The Violet Hour

by Brynn Chapman

  But what does that mean? That she shall see me when I expire?

  I shiver.

  I nod, tucking it away and turn to Sarah. “I do not understand what is happening. Much of what I’ve seen…I do not wish to endanger you any more than I already have, my friend.”

  Sarah’s mouth works with unformed words, but her expression shifts. “Whatever you think be best. I trust you. We shall take Lucy when the time comes.”

  I hug her quickly and whisper, “Thank you. Please go find LeFroy.”

  I quickly scribble a poorly fashioned map, derived from my mother’s sketchbook and thrust it into her hand. “And do give him this.”

  We hurry outside and in moments are breathing in the dense, night air.

  Sarah squeezes my hand as we stepped from the cottage porch. “Allegra, please, please do be careful.”

  I look over my shoulder, already breaking into a run. “I will.”

  I tuck the sketchbook in my pack and bound for the pond.

  One of the three ponds in Charleston, surrounded by Magnolias.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I run so fast my legs burn and protest at the pace, but I haul my skirts higher, bobbing and weaving through the tight forest path. The only sound of the early-morning air is my labored breathing.

  The sun is coming up, breaking through the clouds; dim streaks of pink light break through the forest canopy.

  A hot, tight breeze blows against my back. The sun will not last.

  I worry my lip, searching my memory. My mother’s tirade, the angriest I had ever seen her, when I had misplaced my earring.

  “You must wear them always, do you understand me?”

  She had shaken my shoulders until tears formed in my eyes. My mother was gentle as a doe; but that day, her fingernails dug like talons into my flesh.

  I had found it of course. And lost one again on the day of my flight.

  The burning in my chest becomes a hum.

  I break through the clearing that gives way to the pond. My heart pounds in my ears.

  I am struck with déjà vu. I recognize this body of water.

  My mother had been here. Had seen it, had sketched it. We had been to Charleston two other occasions, while I toured. It must’ve been the first time she had captured the pond perfectly on parchment.

  I flip open the sketchbook, rustling the pages till it appears.

  A door is sketched at the bottom of the paper. And below it the words, The Violet Hour.

  For a moment, the world shrinks to a pinprick and I stand still, sucking in the hot, dense air. Slowly the light expands, returning to my vision.

  Lucy called it that as well. Had they met, somewhere, while we visited?

  I search my memory, rifling through our trips. And a random thought presents itself. My mother, returning to my guest room, after wandering about, sketching. “I met the most delightful child and her nanny. She was by the water where I was sketching, and Allegra, you would so like her. She—”

  And my father had walked in. She had not brought her up again, and truth be told I have never thought on it twice…till this very moment.

  I flip furiously through the pages, searching, searching.

  And. Very small, at the bottom of a separate page…is Lucy. A younger, tinier Lucy—but the resemblance could not be coincidence. She had met Lucy. Who had told her about the water? About the Violet Hour.

  The sun blazes bright, streaming through the Magnolia trees.

  The pond ripples as if shivering as the light gently touches the surface.

  Sunbeams bath the blossoms and the clearing alters. A strange purple hue emits from the trees, through the bounty of Magnolias, casting itself upon the surface of the water.

  The bubbling intensifies, and a low roaring sound, like an approaching cyclone, envelopes the clearing.

  The scene with the Blacksmith reappears on the surface.

  “With the Violet Hour, there is no need to for the lightning? The concentration of The Elementi is strong, here.”

  The searing on my chest becomes unbearable and my hands clasp the Magnolia pendant, ripping it off in my haste.

  I toss it about in my palm. It burns. It is not my skin reacting.

  The pendant is hot to the touch.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What is going on?”

  I jump at the sound of his voice. Brighton has arrived, his eyes adhered to the water’s surface.

  “Brighton, I believe it’s a door.” The revelation rings in my head like a bell. “A gateway, like your father said.” Confusion twists my thoughts and I bite my lip. “My mother. She knew about them. She..met Lucy. It is why she drew a door beneath the water.”

