Silas places the pen into my hand and a squall erupts in my soul.
My digits twitch, and the pen shatters into a myriad of fragments, skidding across his hardwood floor.
His eyes tighten; not with fear, but with discernment.
Allegra steps forward, distracting him.
“Silas, be reasonable. Even if you have Lucy, which we have no evidence that you do, we could not possibly bind ourselves to you indefinitely.”
“Oh, my beautiful dear,” he tenderly croons, reaching up to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand. “I do have proof.”
Silas stalks back to the desk and opens the drawer once again. He thrusts his hand inside and for a moment I am perplexed…I tilt my head.
Gripped in his dark palm are two long, ebony braids. Lucy’s braids.
I see nothing. I see everything. My vision swims with the color of blood.
I register crashing and screaming and a detached, moaning pain. Madness has arrived and eaten my reason and soul.
“Bright. Bright, stop!” Somewhere Allegra is shrieking. “We will never find her! Stop!”
Allegra’s sobbing pulls me slowly back, back, back into my body.
Back into my right mind.
Shattered vases and crushed glass are spread everywhere, as if the hardwood floor has given way to a glittering ice rink.
Silas’s skull is in a headlock. In my arms. My teeth rattle with a violent shudder.
I have no memory of how I’ve managed to subdue him.
I release the cad, and shove him away from me—he sprawls on his expensive carpet, now crimson with his own blood.
Allegra is instantly pressed against my side and I lift my arm to embrace her, welcoming the calming coolness of her body.
Silas looks up, murderous. He rises, wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, never dropping his gaze. “If you ever touch me again, she is dead.”
He walks slowly back and forth, evaluating us. I’d seen him examine horseflesh in much the same fashion. And that is what we were to him; possessions.
“I don’t know how you’ve come to have the strength of ten men…but I shall find out. I assure you.”
I grasp Allegra’s hand and head for the doorway. “We will not sign. If you kill Lucy, you have nothing to hold us here. We shall return tomorrow, with something written. On the night of the performance, we deliver the arrangement, and you deliver my sister. Otherwise, your skull crushes as easily as that vase.”
I kick a shard and it sails across the room to land at his boot.
* * *
Brighton stares out my cottage window at the frenzied comings and goings of Charleston’s Fancy. We have vowed not to move, till the new orchestral arrangement is complete.
His blue eyes pin me to the chair. “You need to compose. We need the music as barter for Lucy.”
I nod and swallow, thinking of our first day alone. Of the inspiration his fireworks held for me, when first I saw them against the night sky.
“Draw for me.” He continues to stare out the window, statue-still, so I add, “Draw what you’re thinking. Make it into fire.”
His eyes whip to me and I hastily add, “What choice have you?”
His jaw tightens. “None.”
Brighton sits at the desk and sets to work, his hands sketching and angling and twisting so furiously, I expect the parchment to tear.
Anger. My music must match his anger. I bristle. I avoid anger whenever possible. I do something unthinkable. I open the memory gates which house my father. He stalks through them, through the mists of my mind; his black hat and great coat damp with English rain.
My fingers touch the cello’s neck and the dance begins.
My fingers gyrate and hold on the strings, my other arm sawing, sawing against the cello’s heart.
My father’s hand, striking my face. At two, at ten, and the final time—when I fled.
The pull and burn of The Elementi against my chest.
My nostrils flare and the sounds in my heightened hearing echo; magnifying, bouncing off every nook and cranny like a grand hall’s acoustics.
The wet blast of my father’s drink in my face, streaking down my cheeks, down into my décolletage and the laughter of his bawdy, drunken earls.
“Why, my dear, can you play so beautifully, but are so bloody dense?”
The rough tap of his finger at my temple. My inability to respond.
The whole-body shaking begins—fury, helplessness, desperation and futility funneled into the quivering of every muscle.
All fades to black.
