The Violet Hour (23 page)

I hear Brighton murmuring in time with the flashes and growls of thunder. “One, two, three.”

But the lights above are fading. The storm is moving away. The time between flash and rumble lengthening.

And then I see it. The pearly white of the oyster shell lying on the bank, an animal’s supper, discarded.

Brighton follows my gaze, but even as his mouth pops open to protest, I stoop and boldly sweep it into my outstretched palm, holding my breath, awaiting the prickle and burn and tightening in my chest.

His eyes are wild and bright as he holds his breath.

But nothing. I give a tentative smile.

I exhale through my clenched teeth and manage, “You may pronounce me cured.”

Chapter Seventeen

“Lucy, please. Please be reasonable.”

My sister sits at the scrubbed wood table, wringing her hands like a woman thrice her age. Her eyes are wide and frenzied, like an animal trapped.

“Don’t you see, Bright? I cannot go back there. Please,
pleease
. Do not make me go back to him. There is nothing for me there. Just a bunch of ghosts rattling around that huge empty estate.” She stands, pacing violently.

“War is coming. Allegra’s father’s soldiers inch closer every day. Silas is a madman and I am never here, ever on the search for George.”

Her chest picks up the pace of her feet and then her voice catches. “When you
are
here, you see me. You look right into my eyes and ask how I am.” She stands and walks around the room, dragging her hand past vials and pipettes as if they were the loveliest things in the world.

She paces faster and faster. “I shall go mad if you send me back. I will run away. Anywhere is better than Morelands. Your tiny cottage feels a palace to me, because there
is love
here.”

I feel the prickle of rage spread from my neckline to my face.

How shall I ever protect her? What if I fail her, like I failed George?

Fear and pain are the true culprits; but my learned response is to channel any weakness into a
useful
emotion. So, anger it is.

I allow my head to drop into my hands and rub my temples. “Let me think, Lucy.”

She dashes across the room and plops into the chair opposite me, leaning over the table to snatch my hand away from my head.

Our eyes meet and hold. “Please, my dear brother.”

Reflected in them are a myriad of memories; a tiny Lucy, the highlight of my days after my mother passed on.

Her rolling playfully in the grass with George, like she was a boy.

Her picking wildflowers, presenting them to me, as a salve to my soul as miniature wars erupted between father and I.

She and George were my anchor to innocence.

A silent reminder of who I was before mother past, before my father went drunk with the Elementi’s power.

I sigh. “At present, my only solution is to ask Jonesy and Sarah to take you when and if they depart Charleston. Till Allegra and I can…can give you a
safe
place to be.”

She nods, but tears fill her eyes. “Without you. Without Georgie. I might as well be alone till I’m old and gray, because no-one, nowhere, will ever make me forget you.”

I pull her onto my lap and wrap my arms about her, inhaling deeply the clean scent of her hair. As I have since she was old enough to toddle.

Bartholomew walks into the room, his gait growing stronger every day. My conscience prickles and I sigh. “Barty, I am off to the mainland. Please be sure Miss Lucy does not leave the premises, except in the company of Percival Jones.”

He nods. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

I startle awake to the sound of Sarah’s gentle snoring from across the hall in the dark. She insisted I sleep here tonight-afraid I would disappear once again.

I have not told her about Brighton, something holds me back. And after the fight with him…I welcome the quiet space of our cottage, for what may be Sarah and mine’s final night together.

I dreamt of puzzle pieces, filled with bits of lightning and fields where the downy flower heads were made of blinking fireflies. Magnolias, of course.

My mind refuses to let it go, even when asleep. The clues all fit together, somehow.

My chest burns and I scratch at it and frown.

The pendant is hot against my skin. Why? What makes it so?

Light flashes out the window and I hurry over to draw back the draperies and my breath catches.

The fireflies. They swarm about my porch, spiraling down the posts and along the railing like blinking decorative lights. They have
found
me. Dread fills my mouth.
They never depart the isle.

I step outside and fight the vertigo that erupts from being in their ever-moving midst.

They
swarm
over me, clustering me from head to toe.

