The Collector
Page 120

Vasin spread his hands. “You have a unique familial . . . situation. For many of us, for me, family is bloodline. We understand tragedy, loss, the need to balance the scales, you could say. My family was murdered simply for being superior. For being born into power. Power and privilege will always be attacked by smaller men who claim they have a cause. But the cause is always avarice. Whatever lofty excuse men use for war or revolution, it’s always because they want the power another holds.”
“So you lock yourself in this fortress to protect yourself from avaricious men?”
“Your woman was wise to stay in her tower.”
“But lonely,” Lila put in. “To be removed from the world? To see it, but not be part of it? It would be crushingly lonely.”
“You’re a romantic under it all,” Vasin decided. “There is so much more than people for companionship. As I said, I have few visitors. I’ll show you some of my most treasured companions. Then we can discuss business.”
He rose, then held up a hand. “A moment, please.”
He stepped back to the hidden door. Another iris scan, Lila realized. She hadn’t noticed it within the molding.
“Few visitors,” Vasin said, “and fewer still who ever step beyond this door. But I think we’ll understand each other, and the business at hand, much better when you do.” He stepped to the side of the door, gestured.
“Please, after you.”
Ash walked to the door, carefully blocking Lila from going through until he saw what lay beyond. Then with a glance at Vasin’s satisfied face, Ash took Lila’s arm, went in with her.
Tinted windows let in gold light. A rich and liquid light to serve his collection. Inside glass islands, towers and walls the glitter and gleam and glow of Fabergé lived.
Cases for clocks, others for boxes, for jewelry, for bowls, for flasks. Each meticulously arranged according to category.
She saw no door but the one they’d come through, and though the ceilings were high, the floors a brilliantly white marble, she saw it as a gilded and soulless Aladdin’s cave.
“Of all my collections, this is my biggest triumph. If not for the Romanovs, Fabergé might have remained limited to creating for the highborn or wealthy, even the hoi polloi. The artist, of course—Fabergé himself—and the great workmaster Perchin deserve all credit for vision, for skill, even for the risks taken to turn a reasonably successful jewelry business into an empire of art. But without the patronage of the tsars, the Romanovs, so much of this would never have been created. Much that was would be a mere footnote in the art world.”
Hundreds of pieces—hundreds of hundreds, Lila thought. From the tiny, festive jelly bean eggs to an elaborate tea service, what she realized was a picnic set, presentation trophies, vases, another case that held only animal figurines.
“This is amazing. I see the scope of vision and craftsmanship—so much variety in one place. It’s amazing,” Lila repeated. “It must have taken years to collect so many pieces.”
“Since childhood,” Vasin agreed. “You enjoy the clocks,” he commented. He crossed to her, but kept a full arm span between them. “This fan shape, so suited to a desk or mantel, and the translucence of the enamel, the soft yet rich orange color. The details—the gold rosettes in the lower corners, the rose cut of the diamond border. And here, the same workmaster—Perchin—the exquisitely simple circular clock, pale blue with reed-and-tie rim.”
“They’re all beautiful.” And trapped, she thought, as art should never be, for his eyes alone—or those he allowed into his sanctum.
“Are they all antiques? Some look so contemporary.”
“All are old. I’ve no wish to own here what any man can have by offering a credit card.”
“They’re all set to midnight.”
“Midnight, when the assassins gathered the royal family together. What would have been the end, if not for Anastasia’s escape.”
She gave him wide eyes. “But I thought they’d proven she died, too, with her family. DNA tests, and—”
“They lie.” He sliced a hand through the air like an ax. “As the Bolsheviks lied. I’m the last of the Romanovs—the last to carry the blood of Nicholas and Alexandra, through their daughter, to my father, and last to me. And what belonged to them is mine by right.”
“Why here?” Ash demanded. “Why not house your collection in Russia?”
“Russia isn’t what it was, and will never be what it was. I create my world, and live in it as I choose.”
He walked on. “Here is what I think of as practical luxuries. These, gold and diamond opera glasses, or the jasper match holder chased in gold, the enameled bookmark—perfection in its shape, the deep green enamel. And of course the perfume bottles here. Each one a feast of art.”
“You know each piece?” Lila wondered. “With so many, I’d lose track.”
“I know what’s mine,” he said coldly. “A man can own with ignorance, but can’t possess without knowledge. I know what’s mine.”
He turned abruptly, walked to the center of the room and a freestanding glass case. Inside stood eight white pedestals. One held what Lila recognized from the descriptions as the Nécessaire. Gold, sparkling, exquisite—and opened to reveal the diamond-encrusted manicure set inside.
She reached for Ash’s hand, curled her fingers into his as she looked over into Vasin’s eyes. “The lost Imperial eggs. You have three.”
“Soon I’ll have four. One day, I’ll have all.”
Twenty-nine
The Hen with Sapphire Pendant,” Vasin began. Like a prayer, worship whispered through his voice. “From 1886. The gold hen, decorated with rose-cut diamonds, holds the sapphire egg—the pendant—in her beak, just taken, it appears, from the nest. The surprise, as you see, is a small gold-and-diamond chick, freshly hatched.”
“It’s stunning.” Easy to say, Lila thought, as she meant it. “Down to the tiniest detail.”
“The egg itself,” he said, his dark eyes riveted on his treasure. “Not merely a shape, but a symbol. Of life, of rebirth.”
“So the tradition of decorating eggs for Easter, to celebrate the Resurrection.”
“Charming, true, but this anyone can do. It was the Romanovs—my blood—who turned this simple tradition into great art.”