He looked from Carol to Ava, and then back again. “I’m glad both of you came.”
“Yes, well,” Carol clasped her hands together in front of her waist. “Ava and I should probably be heading out now. If you need anything else from us, let us know.” Ava heard the slightest tremor in her mom’s voice.
“Oh, um, Mom?” Ava asked. “Would you mind if . . . well, I was, uh . . .” Ava paused and cleared her throat, glancing at Nick.
“I asked Ava if she would like to stay a few days,” Nick said. “You’re both welcome to stay if you’d like.”
