The Violet Hour

by Brynn Chapman

  “Good evening. We welcome you to Charleston’s Fancy, where all things are possible. We have a spectacular show prepared for you, designed to tempt all your senses. And our guest house still has two openings, if, after partaking you are too overwhelmed and inclined to stay.”

  He nods to the Maestro Plimpton. “Without further ado.”

  The riverboat pulls away from the mainland and the violin quartet begins their customary introductory interlude.

  My eyes sweep the hillside. Something moves in the dark. My heart climbs to my mouth. I struggle to focus on my surroundings, wanting only to see him. It has been a fortnight.

  Brighton.

  Mr. Plimpton raises his hands and our instruments follow suite as if the whole orchestra are marionettes, attached to his baton.

  Crrack!

  Ladies and men alike startle in a collective jump. With a few nervous chuckles, all eyes shoot heavenward.

  An eruption of red rockets speed toward one another, detonating seconds before impact into white sparkles which linger, glittering in the sky like ethereal diamonds.

  I stare, enraptured.

  “Allegra,” Jonesy whispers.

  The music begins. A piece by Bach.

  I know it by heart, my fingers need no minding; they trace the path on my strings like a familiar road. I need not read the music. Truth be told, I only need to read the music once.

  My eyes flick between the hill and the sky like a metronome as my heartbeat pounds in my ears, my breath heaving my chest. My fingers pluck the piece of their own accord.

  Two, four, six starbursts explode; the very colors of my gown.

  Brighton sets gaslights blazing, one by one, which flicker and are somehow magnified, perhaps by prisms? An eerie mist rises across the hillside, hiding him from me. I grind my teeth in irritation, a primal need to imbibe of his presence, overwhelming every bit of me.

  I stare at Marietta in the row ahead of me and see the gooseflesh on her pudgy arm. She has seen him as well.

  He has not departed. Please, let him still be up there.

  My chest aches. I fight the urge to cast down the cello and leap into the bay; to swim and swim. Till I find him, wet and cold, and let his skin warm mine.

  Constant explosions light the sky, white and cornflower blue, raining down across the bay, again and again like luminescent raindrops.

  The light show reflects in the water, mirror-like, like Alice’s Wonderland looking glass, come to life.

  I picture the upturned faces of mermaids and sea creatures staring up at the surface in awe.

  And my fingers stray.

  The mourning tune they play does not match the joy and rebelliousness of the dancing lights overhead. Of his soul.

  I stray from the piece. Throwing the entire orchestra off.

  The music halts in a jangle of discordant notes. Except for my cello.

  I compose on command.

  I stare, enraptured by the lights, my arm sawing in perfect synchrony with every burst of light. I wince in pain as my fingers stroke the neck of my cello, following Brighton’s lead.

  With every fiery burst of color, staccato notes. With streaming showers of sparks—long, melodic pulls of my bow across the vibrating strings.

  Jonesy recovers first. He accompanies me, following my lead on his violin, as best he can.

  A few brave souls follow suite, their instruments playing harmony about my melody.

  All the patron’s eyes stray back to the sky. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman cover her chest, overcome with emotion.

  I spy another couple join hands and a third press her trembling lips together at the beauty—the marriage of light and sound.

  I writhe and ache, following his lead, keeping time with his lights with my fingers.

  His lights tell a story, as does my music.

  It is as if our minds are dancing, sharing a wavelength, and he doesn’t even know it.

  Or does he?

  I finally see him, through the mist. His face severe with emotion, his head cocked in question.

  The boat is close enough he can hear the music. My music.

  His stare skips through the crowd till he finds me and our eyes connect.

  Gooseflesh tears across my chest, down my back and stomach. The heat on my chest relights and I fight the urge to scratch it.

  Finally the show concludes in a maelstrom of booms and pop, pop, pops of sparkling blazes. As if heaven has exploded, and its stars are escaping to earth.

  I halt, chest heaving, sweating and breathless.

  Fear stops my heart, realizing what I’ve done.

