The Violet Hour (8 page)

I had done so for several hours, and already felt better. I knew it ridiculous, but the thought of her pictures and my music surviving together on the page gave me solace.

A melody fills my head, full of longing and loss, crying to be put to parchment. I opened my pack, caressing my leather-bound book, now rife with my notes.

My sorrows made manifest, each tiny black musical note a smile or a tear.

Jonesy and Brighton’s voices rise, and the music in my head fades.

They are arguing. I shove the book back inside my pack and welcome both cats onto my lap, burying my face in their fur, allowing the soothing rhythms of their heartbeats and purrs to lull my pain.

I stay that way for several minutes, catching bits of their squabble, till Jonesy storms out of the barn, stomping through the brush toward the shore.

A shrill
shrieking
erupts from the barn, thickening my blood with fear. Animals screaming for mercy.

In his haste, Jonesy has left the barn door open, allowing the noise to escape onto the night air.

Brighton steps in the doorway, slamming it shut, muting the sound of their pain.

I slide the cats from my lap, fighting to control my rapid breath as I slink toward the window. Was Marietta right?

I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know.

“You must.”

I move slowly toward the barn, and the world seems to slow as I swallow hard.

I drag my hands up the bumpy fieldstone to grasp the windowsill and stand on tip-toes to peer inside.

Two large balls, attached to rods, sit on a wooden table, ridiculously reminding me of metallic dandelions. However to blow on one of these might mean an electrified-death.

Bolts of light leap between the two heads, dancing back and forth, green and red, green and red, as if Brighton somehow captured the lightning from the night sky.

There are no cauldrons, but in their stead are Bunsen burners, with purple, blue and red flames, and various bubbling solutions—so numerous they remind me of Lefroy’s lightshow.

A
screeeech
erupts, sprouting gooseflesh up my arms, into my scalp.

My eyes dart across the room.

Animals in cages. Every sort.

Monkeys, cats, dogs, birds. Many
deformed.

A monkey with an extra limb dangling from its side…a collie with a broken paw limping about its cage. A sparrow with a broken wing frenetically battering against its cage, panic-stricken. My eyes stray back to the monkey. So like a
human
. I have only ever seen one during a visit to the London Zoological Gardens.

What is he doing with them? Did he hurt them
?

I stare as Brighton lowers the flame beneath a solution then removes it; placing it with metal tongs onto the rough-hewn table.

A rabbit lay beside it on the table, its shallow breathing a prelude of things to come. I shiver, almost feeling death as it hovers, waiting in the room.

My hands clench, and I will myself in place. Not to barge in.
He will not hurt it.
Please do not let him hurt it
. It is so delicate and helpless.

I raise my hand to wrap on the stained glass at the same moment he takes a dropper and eases four drops of shimmering liquid into the pathetic creature’s sagging mouth.

For a moment, nothing. I wonder if he has somehow put it out of its misery. But then—

Furry legs
tap-tap-tap
and almost drum against the table and shoot out straight as the rest of its body quivers like it takes to a palsy.

I hold my breath—my hand poised, still ready to rap the glass.

Its white ears flop and it shakes wildly as if the lightning’s current trembles through its furry body.

It
convulses;
ears flapping,
as the top layer of skin undulates like some invisible wave laps beneath. And then…

I blink repeatedly and my eyes water from being open wide, so very long.

A myriad of sparkling points, the size of pinpricks, seemingly
burst
through its skin and are gone in the space of time it took me to blink.

My hands cover my mouth in awe and terror.
Have I imagined that?

The creature rolls and tentatively sits up.

Brighton’s face is guarded. Not smiling, not frightened…just cautious.

A hidden someone or
some-thing
shuffles behind a divider in the back of the room. My breathing puffs out in hard, sharp gasps.

The shape of it is…human. Almost. The man is crooked and bent, like the Magnolia trees swaying in the breeze behind me.

The fireflies arrive, streaking through the air like a trillion-tiny-twinkling bits of stars, fallen from the sky, attaching to his barn

They descend, swarming close to my hand. A few crawl onto my neck and I panic, swatting at them and swear I hear a hiss.

I back away from the window, swiping violently at the air.

“His laboratory.
It is
a laboratory.”

I step back further, breathing hard.

Their lighted bodies form a buzzing horde—crawling up the windows, flitting about the roof, teeming on the chimney.

I blink and rub my eyes. The lab winks and twinkles with their eerie luminescence.

I walk backwards, my eyes fixated, my legs tense, preparing for flight if they should alight and descend on
me
.

Something or someone scampers from the other side of the barn. I back up too quickly, stumbling.

Did it spy me?

I feel the ferns brush the back of my leg—I’ve reached the edge of the woods. The cats leap to the windowsill, meowing and calling back and forth to one and other in a guttural feline symphony.

And then…my heart stops for a tick then surges hard and loud, filling my ears with its beat.

It begins again. The synchronized dot, dot, dash of their sparkling insect bodies. My mind screams with the travesty of nature and I swallow, fighting back tears.

This is significant
. I feel it to my core. It is no random event.

A type of communication.

I’d been fascinated by Father’s telegraph machine and from an early age, begged, prodded and whined till Monsieur Lafayette, father’s chief of security, had sat me down and taught it to me. It was a curious interest for a girl, but he had lost his only daughter to influenza, so I held a particular, singular soft spot in the burly man’s heart.