  Images flit across the surface. A blacksmith, striking and molding, shaping and melting. And I see it again.

  “My mother’s skirt.” I thrust out my finger to point it out to Brighton. Brighton’s eyebrows knit together. “But I do not understand. There is no lightning. I thought it only opened with the lightning, in ponds with large concentrations of the element? Causing a chemical and electrical fusion?”

  Brighton’s eyes flick back and forth across the surface and it see the familiar depth that appears when he is ciphering. “Give me the pendant.”

  I tip it into his hand and he holds it aloft. The sunlight bends; its beams seem to intensify and strengthen and separate, all converging to hit the pendant. His hand shakes as the rays grow hot, but he doesn’t budge.

  The violet color intensifies as the sunlight filters through the Magnolia blossoms.

  “Your pendant. For the door to open. Don’t you see?”

  “No! What do you mean?”

  The blacksmith has finished his task, and plucks a tiny something from a mold and places it in my mother’s outstretched hand.

  “Light has a frequency. Each color, its own distinct frequency. The color violet, a pond with enough concentration of the element will…also open the door.”

  “But George. I thought you worked with the electricity because—”

  “The current does open the door. But only a certain voltage, a certain amount of The Elementi in the water. Lightning is drawn to the element, and George…was so full of the Elementi…the lightning followed him.”

  “What?” My throat constricts.

  My mother is handing the blacksmith a towering stack of coin, her palm closed around whatever he has placed there.

  “Lightning struck him. And he disappeared while in the water.” He nods toward the pond. “He traveled directly. There was nothing left of him.”

  “I was wrong. My way, we are dependent on so many factors out of our control. The weather, the correct pond. But your mother’s way…my guess is the earrings have enough concentration of the element, to open any door.”

  His fingers closed around the pendant as the light streams from his fist, bouncing off the trees and onto the bubbling surface of the pond.

  “But why does it not open now?”

  “You have but one earring. You need the match.”

  The wind shifts and with it, the sun falters. It mars the image in the pond and I drop to my hands and knees peering into the water. “Momma. Momma how did you know? How did you figure it out?”

  My mother’s hand opens, and it the center, is my pair of earrings.

  “She had them forged of The Elementi. To draw you to the doors. To draw you to her. She planned to leave all along.”

  My bottom lip trembles. “Merciful heaven.”

  Relief, like crystal-pure droplets of sanity, flow through my mind, washing away the ever-present melancholy of the past two years.

  “She didn’t drown,” I sob. “She didn’t take her own life.”

  Brighton’s free hand drops to my shoulder and he squeezes it.

  I whisper, “She didn’t leave me.”

  “She must’ve planned on taking you with her. But the door must’ve opened, and she had to pass through.”

  My eyes lift to his palm. “
She had them made in case I was left behind. Or if she died before she could take me—to show me the way. For the element to draw me. To escape father and my life of servitude.”

  My mind races back to the day of my flight. The unrelenting beck and call as we played all about Charleston. The urge to flee. It was all The Elementi. The ponds around Charleston, calling to the Pendant.

  And my mother.

  The pond rises up, an almighty wave, like an ocean swell rising then crashes so violently, we leap backward as water sloshes over the banks.

  The light above flickers and fades; the color of violet giving way to the darkness of shade.

  “The pendant is cooling,” Brighton warns.

  My mother’s face appears in the pond, her eyes directly upon me. Her speechless lips mouths, “Find it, Allegra.”

  * * *

  Brighton and I are both so lost in our own thoughts; we speak not a word as the boat skips back across the bay.

  He lifts me out of the boat and into the shadows, letting his hand linger at my waist. I lifted my eyes to his and see the fire that was present that night I first played for him. I feel a different kind of fire burn and lick my lips uncomfortably.

  He reluctantly releases me and tethers the boat to the dock but is quickly back at my side.