  Jonesy’s foot taps in anxious accord with my heartbeat.

  Then a great resounding, applause. It rings through the night, almost as loudly as Brighton’s fireworks.

  Men and women shoot to a standing ovation. It begins on the lower deck, and then spreads like an ocean wave to engulf the upper as well.

  My eyes find Silas—his face beet-red. But as he observes the crowd’s reaction, his expression gives way to rapture, and he too begins to slowly clap. My stomach plummets to wallow in relief to my boots.

  Brighton turns his stare to me, with the same worshipful gaze, for a heart-halting moment.

  And is gone.

  * * *

  After my victory on the riverboat, my bed couldn’t hold me. Sleep eluded me much the same way the cool winds tried but could never quite manage to breech the ever-warm Charleston shallows.

  I steal out of the cottage, praying Sarah will not wake and panic in my absence.

  I know my plan to be foolish. I know, if caught, I will at best, lose employment—my weak tether to freedom—or at worst, lose my life?

  If Brighton is dangerous.

  The sour taste of fear floods my mouth.

  But a hidden something in his dark blue eyes made me doubt that gruff façade.

  Jonesy would scoff and tie me to a chair for such weak reasoning, but Jonesy is not here.

  I approach the dingy and scramble into it with a quick glance over my shoulder.

  The water slops over the boat’s side, and I begin to fervently row; my thoughts straying to Monsieur Lafayette, my father’s security chief. The man was the sole reason I had ever learnt any practical task. Otherwise, I would’ve been bound to drift through this world, my only knowledge to compose music and attend tea.

  I steer the boat with confidence, picturing our many escapes to the Lake Country while father was away on business.

  Truth be told, I would not have managed my escape without him.

  With knowledge, even simple, everyday knowledge, comes power.

  The dingy approaches the isle. I hold my breath, my eyes scouring the shore but this eve, nothing appears out of the ordinary.

  The boat makes the crossing to Fire Isle quickly in the calm water of the night.

  As if the bloody rock is expecting me.

  Ridiculous.

  I shiver nonetheless.

  This is the name whispered in the parlor’s back home. Near Fire Island, Charleston. Where my mother drown. Where she took her life.

  Swinging my legs over the side, I slosh into the shallows to secure the boat.

  I turn to stare at the shore from whence I came. Snowy egrets and pelicans dot the surf, bobbing up and down like feathery buoys. But here…nothing.

  No birds.

  I secure the dingy and hurry from the water, light-headed from the steady pounding of my heart.

  Tearing my eyes away from the Charleston shore and relative safety, I slink into the foliage. The isle is like a fae place; its green ferns swallow my feet as easily as the moss which gloms to the trunk of every tree. Resurrection fern, they call it. I shiver at the pun.

  What am I looking for? This is madness.

  I finger the pistol Jonesy thrust upon me.

  Once he heard my story, he insisted I needed protection. And had insisted on training me to use it. Which had been no small feat. We’d have to leave Charleston
proper for any sort of privacy.

  The rush of flowing water calls somewhere to my right. If a dwelling existed on this craggy rock, it would most definitely be near the water. I keep pace alongside it, skulking through the deep green ferns, never letting the undercurrent leave my hearing.

  My eyes dart back and forth, searching for alligators. No doubt the isle is crawling with them.

  Fire Isle. I knew why the locals called it such. Storms supposedly occurred over the island more than anywhere else in Charleston. But I had not yet seen evidence to warrant that name.

  Night birds call as dusk descends in earnest. Fear grips my chest, squeezing my airway shut.

  I have a light—but should I use it?

  Soon it shall be utterly black and I will be paralyzed, afraid to move through the wood without its reassurance glow to guide my steps.

  Fear’s metallic taste fills my mouth. The dark. I am not so fearless to be caught here without light.

  I can still see where the woods break to the beach. Embracing defeat, I pick my way through newly downed trees toward the moonlight. I bolt and soon stand on the beach, chest heaving, regretting my impulsivity. And equally detesting my cowardice.