I remain very still, closing my eyelids as they congregate over every inch of my skin, stifling my whimper at the troubling, scratchy feel of their insect bodies. They are warm, but still too reminiscent of the whisper-walk of a million tiny spiders.

Without warning they depart, returning to their original position. The flashing strobe re-lights the porch.

I clutch my chest, catching my breath to stare at them.

A decided,
patterned,
repeated flashing. They are communicating once again.

Brighton said the element healed. And changed the intelligence of any being it touched.
What do they know, that I do not?

I run inside, grasping my mother’s journal and begin to scribble the pattern of dots and dashes as sweat forms on my nape and trickles down my spine.

The twinkling swarm takes flight and I rush to the railing, gripping it to stay upright. I
feel
their departure; as if when together, the element inside me, and inside them, meld to become one stronger field.

A thought chills my blood.

Am I drawn to anything…or anyone who houses the element?

Like human magnets?

The lights now bob and weave and flit down the thoroughfare, past the Guest house and out into the bay, heading back in a tumbling mass of sparkles toward the isle.

I flip open the Morse code book Jones procured for me and set to work. My eyes sting as the sweat pours from my brow and I dab it with my dress.

My fingers finish their decoding and I sit back, blinking, tilting my head in discernment.

I read it once again. To be certain.

“Come to me, Allegra. Mind the magnolias, child. They always keep secrets.”

I drop the book as if slapped and shoot to stand, shaking all over. I clutch the porch rail and battle the swooning blackness.

Sarah appears at the doorway, her face the milky-white of fear. “What is it Allegra?”

“It’s her. They brought a message from her. I must find her.”

* * *

I stride into the bedroom with Sarah right behind me. “Please Allegra, what is going on? Speak to me?”

I whip open the armoire, my hand searching through the dresses till I feel the familiar fabric brush my fingertips. I haul the dress unceremoniously out and cast it across the bed.

“Fetch me your sewing kit, please?”

“Allegra—”

I grasp the Magnolia on my dress. The dress I wore the day I fled father. My only dress from home.

“I shall rip it if you do not make haste!”

Sarah bolts across the hallway to her room and returns with the kit, which she brandishes at my face. “Here. What is
happening?
”

I extract a tool and begin to pick at the stitches that surround the magnolia patch. I had to work diligently; my mother had been an excellent seamstress.

“Allegra, please!” Sarah’s face in pinched in fear.

“You should fetch Mr. LeFroy. Tell him I need him.”

Sarah huffs and stamps her foot. “I will not
budge
until you explain.”

At her words the final stitch gives way. My breath catches.

Concealed behind the patch is a carefully folded piece of parchment. My mind races back to my mother scolding the ladies maid.

“Take care with Allegra’s patches. Do not get them wet, the colors will run.” Then after further consideration, “I shall wash them myself. Never you mind.”

I smile and feel the sting of tears. “You clever little liar. Water would ruin the parchment.”

“What are you on about? You are going daft.” Sarah begins to pace, her dark red hair bobbing this way and that. “I always knew it would happen.”

I extract the parchment and her eyes grow wide, resembling chocolate saucers.

My hands shake and my heart clenches, fearful I shall tear the paper.

I open the folds to reveal my mother’s perfect script.

An overwhelming sense of joy engulfs my soul; like she is present, stroking my hair, murmuring her reassurances.

Indeed, like she whispers in my ear, from beyond her watery grave.

Tears spill over and I carefully place it on the bed and then wipe my eyes, fearful to smudge the ink.

“Is that? Is that from Lady Manners?” Sarah voice shakes.

I nod, unable to speak and lift it with the care I’d give a broken animal.

Allegra. I would never leave you without good-bye, my darling girl. So if you have found this, something has happened to me. My sketches. Visit the ones with the doors. Stay strong. I love you with every beat of my heart
.
I shall see you soon.

My chest heaves and a wail breaks my lips. It is like her hand is in mine, giving me the familiar, reassuring squeeze, our silent communication used so many times when under duress, the touch meant
; I love you. Stay the course
.

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.