The Firebird - Brossura

Kearsley, Susanna

Brossura

ISBN 10: 1451673825 ISBN 13: 9781451673821

Casa editrice: Touchstone, 2013

Riassunto

Whoever dares to seek the firebird may find the journey—and its ending— unexpected.

Nicola Marter was born with a gift. When she touches an object, she sometimes sees images, glimpses of those who have owned it before. It’s never been a gift she wants, and she keeps it a secret from most people, including her practical boss Sebastian, one of London’s premier dealers in Russian art.

But when a woman offers Sebastian a small wooden carving for sale, claiming it belonged to Russia’s Empress Catherine, it’s a problem. There’s no proof. Sebastian believes that the plain carving—known as “The Firebird”—is worthless. But Nicola has held it, and she knows the woman is telling the truth and is in desperate need of the money the sale of the heirloom could bring.

Compelled to help, Nicola turns to a man she once left and still loves: Rob McMorran, whose own psychic gifts are far greater than hers. With Rob to help her “see” the past, she follows a young girl named Anna from Scotland to Belgium and on into Russia. There, in St. Petersburg—the once-glittering capital of Peter the Great’s Russia—Nicola and Rob unearth a tale of love and sacrifice, of courage and redemption . . . an old story that seems personal and small, perhaps, against the greater backdrops of the Jacobite and Russian courts, but one that will forever change their lives.

Su questo libro

L'autore:

As a former museum curator, Susanna Kearsley brings her own passion for research and travel to her novels, weaving modern-day and historical intrigue. She won the prestigious Catherine Cookson Fiction Award for her novel Mariana, the 2010 Romantic Times Book Reviews Reviewer's Choice Award for Best Historical Fiction novel for The Winter Sea, was shortlisted for a 2012 RITA Award for The Rose Garden, and was a finalist for the Arthur Ellis Award for Best Novel from the Canadian Crime Writer’s Association for Every Secret Thing. She lives outside Toronto, Canada.

Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:

Chapter 1

He sent his mind in search of me that morning.

I was on the Tube, half a minute out of Holland Park and in

that muzzy not-awake-yet state that always bridged the time between

my breakfast cup of coffee and the one that I’d have shortly at my

desk. I nearly didn’t notice when his thoughts touched mine. It was a

rare thing these days; rarer still that I would let him in, but my own

thoughts were drifting and I knew that his were, too. In fact, from

what I saw of where he was—the angle of the ceiling and the dimly

shadowed walls—I guessed that he was likely still in bed, just waking

up himself.

I didn’t need to push him out. Already he was drawing back, apologizing.

Sorry. Not a spoken word, but still I heard the faint regretful

tone of his familiar voice. And then he wasn’t there.

A man sat heavily beside me, squeezed me over on the seat, and

with my senses feeling raw already, even that unwanted contact was

too much. I stood, and braced myself against the bit of wall beside

the nearest door and forced myself to balance till we came to Bond

Street. When the doors slid open I slid safely back into the comfort of

routine, my brisk steps keeping pace with everybody else as we became

a texting, talking, moving mass that flowed together up and out and

through the turnstiles and emerged onto the pavement, where we went

our separate ways, heads down and purposeful.

The morning was a lovely one for August. The oppressive sticky

heat had given way to fresher air that promised warmth but didn’t

threaten, and the sky was a pristine and perfect blue.

I barely saw it. I was thinking of that shadowed room, a greyer light

that spoke of clouds or maybe rain, a hand that had come lazily in view,

to rub his eyes while he was waking. It had been his left hand, and

there’d been no rings on it. At least, I didn’t think I’d seen a ring on it.

I caught my thoughts before they had a chance to wander further

and betray me. Doesn’t matter, I reminded myself firmly, and to make

quite sure I heard myself, I said the words aloud: “It doesn’t matter.”

I could feel the glances of the people walking closest to me, wondering

if I were off my trolley, and I flushed a little, tucking my head

well down as I came round the corner and into South Molton Street, a

little pedestrian haven of upscale shops, cafés, and galleries. Everything

always seemed quieter here, with the mad rush of Bond Street behind

me. I carried on down past the graceful old buildings with beautiful

doors to the one with the freshly white-painted facade where an expensivelooking

brass plaque with fine lettering read: galerie st.-croi x, fine

russian art Efacts and art , third floor .

The naming of the gallery had been one of Sebastian’s little

vanities—in spite of his French surname he was English through and

through, born of a line that likely traced its Hampshire roots back to

the Norman conquest. But Sebastian knew his business, and to art

dealers like him it was essential to create the proper image.

I was part of that, I knew, because I had the proper look, the

proper pedigree, the right credentials, and I always dressed to fit the

part. But when he’d hired me two years ago, he’d also made no secret

of the fact that it had been for my abilities—not only that I held a

master’s degree in Russian Studies and the History of Art, but that I

spoke fluent Russian and besides, my organized nature appealed to his

strong sense of order, and I had, what he’d called then, “potential.”

He’d worked to transform me, to mentor me, teaching me how to

get on the right side of the bid at an auction, and how to finesse our

more difficult clients. I’d come a long way from the rather unworldly

young woman I’d been when he’d taken me on.

