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be foolish. I know, if caught, I will at best, lose employment—my weak tether to freedom—or at worst, lose my life?
    If Brighton is dangerous.
    The sour taste of fear floods my mouth.
    But a hidden something in his dark blue eyes made me doubt that gruff façade.
    Jonesy would scoff and tie me to a chair for such weak reasoning, but Jonesy is not here.
    I approach the dingy and scramble into it with a quick glance over my shoulder.
    The water slops over the boat’s side, and I begin to fervently row; my thoughts straying to Monsieur Lafayette, my father’s security chief. The man was the sole reason I had ever learnt any practical task. Otherwise, I would’ve been bound to drift through this world, my only knowledge to compose music and attend tea.
    I steer the boat with confidence, picturing our many escapes to the Lake Country while father was away on business.
    Truth be told, I would not have managed my escape without him.
    With knowledge, even simple, everyday knowledge, comes power.
    The dingy approaches the isle. I hold my breath, my eyes scouring the shore but this eve, nothing appears out of the ordinary.
    The boat makes the crossing to Fire Isle quickly in the calm water of the night.
    As if the bloody rock is expecting me.
    Ridiculous.
    I shiver nonetheless.
    This is the name whispered in the parlor’s back home. Near Fire Island, Charleston. Where my mother drown. Where she took her life.
    Swinging my legs over the side, I slosh into the shallows to secure the boat.
    I turn to stare at the shore from whence I came. Snowy egrets and pelicans dot the surf, bobbing up and down like feathery buoys. But here…nothing.
    No birds.
    I secure the dingy and hurry from the water, light-headed from the steady pounding of my heart.
    Tearing my eyes away from the Charleston shore and relative safety, I slink into the foliage. The isle is like a fae place; its green ferns swallow my feet as easily as the moss which gloms to the trunk of every tree. Resurrection fern, they call it. I shiver at the pun.
    What am I looking for? This is madness.
    I finger the pistol Jonesy thrust upon me.
    Once he heard my story, he insisted I needed protection. And had insisted on training me to use it. Which had been no small feat. We’d have to leave Charleston proper for any sort of privacy.
    The rush of flowing water calls somewhere to my right. If a dwelling existed on this craggy rock, it would most definitely be near the water. I keep pace alongside it, skulking through the deep green ferns, never letting the undercurrent leave my hearing.
    My eyes dart back and forth, searching for alligators. No doubt the isle is crawling with them.
    Fire Isle. I knew why the locals called it such. Storms supposedly occurred over the island more than anywhere else in Charleston. But I had not yet seen evidence to warrant that name.
    Night birds call as dusk descends in earnest. Fear grips my chest, squeezing my airway shut.
    I have a light—but should I use it?
    Soon it shall be utterly black and I will be paralyzed, afraid to move through the wood without its reassurance glow to guide my steps.
    Fear’s metallic taste fills my mouth. The dark. I am not so fearless to be caught here without light.
    I can still see where the woods break to the beach. Embracing defeat, I pick my way through newly downed trees toward the moonlight. I bolt and soon stand on the beach, chest heaving, regretting my impulsivity. And equally detesting my cowardice.
    I hear them, then.
    Cats . A plethora of cats. Mewling and calling back and forth in an off-kilter symphony with the night-birds overhead.
    I step out of the safety of the moonlight to follow their other-worldly cries.
    I hurry closer and closer, their calls growing louder with each step.
    In minutes I arrive. They call and twirl, rubbing their furry bodies against a rambling stone cottage.
    Could Brighton live here?
    It wasn’t squalor precisely, indeed the big beautiful flowers crawling up the bricks