Лия Криз – The Amber Heart (страница 1)
Лия Криз
The Amber Heart
The Amber Heart
Oct 10, 2026 · @Влад
Chapter 1. The Villa on the Cliff
Polina's grandfather used to say that stones never lie. The people who sell them do.
Lev Aronovich Lebedev worked as a jeweller on the Petrograd Side for forty years. He could pick up a ring, look at it through a loupe for half a minute and tell you where the stone had been cut, how old it was and how many times it had changed hands. Little Polina would sit in his workshop on a tall stool and watch emeralds, garnets and amber come alive under his fingers.
"A stone remembers everything, Polinka," her grandfather would say. "Every little crack, every bubble. You just have to know how to ask."
He had been gone for nine years now. And at thirty-one, Polina Lebedeva had become the leading amber expert at Northern Gallery, a St Petersburg auction house. She knew how to ask stones. People were harder.
The taxi broke down two kilometres short of its destination.
Or rather, it didn't break down. The driver, a moustached man in a cap, stopped in the middle of the road that ran along the cliff and stared gloomily at an enormous pine lying across the asphalt.
"That's it, miss," he said. "End of the line. There was a storm yesterday, that's what knocked it down. You'll have to walk from here. It's not far, along the promenade by the sea, twenty minutes."
"With a suitcase?"
"What else can you do." He shrugged. "There's a detour through the forest, but after the rain the mud's knee-deep. I'm not going in there, think of my suspension."
Polina got out. The wind hit her in the face so hard it took her breath away. Cold, salty, late October on the Baltic. Below the cliff the grey sea roared. Waves rolled onto the sand, broke into white foam and crawled back. Gulls wheeled screaming over the water.
Zelenomorsk. A small resort town on the coast, an hour from Kaliningrad. In summer it was probably lovely: pines, sandy beaches, old German villas with tiled roofs. Now the town looked deserted. The cafés on the promenade were shut, the benches empty, only the streetlamps swaying in the wind.
Polina sighed, turned up the collar of her coat and wheeled her suitcase along the wet paving.
The suitcase was heavy. It held not just her clothes but all her equipment: an ultraviolet lamp, a microscope, a refractometer, a set of loupes, scales, reagents. The wheels clattered over the tiles and caught in the cracks, and every hundred metres Polina had to stop and catch her breath.
She was also wearing heeled boots. Beautiful suede ones, completely unsuited to a walk along a wet coastline. In St Petersburg that morning it had seemed a good idea.
At the next bend a heel caught between two paving stones and Polina nearly fell. The suitcase tore out of her hand and rolled towards the edge of the promenade, towards the low stone parapet beyond which the cliff began.
"No-no-no!"
She lunged after it but was too late. The suitcase hit the parapet, bounced, tipped...
And someone's hand caught the handle.
"Careful," said a man's voice. "The sea's in a bad mood today. Whatever falls in, it won't give back."
Polina looked up.
In front of her stood a man of about thirty-seven. Tall, in a dark jacket with the collar up, worn jeans and heavy boots. Short dark hair tousled by the wind, a touch of grey at the temples. Unshaven. A lean face with sharp cheekbones, and eyes of pale grey, almost transparent, like Baltic water on an overcast day. Amused.
Beside him sat a dog. An old yellow Labrador with a grey muzzle, regarding Polina with polite interest.
"Thank you," said Polina, taking the suitcase. "There's expensive equipment in there."
"I gathered. It weighs as much as a small safe." The man looked her over, lingered on her boots and smiled faintly. "Where are you going dressed like that? A catwalk?"
"Villa Chaika," Polina replied coldly. The Seagull.
The smile vanished. He looked at her more closely.
"The Sterns' place?"
"Yes. Why?"
"No reason." He paused. "Not the jolliest place for a guest. Especially now."
"I'm not a guest. I'm here for work."
"All the more so."
He took the suitcase from her. Simply took it without asking and set off along the promenade. The Labrador trotted after him, looking back at Polina as if inviting her to follow.
"Hey!" Polina caught up, stumbling on her heels. "I can manage!"
"You can't," the man said calmly. "One more stumble like that and I'll be fishing you off the beach. And it's my day off. Shturman, heel."
The dog obediently pressed against his leg.
"Shturman?" Polina asked. "Navigator?"
"He used to live on a yacht. With his owner. The owner moved away, sold the yacht and left the dog behind." The man shrugged. "So he lives with me now. On dry land. Misses the sea."
They walked along the cliff. The wind tore at the hem of her coat, spray flew into their faces. Polina glanced sideways at her unexpected companion. He walked easily, as if the suitcase weighed nothing, and looked at the sea.
"Are you local?" she asked.
"Everyone here's local. Except you." He glanced at her. "You're from Petersburg. Going by your accent and the way you look at the sea. Like something that needs to be valued."
Polina flushed.
"And you, going by your manners, are from the woods."
The man unexpectedly laughed. His laugh was short and a little husky, but genuine.
"Close enough. Gleb."
"Polina."
He nodded, as if the name suited her.
Villa Chaika stood at the very edge of the cliff, as if it were about to leap into the sea.
It was an old German mansion from the early twentieth century. Three storeys of dark brick, a steep tiled roof, a round turret with a weathervane shaped like a gull. Tall windows with small panes. An avenue of old lindens led up to the house, completely bare at this autumn hour. To the left of the house, behind the bushes, gleamed the glass roof of a greenhouse. And to the right, from the very edge of the cliff, a long wooden staircase ran down to the beach. Hundreds of steps, handrails, landings to rest on.
Yellow light burned in the ground-floor windows.
Gleb stopped at the wrought-iron gates and set down the suitcase.
"You're on your own from here. I don't go in there."
"Why not?"
He hesitated.
"Let's just say they're not very fond of me there."
"Why?"
"Because I ask questions," said Gleb. He smiled, but his eyes stayed serious. "Good luck, Polina. And don't use that staircase at night. It's old and slippery. Twenty steps rotted through last year and were never replaced."
He whistled to the dog and walked back towards the promenade. Polina watched him until his dark figure melted into the dusk.
Then she turned and pressed the bell.
The door was opened by a woman of about sixty. Short, spare, with smooth grey hair combed back and thin pursed lips. In a severe navy dress with a white collar. She took in Polina with a quick, sharp glance, from her wet boots to her windblown hair.
"You're from Petersburg? The valuer?"