He had transformed the gallery building as well. We were on the

third floor, in a space that today was as richly detailed as a penthouse.

Even the lift was mirrored, which this morning didn’t thrill me.

I was frowning as it opened to the elegant reception room where

a flower-seller painted by Natalia Goncharova hung above the desk at

which our previous receptionist had sat. She’d had to leave us unexpectedly,

and I’d been interviewing this past week to fill the vacancy,

while Sebastian and I shared out the extra duties.

It was not an easy thing to hire a person who could suit Sebastian’s

tastes, aesthetically. He wanted something more than simple competence,

or class. He wanted someone who embodied what the Goncharova

painting did—the painting he had hung above that desk, where

it would be the first thing noticed by each customer who stepped into

the gallery.

He’d had offers for it. Several of our clients could afford to pay a

million pounds with ease, but then Sebastian didn’t need the money.

“If I sell the thing,” he’d told me once, “then I’ll have only satisfied

one client. If I leave it where it is, then every one of them will think it

can be theirs one day.”

It didn’t only work with art. It wasn’t a coincidence that many of

our loyal and best customers were women, and they looked upon Sebastian

as they did that Goncharova flower-seller, as a prize that could

be won, with time and effort.

In fact, as I passed by his glass-walled office on the way down to

my own, I saw he had a woman with him now. I would have left them

to their business, but he saw me and beckoned me in, so I pushed the

door open and joined them.

Sebastian’s smile was all professional, with me, and even if it hadn’t

been, I would have been immune to it. He was too rich to be my type.

A gold watch flashed beneath his tailored sleeve as he leaned forward,

looking so immaculate I half-suspected that he had a team of stylists

working on him every morning, from his polished shoes right to the

tousled toffee-coloured hair that had been combed with just the right

amount of carelessness. “Nicola,” he introduced me, “this is Margaret

Ross. Miss Ross, my associate, Nicola Marter.”

Miss Margaret Ross was not what I’d expected, not our usual sort

of client. For one thing she was plainly dressed, but dressed with so

much care I knew she’d taken pains to look her best. And although I

was usually quite good at guessing ages, I had trouble guessing hers.

She had to be at least a decade older than myself, so nearing forty at

the least, but while her clothing and the way she held herself suggested

she might be still older, there was something in her quiet gaze that

seemed distinctly youthful, even innocent.

“Good morning.” She was Scottish. “I’m afraid that I’ve been wasting

Mr. St.-Croix’s time.”

Sebastian, ever charming, shook his head. “No, not at all. That’s

what I’m here for. And even if it can’t be proved, you still have a fascinating

story to tell your grandchildren.”

She cast her eyes down as though she were hiding disappointment.

“Yes.”

“Tell Nicola.” Sebastian’s tone was meant to salve her feelings,

make her feel that what she had to say was fascinating, even if it wasn’t.

He was good, that way. To me, he said, “She brought this carving in

for an appraisal.”

It looked to me, at first, an undistinguished lump of wood that

curved to fit his upraised palm, but when I looked again I saw it was a

small carved bird, wings folded tightly to its sides, a sparrow or a wren.

Sebastian was saying, “It’s been in her family . . . how long?”

Margaret Ross roused herself to his smooth prompting. “Nearly

three hundred years, so I’m told. It was given to one of my ancestors

by Empress Catherine of Russia. Not Catherine the Great,” she said,

showing her knowledge. “The first Catherine.”

Sebastian smiled encouragement. “Peter the Great’s widow, yes. So,

the 1720s, sometime. And it very well might have been.” Holding the

carving as though it were priceless, he studied it.

Margaret Ross told him, “We call it the Firebird. That’s what it’s

always been called, in our family. It sat under glass in my grandmother’s

house, and we children were never allowed to come near it. My

mother said”—there was the tiniest break in her voice, but she covered

it over—“she said, with Andrew gone—Andrew’s my brother, he died

in Afghanistan—with him gone, and me not likely to have any family

myself now, my mother said there was no point in the Firebird sitting

there, going to waste. She said I should sell it, and use all the money to

travel, like I’d always wanted to do.”

“Miss Ross,” said Sebastian, to me, “lost her mother quite recently.”

I understood his manner now, his sympathy. I told her, “I’m so

sorry.”

“That’s all right. She had MS, it wasn’t the easiest life for her. And

she felt guilty for having me there to look after her. But,” she said, trying

to smile, “I looked after my aunties as well, till they passed, and

she was my own mother. I couldn’t have left her alone, could I?”

Looking again at her eyes, I decided their youthfulness came from

the fact that she’d never been able to live her own life as a woman.

She’d put her own life into limbo while caring for others. I felt for her.

And I felt, too, for the mother who’d hoped that her daughter would

sell their one prized family heirloom, and finally have money and comfort

to live just a little. To travel...

Su questa edizione

• Editore: Touchstone
• Data di pubblicazione: 2013
• ISBN 10: 1451673825
• ISBN 13: 9781451673821
• Rilegatura: Copertina flessibile
• Numero di pagine: 480