The Violet Hour

by Brynn Chapman

  My throat itches and burns as if scorpions jab and jag the length of it from my mouth to my gut.

  Free-falling. My stomach leaps. How?

  Splaaaash. My head, beneath water. Warmth and wetness and pressure along the length of me. Like a massive, wondrously warm bath.

  My face breaks the surface and his arms encircle me, floating me on my back, but keeping me close.

  My chest slowly, slowly, slowly, begins to open—the invisible fist loosening its grip.

  I gasp, my mouth open and working, beating back the flickering blackness. My ribs ache, fighting to expand against the dead-weight.

  “That’s it, my dove. Breathe, Allegra.”

  Lifting again, floating. Swirling.

  The itching disappears. I swallow. My throat feels utterly normal. Better than normal.

  I inhale deep soothing breaths, ignoring the light tap-tap-tap of the raindrops on my upturned face.

  I open my eyes. Brighton floats me around a small pool, hidden beneath a canopy so thick the sky is almost entirely shut from view. A natural greenery tent of thorns and thistles.

  His eyes are bright and terrified and his mouth a taut, hard line. I smile, trying to ease them.

  “I’m alright.” I stretch my legs, my fingers, my toes. “I am better than alright.”

  Any and all pain has fled my body. My finger is perfect, and I flex it against my palm in the water. A symphony explodes in my mind, my fingers twitch, automatically grasping at the notes. It is then I notice the smell. Sulpher.

  And I see the pinpricks of light above the thistle canopy and had mistaken them for stars in my previous delirium.

  My breath intakes as I realize the fireflies swarm over the thistle hut, their iridescent bodies sparkling like sunlight upon snow.

  Brighton releases me and I try to find my footing as my head dips below the waterline. A bit of the bitter water leaks into my mouth.

  It is continuously warm. How is that possible?

  “There is no bottom, tread water and swim to the side. It’s…very deep.” There is something ominous in his voice. He looks angry.

  “Brighton. I feel.” I search for the precise word. “Marvelous. Like I’ve never felt before.”

  He sighs heavily, then the words pour out so fast I strain to catch them. “Yes. I had no choice. You stopped breathing. And I just. I just couldn’t let you go. Not yet. Not when I must get to know you Allegra. I may be no better than my father to intervene in your passing.” He shakes his head. “No. I’m through with half-truths. I must have you, Allegra.”

  My heart expands in my chest, next to bursting. But a seed of fear burns at its beating center. “Brighton. Nothing would make me happier. But, what is this pool? I have so many questions. And I need the answers.”

  My mind flutters to my mother’s sketchbook. Had she seen this pool as well?

  We have reached the side of the pool and we clutch its stony sides, our feet treading below, hidden in the murky water.

  His voice is so grave, gooseflesh rises on my skin. “I only wish to protect you. My secrets are dangerous. If I tell you, you too, will be at risk. That is why I resisted you; I never wanted to bring you into…” His eyes sweep the pool, the fireflies. “All of this. I will tell you a piece at a time, keeping you as safe as I can. Can you accept that proposal?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “These pools are the reason I am on the isle. No one knows of them. It is vital you not reveal their location. You may find you’ve developed…new traits from bathing in its water.”

  A tingle of fear slithers up my spine. “How so?”

  “It is different for everyone. Come to me with whatever it is, and I shall try to explain.”

  He smiles widely. “Your hair. The water removed all traces of the Henna, and your eyebrows as well.” His voice is gruff. “It’s lovely to see you, as you—Allegra Teagarden. Your hair is the loveliest shade of strawberry-blonde.”

  I smile in return but it falters. “My fingers are beginning to tingle.”

  “Ah. We need to get out of the water.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Burning. I feel as if I am on fire.

  Heat begins in the small of my back and radiates up, tendrils extending over my arms, legs, belly and breasts, culminating in a searing cluster of pain—like a branding iron, on my chest.

  I sit up too quickly and stars pop in my vision as I reach for the bedside water-pitcher, awkwardly spilling half down my shift. To douse the pyre between my breasts.

