The Violet Hour

by Brynn Chapman

  “No. Please, don’t go. Please, Georgie.” Lucy crumples to the ground, crawling toward the electrified pond. I drop beside her, wrapping my arms around her torso, restraining her. Her fingers claw the wet dirt in her attempt to reach him.

  “You can’t go in there, Lucy.”

  She bats my arms, trying to wiggle free, her fingers outstretched—“I want to go with you. Please Georgie.” Her chest heaves beneath my arms and her eyes are wild, as if she’s talking to herself, not me. “It was always he and I. When Poppa was mad-crazy, we would hide together in the oaks. Play together. I’d never-ever leave him. Let me go!”

  I shake her shoulders and force her to meet my gaze. “Lucy. What would Brighton do without you? It would kill him to lose you, too.”

  I know these words to be true. So does Lucy, because she stops struggling, her body going limp as the hope drains away.

  She stares, fixated, waiting until George’s boot finally slides out of view and the ripples cease.

  The pond is clear, and so is the air. No trace of the oppressive force remains.

  Nightfall arrives in earnest; its inky black erasing all traces of the purple hue.

  Toby’s voice echoes in my head. Alligators. Mosquitoes.

  “We must return to Morelands.”

  I drag her away from the water and ease Lucy back onto her horse and slap its hindquarters.

  * * *

  Lucy barrels ahead through the dark and if she weren’t atop the white mare, clearly visible against the backdrop of the dark oaks, she would be lost. And so would I.

  A loud snort issues to my right and I whirl in the saddle toward it.

  A massive…bull-like beast with curlicue horns stares at me from behind a rickety wooden fence. Pawing the ground. It snorts as its nostrils flare, its eyes focusing on me.

  Lucy pulls back on the reins and halts her horse, dead in place.

  She’s utterly still, but I see the terror and realization spread across her face. Her lips are moving frantically, but I can’t hear her. She’s too far off.

  “Whoa.” I try to halt my horse, but his ears lie flat on his head, sensing the danger.

  The bull snorts in return, and charges.

  Cra-aack. His large wooly forehead splinters the wooden fence like matchsticks as bits rain out, plastering my horse’s chest.

  “Protect me, Providence.”

  I whirl the horse about and kick his sides, digging my heels into his flesh.

  The horse rears and the world upends. I swipe for the saddle-horn as the horse’s front hooves leave the ground; it slips through my outstretched fingers and my bottom slides from the saddle to the horse’s flanks.

  I have just enough time to think, I’m falling before my breath whooshes out and pain jars my shoulder blades as my back strikes the dirt.

  Black and white stars explode and pop like Brighton’s fireworks in my vision.

  “For mercy’s sake, Lucy!”

  Brighton.

  I hear and feel hoof beats galloping to me and the insane charging-exotic-beast.

  “Roll, Allegra!”

  I shake my head in time to see hooves, backing toward my skull.

  I roll and roll like my dress’s caught fire.

  More hoof beats, from the opposite direction. “Toby, distract the water-buffalo. Lucy, go!”

  Brighton’s hands wrench me from the ground, into his arms and onto his saddle in what seems just a few blinks to my addled wits.

  “Wrap your arms around me.” I do my best, but my arms seem to have forgotten how to hold as he trots toward the main house. I allow my head to collapse against his back.

  I struggle to remain awake, but vertigo spins the world like a Ferris wheel. The pace picks up and my stomach lurches with the motion.

  “Allegra. Allegra,” Brighton’s voice soothes, thick with concern.

  Despite my revolving mind, despite the bellowing beast, I am instantly awash in a warm, drenching relief. One repeating thought echoes through my head as we gallop.

  Safe. I am ever safe with him.

  * * *

  Jonesy

  “Must we return?” Sarah’s hands fidget. We enter Charleston proper, its walls all but screaming of Yankee invasion.

  The war is coming. People talk of nothing else. Those on the fence must choose their side, and make haste in getting there.