My space and time and reason is the vibrating conduit between my legs; as if the instrument burrows an avenue to my soul, spilling every vile memory where it is reborn as notes and tones and dissonance.
Staccato beats of strings. The sounds. So many sounds. Since The Elementi entered my body, my hearing is tenfold.
Amidst my music, I discern birdsong, the ebb and flow of the tide, hushed whispers down the hall…and…I cock my head.
The piece reaches the crescendo…I blink repeatedly. It’s as if my father’s drink has time-traveled, materialized on my face, somehow?
Strong, rough fingers stroke my cheeks. My eyes flick to his, but the music has captured me, and I must finish in my spellbound state. It will not release me till the final note is played.
Brighton grasps me under my chin, whispering, and “My darling. You are safe. You are here with me.”
His thick finger strokes my eyebrow, tracing one to the other, sliding across my temples to trace behind my ear, down to my collarbone. His touch is firm, but controlled. I know it to be difficult for him to manage.
Father’s voice again. The hot strike and sear of a conductor’s stick against my back.
“Expressivo!”
Play expressively. He means play expressively.
I am the family’s everything: our past, our future. Our coin, our livelihood, all riding on the back of a tiny seven-year-old and the notes she squeezes from her tortured mind.
A choked sob and a fresh reprise of tears, each drop an encore of pain and memory.
“Shh. Shh.” Brighton kneels before me, his hands about the cello’s neck, trying to extricate it from my frenzied fingers. “Shh. Allegra, come back to me. Leave that black place in your mind.”
He tugs roughly; I release the cello and the music ceases with a jangled halting of strings. The silence in the room is deafening.
He eases himself into the cello’s place between my legs and gently kisses my cheeks. Soothing murmurs escape his lips, each word bathing and tending my wounds. “Never go there again. Please.”
I sob and nod and allow myself to be folded into his warm embrace. His hand slides up to cup the back of my neck. After a long moment, he eases me back out of his arms to stare into my eyes. I whisper, “The Elementi heals physical pain…but not the soul.”
Brighton’s voice is gruff, but determined. “The piece is…breathtaking. And heartbreaking. Are you able to remember it?”
I roll my eyes and he laughs loudly. The first laugh I have seen in weeks.
He grasps my hand and leads me to the writing desk. “Transcribe it for the rest of us. But please…do so without bringing back the source of inspiration.”
I begin the blackening of notes between the lines and grind my teeth.
I whisper, “This is the last bit of my soul that beast shall get from me. For Lucy.”
Brighton nods grimly. “For Lucy.”
Chapter Twenty
“Do you hear that?”
Brighton eyebrows pull together in vexation at my question.
“Of course you don’t.” I cock my head and stride to the window, inclining my ear.
A trickle of sound, playing and calling through the wind.
My newly-forged ears discern discrete tones; individual voices recur, bouncing through my mind like a musical refrain.
I whirl to stare at him, my breath matching my beating heart.
“Lucy. I can hear her.”
Brighton’s face drains of blood and he reaches for the wingback to steady himself. “You hear her? What is she doing? Where is she? We must go to her.”
His grip tightens, pushing down on the chair and I hear a snaap.
“Brighton. Your hands.”
He stares at his hands as if they belong to another—but quickly shakes his head and releases it. His eyes remain unfocused so I continue.
“It isn’t like that. I cannot discern words. Just the…tone of her voice. It’s the timbre.” I bite my lip, fearing another tirade. “I believe she was…crying.”
Brighton shakes his head angrily; I watch, enthralled as the hopeful openness of his expression hardens into his usual mask.
His hands firmly grip my shoulders, and he steers me back toward the open window.
His deep voice is at my ear, “Listen, my darling. Find her.”
I close my eyes, trying to keep the cacophony of sound at bay.
Intonations abound. Birdsong—variant and vibrant, hundreds of unique songs issued from individually-formed beaks. I push them aside.