  My teeth chatter violently—the world is changed. Something is off. Or wrong.

  The moonlight shines through the window and outside the fireflies bob around my window like tiny lighted sentries.

  Same guest room in Brighton’s cottage. My meager belongings at the foot of the bed.

  I force my eyes closed and breathe deeply, feeling my nostrils flare.

  I analyze my body, flexing and bending each part; the only pain is from the heat. I open my eyes and blink—my vision is unchanged.

  A blast of music, an internal orchestra, vibrates the inside of my head, knocking me sideways with the force and I collapse to the bed, panting.

  I had music in my mind every day, long before I could speak.

  But it was always the cello which carried the melodies. It sang naturally to me, filling my days, lulling me to sleep at night.

  To imagine the melodies of the other instruments was work. At times, it took months.

  But now…

  I force myself to listen. Listen to the inner workings of my mind.

  Every instrument sings, in concert—violins, percussion, horns and chimes all meld and blend in a musical weaving of melody and harmony.

  I slide from the bed and pace, frantic to find paper. To put it to paper before it leaves me. I think of Heir Mozart.

  I have read everything about the man I could find. It was the only time my father ever honored a request, assisting me to every journal and paper he came across on the prodigy, assuming it would translate into coin for him.

  Mozart began to play at three. I was closer to nine. I was gifted, but not a prodigy. But now…

  I sway and twirl in a circle on my tip-toes, my arms raised to the heavens, astounded and awed by the sounds between my ears.

  I whirl as a scuttling sound blasts the side of my head and cover my ears, crouching down, panting against its force.

  My eyes tick across the floor. A mouse.

  But how? A mouse could not make such a terrible, ear-crushing racket.

  I must find parchment. Brighton’s supply is exhausted, he has told me so just last eve.

  I fling open my door and hurry across the darkness of the parlor and out the front door. A tiny voice beneath the orchestra screams, impulsive, but this compulsion to rid my mind of the music drives me forward.

  The travel through the isle’s ferns to the water and across the bay seems a dream, and I awaken to find myself hurrying down the Fancy’s thoroughfare…toward the white, flapping tent.

  It almost seems illuminated, like a ghostly specter in the inky Charleston night.

  My heart flutters uncontrollably.

  Sounds are deafening. Crushing. I wince, again and again—I hear too much.

  The cicada’s call, the cry of gulls, the crunch of the stones beneath my boots…my eyes quickly flick to the Spanish moss dangling from the oaks. I swear I hear a spider, crawling through its mossy tendrils.

  That. Is not possible.

  But is it? Anything and all seems possible with The Elementi.

  I struggle, erecting a barrier inside against them, against the pain.

  They dampen slightly and I smile.

  I reach the tent and sigh. It is almost dawn. Light’s pink fingers are showing at the horizon as if a giant, grasping the rim of the earth.

  Silas insisted the instruments be left here in the tent, safely tucked in their cases for today’s rehearsal. Or to assure their owner’s would not be escaping this night, a
s rumors of war intensify.

  I drop to my knees and click open the case. A violin rests inside.

  I instantly see and hear and feel the notes of the symphony dance behind my eyes and across my skin like a million tiny musical breaths, waiting to be born.

  My fingers twitch to touch the neck. I know how to play it.

  My eyes skip over the cases, one by one, and my fingers twitch out the notes, each instrument, each note, like a breath released.

  I smile, but my lips tremble in a terrified quiver. I can play them all. Now.

  I lift out the violin, slip it beneath my chin…and the dance begins.

  The remaining night passes in a haze; my fingers upon every string, every neck, pounding out each beat like a musical debauchery.

  Hours later, my fingers and shoulders sore and screaming, I collapse in the tent’s center. My white dress tangled across my stretched, empty form.

  I feel warmth as I am cradled against a chest. I snuggle closer with the familiar smell as Brighton takes me away, back into the night.

  Back to the isle.

  * * *

  Three days later

  Silas turns to face Plimpton, giving him a rare audience. The conductor squirms under his scrutinizing gaze.

