bright ruby floating within, like a heart or a bloody tear.
Again, I felt the depth of vibration within it, a magnetic tingling. All jewels—all rocks, actually—have a vibration, though I have been told not everyone can feel it. As far back as I can remember, however, my game was to walk along a beach or a path and keep my eyes open for intriguing stones. I'd then pick them up and clasp them in my hand to measure the vibrational hum they held. The strong ones I kept. The "cold" ones I left behind.
Gemstones nearly always have particularly strong vibrations. A gem is not only a rock but an object of desire, and they often have a history. They've absorbed the passions, the hungers, the sorrows and joys of those who have held them. I do not speak of this in scientific circles, of course. I'd be laughed out of the company of my peers, even if many of them could identify with me on some level.
But I do feel it, and I suspect so do many people. That's why we reach, instinctively, for ancient vases or put our hands flat on an old wall. Our need to feel everything is the reason for all those signs in museums that say Please do not touch!
The Katerina practically sizzled. I lifted her and pressed her to the brow chakra, between the eyebrows, the spot of the third eye. Sometimes, doing that, I feel a hum that's quite intense. Sometimes—I know it's crazy—there will be a picture, or maybe a color associated with it.
Crazy, no?
With the Katerina, I felt the buzzing sense of motion, energy against my forehead, and a sense of darkness. Not a surprise, considering the history of the stone. Luca was right—I didn't believe in curses, but I did know that stones seemed to absorb all kinds of emotion. Greed was a particularly destructive drive, and this stone was no doubt permeated with it.
My cell phone rang. I was concentrating so closely on the stone that I startled, and for the third time, I dropped the Katerina. It was as if the jewel was leaping out of my hands.
Where did she want to go? I wondered.
The phone rang again, and I grabbed it, flipped it open. "Hello?"
As I spoke, I bent down, snared the jewel, and slipped it back into the safe hiding spot of my bra.
"Sylvie?" said a voice on the other end of the line, as clear and near as if he was standing next to me.
I went still. "Paul?"
"Yes. Where are you? I tried your hotel. They said you were not there."
It's impossible to tell you how his voice affected me. How it always affected me. I've heard the word "dulcet" all my life, but Paul is the only man I've known who really had a voice that could be described that way—honeyed and melodious. It was the pitch of a cello, and his English was thickly, charmingly accented. In my mind's eye, I saw his face, long and harshly carved, his eyes a greenish-gray that that could, by turns, be stormy or cold or vividly fierce.
With some hostility, I asked, "How did you get this number?"
"I called your grandmother. Have you not received my messages?"
"No, I haven't been able to get—"
"Where are you?" he asked again.
"In Scotland."
Luca knocked at the bedroom door. He'd obviously heard the phone ring. "Sylvie?"
I looked over my shoulder at the door, frowning. In my ear, Paul said, "I know you're in Scotland . Where?"
"I don't know that that's any of your business," I said.
At the door, Luca knocked again, both polite and insistent. "Sylvie?
"Just a minute," I said in the direction of the door. "I'm not dressed."
Paul said, "Is there someone with you?"
"Again, none of your business," I said. Through the fabric of the sweater, my shirt, my bra, I rubbed the Katerina.
Paul said, "I have never lied to you, Sylvie. Would you agree?"
His voice. God, his voice. I bent my head, pressed the phone close to my ear. Because I knew him so well, I was sure that right now, he'd be sitting down, and he might be drawing circles on a piece of paper. Circles or ovals, or jagged, electric-looking patterns, depending on his mood.
Again, I felt the depth of vibration within it, a magnetic tingling. All jewels—all rocks, actually—have a vibration, though I have been told not everyone can feel it. As far back as I can remember, however, my game was to walk along a beach or a path and keep my eyes open for intriguing stones. I'd then pick them up and clasp them in my hand to measure the vibrational hum they held. The strong ones I kept. The "cold" ones I left behind.
Gemstones nearly always have particularly strong vibrations. A gem is not only a rock but an object of desire, and they often have a history. They've absorbed the passions, the hungers, the sorrows and joys of those who have held them. I do not speak of this in scientific circles, of course. I'd be laughed out of the company of my peers, even if many of them could identify with me on some level.
But I do feel it, and I suspect so do many people. That's why we reach, instinctively, for ancient vases or put our hands flat on an old wall. Our need to feel everything is the reason for all those signs in museums that say Please do not touch!
The Katerina practically sizzled. I lifted her and pressed her to the brow chakra, between the eyebrows, the spot of the third eye. Sometimes, doing that, I feel a hum that's quite intense. Sometimes—I know it's crazy—there will be a picture, or maybe a color associated with it.
Crazy, no?
With the Katerina, I felt the buzzing sense of motion, energy against my forehead, and a sense of darkness. Not a surprise, considering the history of the stone. Luca was right—I didn't believe in curses, but I did know that stones seemed to absorb all kinds of emotion. Greed was a particularly destructive drive, and this stone was no doubt permeated with it.
My cell phone rang. I was concentrating so closely on the stone that I startled, and for the third time, I dropped the Katerina. It was as if the jewel was leaping out of my hands.
Where did she want to go? I wondered.
The phone rang again, and I grabbed it, flipped it open. "Hello?"
As I spoke, I bent down, snared the jewel, and slipped it back into the safe hiding spot of my bra.
"Sylvie?" said a voice on the other end of the line, as clear and near as if he was standing next to me.
I went still. "Paul?"
"Yes. Where are you? I tried your hotel. They said you were not there."
It's impossible to tell you how his voice affected me. How it always affected me. I've heard the word "dulcet" all my life, but Paul is the only man I've known who really had a voice that could be described that way—honeyed and melodious. It was the pitch of a cello, and his English was thickly, charmingly accented. In my mind's eye, I saw his face, long and harshly carved, his eyes a greenish-gray that that could, by turns, be stormy or cold or vividly fierce.
With some hostility, I asked, "How did you get this number?"
"I called your grandmother. Have you not received my messages?"
"No, I haven't been able to get—"
"Where are you?" he asked again.
"In Scotland."
Luca knocked at the bedroom door. He'd obviously heard the phone ring. "Sylvie?"
I looked over my shoulder at the door, frowning. In my ear, Paul said, "I know you're in Scotland . Where?"
"I don't know that that's any of your business," I said.
At the door, Luca knocked again, both polite and insistent. "Sylvie?
"Just a minute," I said in the direction of the door. "I'm not dressed."
Paul said, "Is there someone with you?"
"Again, none of your business," I said. Through the fabric of the sweater, my shirt, my bra, I rubbed the Katerina.
Paul said, "I have never lied to you, Sylvie. Would you agree?"
His voice. God, his voice. I bent my head, pressed the phone close to my ear. Because I knew him so well, I was sure that right now, he'd be sitting down, and he might be drawing circles on a piece of paper. Circles or ovals, or jagged, electric-looking patterns, depending on his mood.
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