  I slide closer to her on the carriage seat, so I may be heard over the rumble of the cobblestones. After swimming ashore, we managed to make it up the coast to a neighboring town, where we waited a few precious days. We visited a magistrate and became husband and wife. It was not what I would have wanted for her, but with Silas looming, I just could not return until Sarah shared my last name—so that I might have some legal recompense against him, should he try to harm her.

  “Sarah—you understand what we discussed. War is unavoidable. We must leave Charleston. Return to my father in the North. But I cannot till I know Brighton and Allegra are safe. Can you? Say the word and I will force myself to leave.”

  Sarah’s blue eyes fill as her face openly struggles with our dilemma. She blinks and a few stray tears fall. “No. I love Allegra like she is my sister.” Her eyes are bright with terror. “Did you hear what he did to Mr. Peabody for botching the fireworks?”

  The image of Silas’s white cane, striking over and over invades my head.

  A cold chill floods my veins and my eyes steal across the bay. “Yes. He disappeared. I expect he’ll be washing up on shore any day now.” As my one hand tightly grips the reigns, I take her hand with my free one, my eyes searching the bay. “I realize he’s mad. We will remain one more week a fortnight at most—then depart and pray for the best. I hope the war can hold off that long.”

  We arrive at the dock and grasp hands tightly. I eye the isle warily. “We need to see if Brighton has returned to Fire Island.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Raised voices, filtering beneath the door, rouse me from sleep.

  For a moment I am disoriented; the unfamiliar, ornate furniture immediately sends my heart fluttering like a bird against the cage of my ribs.

  “I care not about succession. My sole care is to find my brother.”

  I sit up too quickly, which sends blinking stars of light dancing across my vision. I peer up at the gauzy-film of the canopy bed draperies, blinking and struggling…to remember what happened.

  Is Papa on a tirade?

  My skin crawls. For a moment I believe myself back home, in my opulent prison.

  My fingers trail to the back of my head and I wince. No, that isn’t right.

  I stare stupidly at the mosquito netting. Mosquito netting?

  This is not my childhood bed. My thoughts feel thick and weighted, like my mind has been dipped and coated in molasses. My thoughts drip in a maddeningly slow place to my lips and I grind my teeth against the slowly-forming-words.

  Then sharp bark of Brighton’s voice clears the fog away.

  “Brighton,” the voice next door rumbles, grim and low. “I have tolerated you doling out your inheritance to slaves, your refusal to run this plantation, and your fugue to join the circus.”

  “Amusement park.”

  Clear images form, sluicing through the thick treacle of my thoughts.

  Brighton, the fireworks, my music. My memory rushes back in a litany of pictures. His lights and images, my sounds, married together in a perfect, mesmerizing display. Exploding in the night sky above Charleston’s Fancy—a perfectly reflecting mirror-image in the bay below.

  The hot surge of the Elementi through my extremities, healing my well-worn fingers.

  The light and hope Brighton projects with every look. The feel and need in his kiss and his rough hands gliding across my skin.

  “I love him.”

  It’s the first time I’ve spoken the words, or even admitted it to myself.

  “More than the sun and stars above.”

  I fell from the horse. The smell of the dirt and the wet
thunk of my head against the ground returns to my consciousness—feeling as a memory inserted from another person’s mind.

  My newly-written symphony blares to life in my thoughts and I flinch in pain. The arguing voices are Brighton and his father.

  Then something odd occurs.

  A warm glow, like an ember, originates on my spine to crawl up my back, spreading across my shoulders, my neck, to envelope the goose’s egg upon my skull. Like a gentle, invisible hand cradling the injury. I shiver as my mouth goes dry.

  The throbbing dulls. My wits further clear. Fear surges through my veins. What have I done? What is this devilry I’ve ingested?

  “Just bloody tell me how to titrate the mixture. I have tried for months. I know you open the passage without the poles. Have you no compassion, man? Care you not what happens to him? The boy is damaged but he is your son!” Brighton roars.

  The warm, ethereal hand tightens. The throb dampens to a small ache.