  I hear them, then.

  Cats. A plethora of cats. Mewling and calling back and forth in an off-kilter symphony with the night-birds overhead.

  I step out of the safety of the moonlight to follow their other-worldly cries.

  I hurry closer and closer, their calls growing louder with each step.

  In minutes I arrive. They call and twirl, rubbing their furry bodies against a rambling stone cottage.

  Could Brighton live here?

  It wasn’t squalor precisely, indeed the big beautiful flowers crawling up the bricks painted it quaint, but he seemed too…grand for such a small home.

  Inhaling deeply, I try to control my frantic heart as I head toward the dwelling.

  Hiding in the trees, I wait, but no sign of life, no light erupts at my presence.

  Emboldened, I leave the cover of the trees. The cats halt their mewling, staring at my approach.

  I freeze. Out in the open, utterly exposed.

  One orange striped feline tentatively approaches my leg and sniffs. Its stare meets mine and the world lurches. Its queer yellow eyes looked too deep, somehow, too expressive.

  It breaks the contest and pads forward to rub and purr and wind about my leg. I bound toward the window.

  I stand on tip-toes to peer through the window.

  My breath exhales in relief. What was I expecting? Cauldrons? Sacrificial animals?

  Reluctantly I admit, “Perhaps.”

  Two microscopes, ink bottles, parchments and half-eaten plates of food litter a scrubbed wood table. As if Brighton had departed in a hurry.

  He obviously had very little, or very poor domestics.

  I permit my eye to slide across the open rafters. Odd contraptions hang from the ceiling and are scattered across multiple tables; metal humbugs for which I have no name. Some whirr, some seem to hum, but all are unknown.

  Emboldened by the silence, I rush to the side door and slide quietly inside.

  A metallic pole totters as I open the door and I lunge, catching it before it clatters to the floor. My breath escapes my lips in tiny puffs of flustered panic. One false move will give away my dangerous game of eavesdropping and skulking.

  I ease the pole upright, propping it against the wall.

  My heart freezes as I register the myriad of glinting silver sparkles interspersed throughout the gloom.

  The room is full of them—twenty, perhaps thirty, of the silver rods lean against the walls like metallic sentries. I shiver convulsively as I picture them animating and surrounding me, holding me captive till Brighton returns.

  A warm tingle begins just below my breastbone. I scratch it. I am ever prone to rashes and itches. Some dangerously so.

  “What…are those?”

  The breeze creaking through the eaves wakes me from the revelry. My time here is precious.

  I fly to the table where two massive, leather-bound volumes lie beside a half-eaten loaf of bread.

  The warmth between my breasts intensifies and I flinch. “Ooch.”

  I touch the leather cover and blink and I cock my head. A tiny jolt ripples through my fingertips at first contact, but so briefly, I doubt its occurrence.

  I stare at the volume and whisper the title, “Elementi.”

  I wrench it open, flipping through pages.

  “Tell me everything,”I whisper to it.

  My eyes halt, registering a change in the script.

  On one page, the usually pristine handwriting denigrates to illegible squiggles.

  ‘I believe I have found the answer. If I may only find the correct amount of current, combined with the correct chemical composition…all things may be possible. And within my reach.’

  Gooseflesh explodes down my arms as I shake my head.

  Not witchcraft, I do not think. But it does not sound…natural.

  I pause, holding perfectly still. Something has changed in my environment, but all I hear is my heartbeat in my ears.

  Silence. Crickets are quiet. Cats are quiet.

  Someone is coming.

  I slam the volume shut and bolt toward the window, half-falling, half-scrambling through the frame. My knees scrape the stony ground and I stifle the whimper. I feel the hot rush of blood trickle down my leg and limp over to hunker down in the false comfort of the trees and high ferns.

  Light flickers on the cottage and footsteps shuffle inside.

  I turn and pick my way through the underbrush toward the beach, not chancing a backward glance.

  I press on with my hurried limping; not pausing till my feet strike the bottom of the dingy.

