The Violet Hour (13 page)

“Really?” I will my face calm, but my insides tremble.

He nods. “I’m quite positive this idea is dreadful, but seem to be unwilling to stop myself.”

“I’m quite glad for your lack of self-control then.”

“I shall come to collect you at dusk.”

He shuffles backwards a few steps, his eyes holding me captive, and then swiftly turns back toward the Inn.

Jonesy registers my flushed face as I excuse my way down the row for rehearsal. I need not utter a word, he knows me well enough to guess.

“Are you
mad?
” His dark eyes regard me seriously. “Oh, laws. This will not end well.”

Marietta, too, watches me. “Allegra. That man is evil. You must stay away from him.”

“I cannot believe that,” I whisper low enough for only Jonesy to hear. “I don’t think I can.”

Chapter Nine

Evening

“Blast. He shall arrive at any moment. Hurry Jones. I should be fetching Allegra at this very moment.”

Jones glares, but says nothing.

I wrench back the threadbare curtains, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of him through the thick island foliage.
Nothing.
Just rain and green. So much green.

My father seems to skip points in time—one moment I am alone, the next, he is breathing down my neck.

“Brighton, you detest him. Why do you permit your father an audience?”

My eyes steal to the journals which litter the table and I stare Jones down.

“You know perfectly well, why.”

I stomp to the table and snatch up the leather-bound evils, shoving them into his arms. A paper slides out—one with hieroglyphics and an Egyptian eye I’ve yet to decipher. “Hide these. Now.”

Jonesy’s eyes cloud. His mouth pops open then shuts as he wrestles with the right words of chastisement.

I turn away. “I have no idea what protest is forming in that mind of yours, but he is
come
. Please!”

My face flushes with a surge of blood through my temples as I give the anger free reign; it has kept me breathing.

Through battles over slaves and state’s rights and my father’s egomaniacal need to own and control and subserviate his every desire.

Jones stalks out the door; finally taking my heed.

I
feel
it. A prickle on the back of my neck like someone watches. A craving; a beaten path to my very core—my body simultaneously worships and despises it.

I whirl, trying not to look at it.

Sweat dots my brow and my eyes dart, looking everywhere except the table. They tick, tick toward it, like time somehow lengthens.

A magnetic force calls to my soul from a supposedly inanimate substance.

My father’s voice murmurs in my mind, “
The Elementi
.”

Its radiating heat is a pyre beneath my skin
. I shiver as the air thrums with the palpable tension. Like the ghosts of Allegra’s chords still whisper around the room.

My reluctant eyes come to rest on the tin of blanched powder.

A bitter taste dread fills my mouth; months and months of work to activate it—to bring it to life.

But should I have resurrected it? Should I just move on, as Jonesy said?

I titrated, over and over, day after day. And still I am uncertain.

I pluck an empty vial from the shelf, carefully spooning the powder-mound inside.

The vial shakes as my fingers fumble and I grasp it tighter against my palm, closing my eyes.

They shoot back open and water, burning from the powder’s proximity. The smell of sulfur and rotting eggs fills my nose.

With the tip of my finger, I lift a solitary snowflake of the crusty powder to eye-level. “You…should not exist.”

My breath catches then pumps like a bellows.
Anger
and
pain
and
loss
crush my heart like a vice.

Why must my father insist on perfection?
On conquering.

His land-lust is never satiated. He thinks nothing of trampling underfoot any and all innocents unfortunate enough to step in his path.

My finger edges closer, as if an invisible magnet has lodged in my mouth, intent on ingesting the powder.

My finger moves of its own accord. Moves to place the sparkling flake upon my tongue.

“Brighton!” Jonesy shouts.

My teeth snap shut, slicing through my bottom lip. I welcome the reorienting taste of blood as the tiny piece of destruction floats to the wooden floor.

The orange cat leaps from the sill and swallows it before landing.

“
What
are you doing? You are getting worse.” Jonesy strides to me, giving my shoulders a rough shake. “The grief—it’s eating your mind. Making you daft. Perhaps. Perhaps it’s time to let go…”

Rage refires, flushing my neck, burning up the sorrow.
“Forget
? What do you know of loss? Of failure? I failed. Failed to protect him.”

Sorrow suffocates the fire under a wave of melancholy. My muscles seem infected by the despair and I collapse weakly into the chair.

Jonesy eases down too, his eyes careful. “George wouldn’t want you to be miserable, Brighton. To stop living because of what happened to him.”

My lips crack a feeble smile and one long streak of wetness escapes.

I shake my head, squeezing the bridge of my nose. “Of course not. But if there is
any chance
he lives. Anywhere. The
other place
we spoke of—”

“He is not your concern.”

The room turns red. My hands ball to fists.

My father darkens the doorway, rain streaming from his hat.

I shoot up and hear the chair clatter behind and cross the space in seconds to strike his shoulder.

It jars backward, but his eyes never waver. Never blink. They glow softly; like the mother of pearl of a clam shell. If I do not stop, mine shall as well.

“He should be my concern. Not yours. You care only for
The Elementi.
Not for people. Not for love, for family. He was
like a child
you disgusting—”

“Temper, temper Brighton.” His smile is sickening. “Your brother is beyond you now. You should return with me. Continue your research. You could do much good for the confederacy.”

“I do not prescribe to your particular brand of research? You do not wish to heal. You wish to
transcend
.”