  “You foolish twit. George was the reason I began to experiment. To heal his afflictions. How was I to know it would become so much more? And to ignore such knowledge and opportunity is sheer lunacy, Brighton! The power. We will be Gods.”

  The circular ache dissolves, its circumference getting smaller and smaller with every ragged breath.

  And it is gone. The pain is completely gone. I rub it furiously, disbelieving.

  The tingle at the base of my skull ebbs; its warming tendrils receding down my neck like an ivy-ungrowing, returning to seed. A seed in the center of my spine.

  I am healed.

  My mouth is dry as dust and I bolt to full-length mirror and lunge to snatch its silver-plated, hand-held companion from the dresser. I spin and hold it aloft, waving it to and fro in an attempt to glimpse the back of my head.

  The voices behind the door drop suddenly and I strain to hear. I thrust the mirror back on the chest and pad to the door, inclining my ear against it.

  “It is a cheat. Enlightenment, true enlightenment, and ascension to what follows, can only be obtained through the proper channels. Through purification of mind and spirit, and actions reflecting such. Over the course of a life well lived. And on a timetable not governed by the thoughts of imperfect man.”

  “Bah. I’ve labored my entire life and most often, do-gooders end up paupers or poets. I have provided this family with wealth beyond what I ever even imagined. And now I seek an even greater task…to give mankind an option.”

  Brighton’s voice shakes, “That option is not yours to give. Nor was it your decision to inject George with the infusion. George was afflicted, but he was able to think. It should’ve been his decision.”

  The revelation moves up my chest to expand in my mouth, choking me.

  George was simple. And his father injected him with The Elementi. From the sound of it a good deal of Elementi. If it had this effect on me…what would more do? What would happen?

  I fight the swoon and slump into a chair beside the door, still listening intently.

  “He is better off where he is. There is still much you do not understand, Brighton.”

  Crash! The pop and tinkle of glass shattering.

  A small shard of crystal slides beneath my door, skittering across the hardwood floor. It glitters in the morning sun, emitting tiny iridescent rainbows that remind me of the fireflies.

  “Tell me, then. Leave George to me. I shall be the judge if he belongs where he is.”

  “Join me in succession, pledge your allegiance to Morelands. Then I shall tell you how to reach him. And stop freeing my ruddy slaves.”

  “Never,” Brighton’s voice shakes. “People are not possessions to be bought and sold at your whim. I will never join you. I will move North. Join the Union.”

  A dark chuckle raises the hair on my arms and I swallow.

  Evil. His father is pure evil.

  Brighton’s warning echoes in my head: He is a pitcher plant. Once trapped, there is no way out and he will devour you.

  My heart beats beneath the hand clutching my chest. We must away. Immediately.

  “What about her?”

  I step away from the door. My breath exhales sharply and I go rigid.

  “Do. Not. Touch her.”

  A high-pitched keen of black laughter.

  I scramble to my knees to peer though the keyhole.

  Brighton’s back quivers and his hands are balled in fists. His father is in a leisurely repose on a chaise, examining his fingernails. “She means much to you. I have sent out informants…to gather information. I wonder…if she has told you everything. About her past?”

  “We are leaving.”

  “Take the powder again, Brighton. Perhaps then you shall see my point.”

  Brighton whirls, stalking toward my door. “You mean so I might join you in your madness? I was in error to take it even once.”

  “What about her. Have you given it to her?”

  The tincture, dribbling through my lips. The swim in the salty pond. The Elementi. I have taken it too. Bathed in it.

  What am I? Am I irrevocably altered?

  I struggle and manage to upright myself but feel the press of the blackening swoon return. My feet shuffle backwards and catch on the rug and I manage a rough slump back into the chair—inhaling slowly, trying to keep at bay the darkness threatening my wits.

  The door swings open and Brighton’s hands are around my forearms. His voice drops to my ear.

  “My dear. I realize you are in no condition to travel, but we are not safe here. We must depart.”