  We join hands and start down the path toward the cottage.

  Once under the cover of the trees, he halts. “Allegra.”

  His voice is gruff.

  “Yes?”

  His large hand cups my chin to tilt it upward and I feel my breath increase. His lips touch mine, gently at first, but then work feverishly, the need saturating every stroke of his tongue in my mouth.

  He eases my body down to the hard ground and slides his atop mine. I feel every inch of his lithe frame and my breath is so fast I fear I will expire.

  His lips find mine again and his hands wind in my hair. They move over mine with a heated fervor, a wanting, like I’d never, ever felt.

  All fades to nothing. Nothing else matters.

  Not lightning, not the orchestra, not even my music. All that remains is him.

  “My darling,” he whispers in my ear. “My fragile, perfect Allegra.” And trailed his kisses down my neck to trace my collarbone. His fingers brush my across my pendant and I shiver, my skin tingling beneath every touch.

  “You, your fragile heart. You give me courage.”

  He stops abruptly to stare, unsettling me.

  “We…have hope now, you and I.” His lips part, placing mine in the space between. One of my legs steals up, naturally wrapping around his and he moans softly. My body merely reacts to his, and I follow its lead.

  “I love you, Allegra. I am sorry. I was angry. I care not if you are the queen of England.”

  I smile under his kisses. My heart leaps and plummets and the sensation of flying fills me. Fills my heart to bursting.

  “I love you too. I have for some time. But you already know that, don’t you?”

  “I believe from the first time you pummeled me with questions…”

  His warm, large hands, slide up the length of my torso, burning their way across my stomach which contracts with his touch.

  I shudder convulsively and push closer to him. He aches to begin our dance once again—but worry plagues my mind, and I push him back.

  “Do you know what marrying me entails? My father is wealthy, cruel and bloodthirsty. He shall never stop looking for me. He will have you killed.”

  His eyes flick to the trees. “I do not fear him. He should fear me.”

  He lays his finger across my lips to quiet me. My heartbeat leaps and I struggle to continue my warnings. His presence dulls my fear.

  He kisses me again, this one full of promises and devotion. Tears well in my eyes as the lump forms in my throat.

  “We shall disappear.”

  I stare at him, my eyes ticking back and forth over his face, trying to discern his meaning.

  “I mean to keep you. If that means I am no longer Brighton Moreland, then so be it. We shall become someone else.”

  His hand slips to my face, his thumb securely on my chin, caressing my jaw. His eyelids lower, covering half of his blue eyes. “Yes?”

  The gathering tears spill over as I blink and nod, “Yes. Most definitely yes.”

  Suddenly, a caterwauling of cats that sent gooseflesh ripping across my chest.

  He is instantly rigid, instantly hauling me to stand. “For every good word, what is it now?”

  Rage replaces the tenderness on his face and his neck muscles strain as his head whips toward the cottage.

  “Lucy,” he whispers.

  He bolts, grasping me by the hand, dodging low hanging branches and leaping logs without a backwards glance.

  The cottage door is open, only half on its hinges. “Oh no. No. No. NO.” Brighton lunges forward, ripping off the door in his haste to enter. It cartwheels into the trees, ripping a slice of bark from an ancient oak.

  “Lucy!” Brighton roars, running into the sitting room. “Bartholomew?”

  I hurry to her room, flinging open the door. Her clothes are missing; not a sign she has ever been here.

  “Merciful father,” Brighton’s horrified voice echoes from the kitchen.

  Oh please oh please not Lucy, please not Lucy.

  I tear into the kitchen to behold Brighton, kneeling before…a still, supine figure upon the floor.

  “Bartholomew. My friend.” He reaches up gently to close the older man’s lids.

  “Who? What?”

  Brighton stands, his chest heaving. His eyes glow with a silver madness, and I see the pale gleam of The Elementi shining through.