  “So you are telling me, Plimpton, Miss Teagarden reads the score once, and plays it from memory?”

  “Yes, sir. She can play all the parts, from one look. She plays every instrument.”

  “Balderdash,” Jonesy says. His face is still and smooth but I recognize the terror in his eyes.

  “Jones, have you ever seen such ability? You are close with Miss Teagarden?” I add, trying to dissuade the greedy glint in Silas’s gaze.

  “She is a gifted cellist, yes. But this ability you claim…” Jones hedges.

  “I have witnessed it with my own eyes!” Plimpton is red-faced and sweating as he blots it with his handkerchief, his own piggy-terrified-eyes never leaving Silas.

  “Calm yourself, Jakob. I believe you. But I shall have to see for myself. This makes Miss Teagarden even more valuable. Indispensable, even.” Silas paces, rubbing his hands, undoubtedly seeing the coins spin out from her cello as was Rumplestiltskin’s spun gold.

  Jones and I exchange a significant glance. A single muscle twitches beneath his eye.

  “Bring her to me,” Silas commands.

  “She is ill,” Jonesy spits, too fast.

  Silas’s eyebrows disappear beneath his blue-black hair. “Well, then I shall fetch a physician. I must see this for myself.” He turns to me. “LeFroy, is your new symphony and accompanying celestial star-show complete?”

  I thrust the papers into his hand.

  His eyes scan the music, and he flips it to Plimpton. “Copy this, and distribute it—it’s your new production. One week.”

  Plimpton dabs his head once again, his mutton sideburns quivering. “Yes, sir.” He lumbers from the study.

  “I shall send for the doctor,” Silas says, turning to leave the room.

  Jones and I follow without needing a word. This is all my doing. My gut clenches with guilt and a fierce protective surge lights in my chest.

  I must get Allegra away from here. This instant.

  * * *

  I am dreaming. Of sharkskin. The leviathan swims past me, rubbing against my wrists. I am drowning in a swirl of white magnolias descending to the sea bottom. My heart goes apoplectic and then surges crazily.

  My eyes flutter open as my heart has scrambled up my throat to beat in my mouth. Where am I?

  I blink, befuddled, trying to recall the past day’s events.

  Brighton insisted I stay here on the isle, to monitor any new abilities that might transpire after my bath with the Elementi. So that he might offer counsel, having been through it himself.

  Sarah is aghast, but I vowed her to silence. It has been risky, getting back to the isle after orchestra practice without being noticed by Silas. It is Sunday. No practice today.

  Rough scratching on my wrists. I blink and blink, trying to clear the bleary film which seems to coat my eyes and finally manage to wrench them wide.

  It was not sharkskin in my dream. The orange tabby cat—its scaly tongue licks the inside of my wrist. The feline glows in the dim room. And it is naught from the moonlight. It is brighter, more vibrant; as if the morning sun shines upon its fur. My breath intakes. I hold my arm aloft, flexing my fingers before my face.

  A slight glow erupts and twinkles upon my normally-sallow skin. Like Mother-of-Pearl.

  “What am I?”

  The Elementi heals, improves…but is mankind meant to possess it?

  I take in deep breaths, trying to calm myself.

  I stare out the window. More rain, more lightning.

  The fireflies flit into my room through a slit in the window-sill and quickly wrap around both wrists. I freeze, holding both hands up, slowly rotating them back and forth in disbelief. They blink on and off in a pattern. Communicating once again.

  Brighton said, anything that ingested the element would be changed, its normal abilities enhanced. My eyes flick between the tabby and the fireflies. A prickle of unease sets in my chest. These creatures mean me no harm, and they warned me. Warned me to stay away.

  I must relearn Morse code.

  I ease back down into my coverlets, placing my arms crossed on my chest, afraid of hurting them and equally afraid of why they are about my wrists.

  Waves of panic shudder through my limbs. My breath hitches hard as I squeeze my eyes closed, fighting the panic.

  I hear a door open and my muscles go rigid. “Who’s. Who is there?” My eyes fly open.