  He gathers me into his arms with such ease, as if I am a child, and whisks past his father toward the door.

  As we pass, his father goads, “Miss Teagarden, is it? Good luck, Brighton. She is not as she seems. You know it as well as I.”

  Brighton slams the door with his foot so hard the plaster cracks, and hurries down the stairs toward the foyer without a glance.

  * * *

  Jonesy

  “She must be found!” Silas grinds his teeth together and his eyes glow with a mad-sheen. Like an animal gone rabid.

  “I need Brighton and Allegra to return. That blasted boat-travesty cost me a small fortune. If one of the gentry had perished that would’ve been the end of Charleston’s Fancy. We would’ve folded. And you and your dear new Missus would be sans employment. Are you good for anything else, Percival?” His voice purrs like a taunting schoolboy. “Are those hands capable for more than pulling a bow across strings?”

  My mind flashes to my past. Callouses riddling my palms, just like my fathers. Shovels, hammers and sweat; the sound of metal on metal. My father’s promise my life would be different than his own of toil.

  I suppress a bitter smile. Silas always misjudges in his arrogance.

  “You instruct them to return—do not protest—you know their whereabouts. You tell them I shall send word to that very serious soldier that was skulking about not a fortnight ago. If I cannot have her…than no one shall.”

  I swallow and feel anger’s heat flood my face. I bite back my words.

  Money and power. How will they fight against it?

  “Percival, you blooming idiot? Do you hear me?”

  I nod. “Yes.” I stand, heading toward his study door. “I shall make sure they know.”

  “And make it soon. I have orchestrated a grand ball planned to recoup the money lost from that fiery debacle. And I need their combined talent to awe the gentry and coax them from their coin.”

  * * *

  Brighton tugs on the saddle-strap, checking its tension around the horse’s middle. We will travel on horseback rather than carriage to enable us to avoid roads, if necessary.

  “Brighton! Stop!”

  Lucy bolts toward the stables, her dress whipping and flying behind her like the Confederate Flag overhead.

  Brighton’s face is unreadable, but his eyes are wide and indecisive.

  Lucy skids to a halt, clutching his sleeve in desperation. “Please, you cannot leave me a
gain. Don’t leave me here, I’ll go mad.”

  Tears well in my eyes and I press my lips together to keep silent.

  “You are not my ward. If I take you, Father will press charges—anything to stop me.”

  Lucy’s face screws up in horror. “No! You can’t leave, you-can’t-leave. Not again, Brighton.” She sobs, her chest heaving.

  My hand automatically covers my mouth to hide my trembling lips.

  “I will run away. I will follow you.” She whirls to me. “Allegra wants me, don’t you Allegra.”

  I hold out my arms to her and she flies into them, gripping my waist tighter than my corset. I stroke the length of her glossy hair, and stare overtop her head at Brighton.

  The pain breaks across his face. “Blast it all!”

  He wrenches an axe from a nearby log and hurls it at a tree. It connects, imbedding in the bark with a woody thwaack. He stares at his boots, shaking his head, his face reflecting the indecision racing in his mind.

  “I know. I know what you’re missing about George,” Lucy says, her voice partially obscured from pressing against my middle.

  Brighton stalks over and drops to his knees before her. “What. What is it?”

  “Aren’t I as important as George? Do you love him better? Why won’t you take meeee?” She wails.

  “Oh, merciful father, Lucy.” Brighton pulls her from my chest to his, cradling her. His face is raw with a heart-stopping mix of horror and pain. “Of course you are as important as he. It’s so dangerous. Nowhere is safe now. At least here, if war erupts, you can hide—where I showed you, remember?’

  Her blonde curls shake adamantly. “I can’t stay here. No one loves me here, Bright. Not like you. Please.”

  Brighton’s eyes meet mine, questioning.

  My voice is hoarse. “I will protect her. The best that I am able.”

  Brighton’s expression is black. “We shall remedy that as well. You will learn to shoot.”

  “Jones beat you to it, I’m afraid.”