  He strides across the room to the table which houses his vials and burners. He swipes up a vial and pops the top and tips it toward his lips.

  I launch—into the air toward his outstretched hand. My boot swings up as I kick the vial from his fingers.

  “Allegra!” he roars, wheeling on me.

  The vial clatters, spilling into a potted plant. The green leaves shudder and elongate, growing, stretching for the cottage ceiling. Plump, round oranges sprout and grow from its now-large limbs.

  “What are you doing?” I cry, my hands up, trying to calm him.

  “I want to be able to rip his limbs off with my bare hands!”

  Brighton’s lips pull back from his teeth and he snarls.

  My hands fly to cover my mouth and I back away, edging toward the door.

  The madness.

  Bright’s face falters as he registers my fear. His shoulders slump but his hands remain in tight fists.

  “My darling. I am so very sorry.” His chest heaves and the words stutter out.

  He opens his arms to me and I rush forward without hesitation.

  He is trembling all over. Or is it I?

  “Who took her?” I mumble into his chest.

  His hands stroke my hair, a motion that seem to calm him as much as it does me. “It was either Silas or my father. Which is like choosing between demons.”

  I pull back.

  His eyebrows knit in a dark line. “We need to go. We will go to Charleston’s Fancy first.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Allegra’s eyes are wide with fear, but her shoulders set with determination. My love and pride for her swells, and a deep gratitude, that someone so deeply good, could love the likes of me.

  I stride down the thoroughfare with all the self-control I can muster.

  Heat radiates from my spine; billowing out to my arms and legs in a never-ending pulsation. The abnormal strength is difficult to tether. I oft find my fists flexing of their own accord. As if my appendages were mere marionettes to The Elementi.

  I grind my teeth at the need to destroy something, anything.

  The cool touch of Allegra’s hand on my arm slows my pounding heart and lessens my lock-jaw by a fraction.

  “Easy, my love. Many are watching.” Her voice, like her music, is warm and smooth as honey.
/>
  She struggles to keep pace with my strides. She is right, workers eye us as we pass-dropping their stares when I glare back headlong.

  I stride into the Guest House, past Silas’s security.

  “Mr. LeFroy? Mr. LeFroy, do you have an appointment?” the guard prompts, hurrying out from behind the counter.

  I whirl on the stairs and he halts, taking a step back as he stares at my eyes. Which I know, glow with The Elementi.

  “I. Am going to see Silas. I do not recommend you interfere, Charlie.”

  Discretely, Allegra moves past me on the stairwell, out of his reach. She now hurries up the stairs and down the hallway without waiting.

  I catch up and pass her to throw open Silas’s study door.

  A woman screams and bolts into a neighboring bedroom.

  Silas stands, a wicked smile twisting his lips as he rearranges his disheveled clothes.

  His voice is tauntingly serene, “Mr. LeFroy. Miss Teagarden. Welcome home!” He spread his arms wide.

  Allegra shivers beside me and I fight the urge to wrap my arms about her.

  I will myself in place, trying to halt the disturbing images invading my brain.

  I am very, very close to ripping Silas limb-from-limb.

  The problem with this frequently over-used phrase is with The Elementi, this is an all-too possible reality.

  “Silas. Where is Lucy?” My teeth chatter with the fettered rage.

  His sickly smile widens. “My, she is a precious peach.” Lust colors his lips as he gives them a quick lick. “Just ready to be plucked,” His lips popping on the p sound.

  I launch at him.

  Allegra pelts her tiny body between us, her hand pressing against my straining chest like a butterfly’s wing. “That is what he wishes, Brighton. Do not give him a reason to hurt her.”

  Silas’s eyebrows rise. “Perceptive, Miss Teagarden. Now shall we talk contracts?”

  Silas hauls open a desk drawer to brandish a parchment, which he thrusts into my hand. “This document binds you and Miss Teagarden to Charleston’s Fancy for as long as I am inclined to have you in my employ.”