  My muscles ache as I franticly row and row, putting distance between me and the words.

  “All things may be possible.”

  Chapter Five

  Silas paces before us, his hands clasped behind his back. “So, I wish you to craft at least three original compositions, choreographed to match Brighton’s impressive light show.”

  My eyes tick between Silas and Brighton. The tension in the air is as brittle and volatile as the driftwood lining the beaches. And I suspect one wrong word from either will ignite and combust the façade of calm within this room.

  Silas rubs his hands together so fast I fear they will spark and light the atmosphere ablaze.

  “Original scores. Understood?” His black gaze zeroes on Brighton.

  LeFroy’s body sits rigidly upon the edge of his chair, as if ready to down Silas.

  I shift uncomfortably and clear my throat. “I do love composition, Silas, and I adore what Mr. LeFroy’s done with his pyrotechnics—so it shouldn’t be so very difficult.”

  LeFroy shakes his head. Silas seems to comprehend its meaning, but it is lost on me.

  “Ah, ah, ah, Brighton.” He waggles a long finger. “I need not remind you in front of the lady, of your…responsibilities, do I?”

  LeFroy’s teeth grind together. “No. Fine. Miss Teagarden—”

  “You may call me Allegra.”

  The tension in his face lessens a fraction. “Fine. Allegra. I shall meet you this afternoon to begin our assignment. The sooner I might tick it off my growing list of responsibilities, the better.”

  Lefroy shoots to stand and flings open the door. He strides out without bothering to close it.

  Silas tsk, tsk’s to his retreating back. “Temper, temper.”

  Silas is not angry, indeed he appears highly amused. He smiles widely at me, but his wide white teeth threaten. “You seem more pleased at the prospect, Allegra.”

  I nod.

  My pleasure has naught to do with composition.

  I will get to spend much time in Brighton’s company. And despite his tempestuous mood swings, that is indeed a most pleasurable prospect.

  * * *

  Brighton

  I heard it first and a wave
of heat passed over my skin.

  My own personal siren call. Thunder. My would-be savior and my grim reaper.

  Lightning flashes; the sky awakens with bursting white flashes, illuminating the purple backdrop of churning clouds.

  I leap out of bed, shaking the cobwebs from my mind.

  A bolt strikes close, very very close.

  I startle backward and smack my head off the birdcage behind me. Close, too close—six feet from my window the ground hisses and sizzles.

  I feel his presence before he speaks. A warming sensation, as if I’ve downed a tumbler of fine scotch, trickles from my spine to my fingers to my toes.

  I stiffen, awaiting the familiar, sing-song voice.

  “Brighton. I am come.” His voice from behind the front door.

  No use in barricading it. If he wished to enter, he would enter.

  I spin, rummaging through my papers on the table, futilely trying to hide the most recent research.

  “How? How did you find me again? I was so meticulous,” I say, without turning around.

  He gives a quiet laugh, his footsteps walking toward me. “You can run, but you can’t hide.”

  Anger scorches my cheeks. I whirl and push past him, loading my arms with the lightning rods.

  “If we work together, we might accomplish our goal more quickly.”

  My hands shake as I fight the urge to strike and pummel that smug look from his haughty-pointed-face. “Our goals, couldn’t be more diametrically opposed.”

  He glows, ever-so-slightly, like the warning sky before a storm.

  I twist the door knob with my two free fingers, kicking it open with my boot-heel.

  “You shall not succeed without me.” His voice is scathing as I shove past him.

  I push into the storm, running down the path toward the pond in the center of the isle.

  The fireflies descend instantly, gathering and trailing behind me as if I am some ethereal Pied Piper. And predictably, the cats arrive as well, falling in step like the soldiers of the cursed that we are.

  I sigh. Innocent bystanders to my madness.

  Water pounds my head, and I thrust on the hat to divert the waterfall occluding my vision.

  I sprint around the pond’s edge, jamming the lightning rods into the mud till they resemble silver turrets guarding the water.