I rise to my full height, thrusting out my chest. We stare, eye to eye.

Jonesy hovers, his hands opening and closing, unsure when to strike.

My father’s nostrils flare, his eyes narrow. “
You
have tasted the powder. I see it in your eyes. Why you almost glow.” His smile spreads wider.

The shaking spreads from my hand to my entire person. “I am not like you. I know it to be an aberration. Knowledge we are not fit to possess.”

“Humbug.”

“Greed. And vanity. And power. That is what you seek.” A bit of my spittle strikes his cheek.

He wipes it away without blinking. “Nay, that is what
I shall have
. With or without you. Once we succeed—things will change. We can be more than kings. We can be Gods.”

Jonesy’s breath intakes sharply. I know his thoughts.
Blasphemy.

I nod. “Aye, you’ll have it, no matter the casualties. I’ll end up like George. The powder’s a cheat. One must
battle
to use their life for good—reward without earning makes…someone like you.” I thrust my finger toward the storm. “Do not return.”

My father swaggers back toward the door, unflinching. “You will return home;
your people
draw you. They ask for you.” He shrugs. “You need me to perfect the formula. You have seen him, haven’t you? In your little pond. In the water.”

I will my face calm. But I know he sees inside me, my motives. He sees
everything
, like some perverted, omniscient devil.

“Even if you found a reservoir. You know it will not open.”

It shall.

“Go.” I fling open the door. The wind catches it, banging it off the cottage. Torrents of rain stream from the porch roof like a waterfall garden.

My father steps from the porch, staring straight ahead. I slam the door and Jonesy throws the bolt behind him.

Jonesy’s chest heaves. “Brighton.
Have
you seen him?”

I drop to the chair and cradle my head in my hands.

And nod.

Chapter Ten

Allegra

My behavior is highly improper. When
a gentleman
does not show for an engagement,
a lady
does not chase him down—let alone become a voyeur.

Yet, here I am, spying like a common criminal. Hunkered down in the grass beside his cottage. I might as well live on the isle for the amount of time I spending hiding on it.

I smile, basking in the horror it would cause my tight-laced, propriety-obsessed father.

When Brighton did not appear to collect me for our outing…no amount of Sarah’s screaming and ranting could hold me in the bungalow.

The cats have returned, naturally. With my first footstep from boat to isle, they find me—purring and darting in and out of the surf in their hurry to get to me. I am some odd, feline magnet.

I stare down at the yellow winding about my legs and shiver. “Apparently
you
don’t agree with the lights. That I should stay away.”

I dart through the ferns, heading directly for the cottage and grounds.

Fear is a heavy, tight ball in my stomach. But the desire to know Brighton’s secrets overrides the anxiety; a constant ebb and flow of unanswered questions drowns my mind.

The front door opens and Brighton leaves the laboratory, walking briskly toward the shore.

My heart beats wild
. Will he discover my dingy on the north shore?

I hold perfectly still, peek through the ferns, holding my breath.

He turns, heading south, away from the boat and my breath exhales in a
whoosh.
The world tilts as I wait for my heart to calm; hand over my mouth, as I fight to master the panic.

The cats wind and wind around my calves, under my skirt.

I wait until he is a speck on the horizon, and bolt toward the lab.

What are you looking for? Shouldn’t you let him confess his secrets? When he trusts you?

“I…cannot.”

It’s the lights. And the horrible contradictions.

Brighton haunts my every thought and I dream…of staying with him.

I have never met a man such as him. I hate to be so bold, even in my thoughts, but when I am near, he seems to see naught but me. I have never known such kindness, such caring from a man. And despite the Sampson-like strength he possesses, his every touch laid upon my skin, is so very careful—as if I am a delicate vase. I swallow.

But
the lights, the cats, these abnormalities
—they ruin any possibility of a future with him.

“They bloody tell me to run.”

I must know. I must banish all doubt before relinquishing the tiny, remaining bit of heart that hides from him.

I reach the lab and steal inside, my eyes sweeping.
The crooked man. Oh, my word, I forgot the crooked man. What if he is here inside?

Fear screams at me to run. I bite down on my lip, forcing myself forward.

The old leather-bound journals lie face-open beside the Bunsen burners once again.

I close the last few steps and snatch one off the table. It’s surprisingly dense and heavy and I huff as I flip the pages.

I try to think clearly—but panic buzzes; I shake my head, trying, trying to focus.

I dart back out the door, back into the brush, hugging the book against my chest.

I don’t have long
. He will return quickly I know.

I stand terrifyingly still—my mind whirling.
Where to go? Where to go?

I bound down the path deciding on the pond. After a few minutes, my chest heaves and I slow to a walk.

I search left and right to assure I am truly alone.

I walk quickly for several minutes. The trees look familiar, and there is a well-worn passage through the foliage, but the water is nowhere.
I should’ve arrived by now
.

The pond is no more.

I stare up at the Magnolia trees, dripping with Spanish moss and feel disoriented. “The pond was here. I know it.”

The direction in my head tells me it’s so—but there is
nothing
. More dirt. No silver lightning-poles.

Uncanny. The word pops in my head, alighting my neck with gooseflesh. I rub my arms, and check the woods. I am alone.

I slump to a log and crack open the book.

The handwriting in the book is pristine—nothing like Brighton’s scratchings.

My eyebrows pull together.

Jump One:
Electrons. Negative spinning. The powder has disappeared.