The sea. The roar and whisper of the tides. I submerge them.
Insects—the buzz of bees about the white garlands surrounding the guest house. Smothered.
If I allow the din of sound free reign, I will most assuredly go mad. My heartbeats wildly. Each and every breath, sigh and laugh would become a continuous pressing drone, paralyzing me.
My world is now an auditory fabric, each individual a weave in the constantly undulating tumult of sound.
Brighton senses my hesitation. “All is well. You are well. You master it. Find her, Allegra.”
I shake my head and plant a picture of Lucy firmly in my thoughts. Her ebony curls and long dark lashes, hiding those round chocolate eyes. Her throaty laugh.
I swallow and press down the cacophony till it is a low roar.
Her voice arrives, arising and undulating as a silver sparkling thread, standing out and shining above the drone below.
I bear down and I feel the vibration of the silver thread, weaving through the air—an auditory trail of breadcrumbs. I smile and feel Brighton’s grip tighten.
“Ouch.”
“I am sorry.” He releases my shoulders.
“I can find her. I…have a trail.”
His mouth turns up in awe and relief colors his features. “Show me.”
* * *
“This night, all needs to be perfect. Do you understand me, Mr. Jones?”
Silas stalks before us and Sarah quivers beside me.
“I wish to see Allegra. I refuse to help you anymore until you take us to them. How do we know they are even here? Or alive?” Sarah’s bottom lip quivers.
We have not seen Allegra nor Brighton since they disappeared the other night.
“Mrs. Jones. I assure you, your friend is quite safe and quite well.” Silas walks back and forth in our bungalow, swinging that blasted white cane. I imagine pinning him to the ground, pressing it against his windpipe.
“After all, one day, I intend Miss Teagarden to be my own. Why in the world would I harm her?”
“She will never submit to that. Give herself to you,” Sarah spits, then quickly covers her mouth.
Silas’s eyebrows rise and eye me menacingly. “You would be surprised what one would do…or sacrifice, on behalf of one’s friends. Or lovers.”
The hairs on my arm rise. Devil.
A protective surge rises in my chest—like that of a brother for a sister.
You shall not lay one filthy finger upon Allegra. I vow it.
He continues staring at Sarah till she squirms in place, “I need not her love. I merely wish to possess her. Love is for the weak-minded. But I would not expect either of you to understand that.”
He lunges like a cat, yanking Sarah into a stronghold. A silver knife glints, pointed at her shapely throat. I freeze.
“You see, Jones? Your love for her makes you vulnerable. Makes you weak.” He releases her, shoving her roughly so she stumbles and I catch her in my arms.
Seething, violent hatred pulses through my veins and I vault at him.
“No. No. That is what he wants, Percival.” Sarah clings to my arm and I halt, chest still panting as I attempt to control the blinding rage. Her fingernails dig into my forearm.
“Continue with the masquerade preparations. The gowns, the food, all must be perfect. The Governor is set to attend. And I suspect some other royal guests.”
Plimpton had mysteriously arrived yesterday with an arrangement whose style could only be from Allegra. No Allegra. No Brighton.
“We’ve only had the new symphony a day. You are mad to play it so soon. Many of those musicians are new to Charleston’s Fancy, “I protest.
He twirls the end of his moustache. “I am quite confident between yourself, blustering Plimpton and Miss Teagarden, you will carry the show.”
Sarah sighs in relief at her name. That we shall soon see her.
The whinny and clip-clop of arriving horses on the cobblestones bade us all stare out the window. A large party has arrived on horseback.
I squint, trying to make out the newcomers, but Silas steps in front of me, blocking my view.
He backs out the door, wisely not taking his gaze from mine. After the door is shut, Sarah bursts into tears. I pat her, but stare through the drapes, to see if I recognize the party, but they have all swiftly moved out of sight.
“I have had a letter from Brighton.”
“What? How?”
“The little boy. The one Allegra gave lessons to?”