  The footsteps falter behind the door. It creaks open to reveal the crooked man. Barty, is the name Brighton had called him.

  The whites of his eyes, contrasted against his black skin make him more daunting, more dream-like.

  I flip my legs to the bed’s edge and shake my hands—resulting in a blinding white exodus from my wrists as the fireflies disperse.

  “Please don’t get up, mam. You might hurt yourself. Master Brighton says you are not yet well.”

  His speech is perfect. My eyes trail over him; his spine is bent, his right leg drags. His neck crooked to one side as if in a permanent shrug. But something is different from my first glance, weeks ago through the windows.

  I swallow. “I am Allegra.”

  He smiles and all apprehension leaks from my muscles, leaving me weak.

  “I know who you are. I am Bartholomew.”

  “Are you Mr. LeFroy’s servant?”

  His eyebrows knit tight. “No, mam. Mr. LeFroy, does not believe in servants. I earn my wages and stay of my own accord. Somebody has to look after the crazy fool.”

  My mind whirls through recent headline: Harper’s Bazaar has run articles about Abraham Lincoln and his views of slavery. In the back rooms of Charleston, one word is whispered: secession. The battle over humans. It sickens me. If I am ever free, I will fight so they shall be also.

  Brighton appears behind him and claps Bartholomew on the back. His face is taut and guarded, as if he fights an underlying worry.

  “Bartholomew, I need a word with Miss Allegra—but don’t go far—I need to speak to you as well.”

  “You are an abolitionist.”

  His face is placid, evaluating my reaction. “Yes, its blasphemy here. Don’t say it too loud or I may find myself strung from a tree.”

  The fireflies flit about the room, and he ignores them.

  I huff, and stare directly at the swarm, hovering near the window.

  He opens the armoire to extract a steamer trunk and begins whipping clothes pell-mell inside it.

  “Going somewhere?” My face grows hotter with every flung garment. Could he be leaving me? Sweep me off my feet, save my life and leave me?

  “Yes, and so are you.”

  “Brighton—I cannot leave—I—”

  He turns to stare, his face rigid. “Your father’s soldiers are sniffing everywhere.
Literally. I saw them with dogs today in Charleston. And now, Silas has learned you have a particular talent for memorizing music—is it true?”

  “Why, yes. I always could. But now—one glimpse and it all appears in my mind. And every instrument. However did he know?”

  “Plimpton must have been watching you the other night in the tent, and now he’s told Silas. He has deemed you indispensable. Which means he will do anything, anything to keep you here.” His face is taut and his mouth pulled in a grimace.

  “Silas is very dangerous. I fear for your safety.” He bends to pick up black boots. “And your chastity.”

  I stand and my head swoons. I collapse back down.

  He sighs. “Blasted element. We must go. Barty!”

  * * *

  The dingy rises and falls on the white wave tips, cutting toward the mainland. I keep my eyes on the horizon, my queasiness still present and accounted for in my belly.

  Nausea. My mother was very ill with me when pregnant. A longing stirs; I shall never have a child. Not while I am under the constant threat of my father’s yoke.

  A yearning tickles as I regard Brighton’s broad shoulders, his beautiful black curls. I wish. I would wish for a child with him.

  Brighton stares up at the lightning and his lips move, driving away my never-possibles.

  “Are you counting the flashes?”

  His eyes stay steadfastly fixed upon the sky. “Yes. And how quickly the thunder arrives after the flash.”

  My anxiety and hope burn a hole in my chest and I blurt, “I have so many questions. The cats, the fireflies—why do they cling to me now?”

  His eyes tighten. “I will explain, Allegra. I owe you that, but there isn’t time now.”

  “And. And those books?” My guilt seizes my tongue and the words spill out. “I’m so sorry. I took the books. I read them. I don’t understand half of what I read—but it seems bad. Like a sort of black magic.”

  He laughs bitterly and his voice rises, his eyes violent. “It is science. Not magic. However to some, it might seem to be one and the same.” His eyes cast to the heavens. “Its origin may be celestial, however.”

  We reach the dock and mercifully, no one is there.