I extract the journal from my bag, watching, repeating and recording the sequences of light, scribbling them down.

Thunder crashes and the first drops of water tap on the top of my head.

In a swirl of black, churning clouds, the storm arrives, dumping buckets of rain into the forest.

I shove the journal back in my bag and turn and dash for the shore.

Chapter Seven

“How much longer till the Shoot the Chute is completed?” Peter, one of my builders leans over my blueprints, his eyes squinting against the late afternoon sun. We are in the shadow of the guest house, but not enough for his liking.

Silas appointed me my own drawing room within the house, to use for any construction project…but there is an air of malevolence in that building. So I always draw outside, much to Peter’s chagrin.

“I would say within a week. Shorter if we had more men.”

Silas has been making cuts wherever possible, making his grand projects virtually impossible to complete.

Peter rubs his cheeks, as he does when he is considering. “Do you know any other soul in this God-forsaken place who could lend a hammer?”

I smile slightly. “Perhaps. We’re done here, I will check with you at day’s end.”

Peter nods and tips his hat, “Right.” He glances up at the guest house, “Don’t get into any trouble till I see you again. Do you think you can manage that?”

I smile back, “Sometimes trouble needs getting into.”

Peter shakes his head, already walking away. “You are a trouble-magnet, LeFroy.”

“Indeed.”

I stare toward the smattering of tiny cottages, and wonder what she is doing. I have no right to wonder, but I shall just the same.

I try to force out the image of her playing the cello away, but it is seared into my mind like a branding iron. She is utterly breath-taking, of course…but that does not explain the insistent need to be in her presence. I have fought it since the first moment I laid eyes upon her, distancing myself.

My life is so complicated; it would be cruelty to bring her into it. But that does not stop the longing. My mind returns again and again to her faulty finger. It is a minor malady, but it pains me to think on it. I wish to alleviate her suffering…protect her.

I grind my teeth together. “This is not productive. Nor helpful.”

I startle and stare around to see if anyone may witness the witch talking to himself. Yet another reason to condemn me. Madness.

I pick up my instrument and stare at it, willing my hand to apply the right amount of force as I touch it to the parchment.

It shatters instantaneously and I curse, whisking it away before ink ruins my work.

I sigh, grind my teeth and extract another.

I stare at the plans, beginning to make changes, but raised voices from the porch above halt my fingers mid-sketch.

“Officer, I will assure you once again. No such person is employed or has been to Charleston’s Fancy.” Silas’s voice is unnaturally high and formal. If it were not someone of import, I know he would rip the man’s head from his shoulders.

I turn and squint. A soldier, by the look of the uniform, stands nose to nose with Silas.

I gather up the drawing and retreat closer to the house, out of sight, but still within earshot.

“My Lord will pay you for any and all information pertaining to this person.”

“I understand. If I see or have a patron matching your description, I assure you I shall be in touch.”

Worry tickles the back of my throat.
Is it she?

I must find the story of her past. My longing rears its head excitedly—that I must now speak to her. Must find out.

I gather my belongings and press my lips together. This must be handled carefully.

* * *

I am spying. Once again. A common voyeur. My mother always warned that my curiosity must be curbed.
What is it about LeFroy?

I have been enamored before, of course, with local boys whom Father immediately forbid me from seeing; for fear they would distract
me
from my music, and
he
from his primary asset. Also my music.

A revelation strikes and a shiver courses my spine.
LeFroy makes me forget my music
.

For a time anyway. That has never, ever happened before.

The notes, the tones, the stories I weave into the sound have long been my respite from the suffocation that is the real, crushing world.

Despite his aloof nature, despite his oft-surly words, something about the slight upturn of his mouth, the hint of playfulness in his words, betray there is much more to him. A kinder self. That he is steadfastly hiding. From me and from the world at large.

I step off the thoroughfare and into the woods, despite Silas’s ardent warnings, and head in the direction of the Shoot-the-Chute. I first came across it the other day when I decided to try to find the drawings in mother’s book.

She was fascinated with sketching bodies of water. Both here, in Charleston, every place I ever played, and in our homeland.

I happened on the Shoot the Chute, half-completed, several weeks prior.

I have practiced my excuse for searching him out; we still have two more shows to compose. Only one is finished.

Brighton has been steadfastly avoiding me, and if I wish to see him, I know I have a choice of three locales; the shoot, the gradual lighting of the Guest House, or the isle.

My mind replays the rabbit spectacle from the other eve.
Did he heal that rabbit?
It was a breath from death. I bite my lip.

LeFroy is engineer, electrician and resident master of pyrotechnics.

He is not, however, an apostle, able to resurrect the dead.

The man is obviously brilliant. “And obviously trouble,” I whisper.

My eyes steal to the night sky, clear as the toll of the church’s bell, and intuitively know if the dusk is cloudless, he toils somewhere, carrying out the business of Charleston’s Fancy. If the night were stormy, I would no doubt find him on the rocky isle.

His soul is restless. I have never seen him still for more than a moment.

When he sat transfixed by my music was the only time I’ve seen the veil over his features lift. But I was too transported by my own notes to stop.

The scraping of saws and of axes hitting trees reaches my ears. I head in a straight line toward the sound, taking care to slink behind the thick overgrown trees.

The brush thins into a clearing and I see Brighton and…I squint.
Jonesy
? Whatever is Jones about? I took Jones for a musician, only—not a laborer?