“Yes?”
“He brought it round not an hour ago. He wishes us to take and hide his sister.”
Sarah’s lips pursed. “I do not understand. We saw her early this morn?”
I place both hands at her elbows. “Silas has abducted Lucy, and they have discovered her location. And…they wish us to keep her with us, till they find safety. To keep her from harm. If they deviate from Silas’s directions, it will reveal their plans. But…he isn’t watching us so closely.”
“Where are they going?” she whimpers. Sarah’s eyes fill and spill over as she blinks.
“He didn’t say. They may not know.”
“Do you really think they are safe?”
“No one is safe while that man walks the earth.”
* * *
Next eve
I sit in my orchestra chair upon the riverboat deck with Déjà vu strong and cloying in the hot air. The new boat cost a small fortune, one Silas was no-doubt, anxious to recoup.
I run my fingers through the curls in my hair. Brighton assisted me in dying it black to further my disguise—we look more like brother and sister than husband and wife.
My scalp tingles remembering the feel of his strong hands in my hair as he massaged in the color. We sat in the warm bath, my back draped against his chest. I flush despite the fact we wore our small clothing.
The ways of husband and wife were not wholly unknown to me. My mother was sure to explain it to me before she disappeared. Though some of the dance remained mysterious. I find myself pondering it despite the danger.
My face blushes hot beneath the masquerade mask. Brighton’s touch makes my normally shy disposition evaporate. I picture my body as a flower, opening and blooming only for him.
I stare down in contempt at the dress Silas insisted I wear. It is magnificent, no doubt, but wholly at odds with who I am.
My black-gloved hands smooth the dress of black and white brocade with patterned ivy, twirling across my breasts. Blood-red roses appear here and there through the swirls, to match the red silk center of the gown.
I shiver. They remind me of drops of blood.
A jewel-encrusted mask with long black feathers fanned about my face, matching the black of my hair.
“To better hide you, my dear,” Silas had taunted.
I thought it was more likely to wield his power, to dress me like a doll t
hat he soon wished to possess.
I shiver as my eyes scan the hillside. He will kill, at least try to kill Brighton at the drop of his top hat; I know that for a certainty.
I will not, cannot, allow that. I will die before I permit that.
To give my life in exchange for love…a love that fills my soul to bursting, makes me believe in myself as I never thought possible and has turned my inner despairs to hope.
To die for that kind of love…would be right.
“Above all things, we must have hope,” I whisper.
The chair beside me scrapes the wooden deck and I gasp and summon every bit of self-restraint not to throw my arms about his neck. Jonesy.
He sits quickly, his black eyes narrowing and roving over me as if checking for injury. “My dearest peach.” He sits and squeezes my hand tight leaning in to be heard, “Words do not express how relieved I am to find you here.”
“Jonesy, “I breathe. “Sarah, is she well?”
Jones’s eyebrows rise playfully. “I should not tell you this, but I know you may away at any time. She is…” his eyes drop to my belly.
My heartbeat leaps to triple-time with elation and a twinge of jealousy. “She is pregnant. On my word, how wonderful…”
“And terrible. We, too, must escape Charleston’s Fancy.”
“And Lucy?”
“We have her, safely hidden, ready to depart.”
Droves of costumed patrons spill onto the deck. This masquerade seems decidedly more macabre than the last. A man, his mask a long, sinister, sequined beak swishes past us, followed by a woman seemingly made of gold.
Her mask-top elongates into a many-branched, pointy money-tree, which towers over her head like threatening horns.
I shiver. And feel it. The heat on my chest.
The Elementi’s draw.
Dread thumps through my chest, like an overture to impending pain.
Where is it? The water? What is drawing the element?
The bay has never drawn the element before. If it contained the element, surely so large a body of water would be unable to form a high enough concentration to produce a portal?
“Where is Brighton?” Jonesy prompts.
The Violet Hour Page 18
