Read The Violet Hour for Free Online Page B
Authors: Brynn Chapman
painted it quaint, but he seemed too… grand for such a small home.
Inhaling deeply, I try to control my frantic heart as I head toward the dwelling.
Hiding in the trees, I wait, but no sign of life, no light erupts at my presence.
Emboldened, I leave the cover of the trees. The cats halt their mewling, staring at my approach.
I freeze. Out in the open, utterly exposed.
One orange striped feline tentatively approaches my leg and sniffs. Its stare meets mine and the world lurches. Its queer yellow eyes looked too deep, somehow, too expressive.
It breaks the contest and pads forward to rub and purr and wind about my leg. I bound toward the window.
I stand on tip-toes to peer through the window.
My breath exhales in relief. What was I expecting? Cauldrons? Sacrificial animals?
Reluctantly I admit, “Perhaps.”
Two microscopes, ink bottles, parchments and half-eaten plates of food litter a scrubbed wood table. As if Brighton had departed in a hurry.
He obviously had very little, or very poor domestics.
I permit my eye to slide across the open rafters. Odd contraptions hang from the ceiling and are scattered across multiple tables; metal humbugs for which I have no name. Some whirr, some seem to hum , but all are unknown.
Emboldened by the silence, I rush to the side door and slide quietly inside.
A metallic pole totters as I open the door and I lunge, catching it before it clatters to the floor. My breath escapes my lips in tiny puffs of flustered panic. One false move will give away my dangerous game of eavesdropping and skulking.
I ease the pole upright, propping it against the wall.
My heart freezes as I register the myriad of glinting silver sparkles interspersed throughout the gloom.
The room is full of them—twenty, perhaps thirty, of the silver rods lean against the walls like metallic sentries. I shiver convulsively as I picture them animating and surrounding me, holding me captive till Brighton returns.
A warm tingle begins just below my breastbone. I scratch it. I am ever prone to rashes and itches. Some dangerously so.
“What…are those?”
The breeze creaking through the eaves wakes me from the revelry. My time here is precious.
I fly to the table where two massive, leather-bound volumes lie beside a half-eaten loaf of bread.
The warmth between my breasts intensifies and I flinch. “Ooch.”
I touch the leather cover and blink and I cock my head. A tiny jolt ripples through my fingertips at first contact, but so briefly, I doubt its occurrence.
I stare at the volume and whisper the title, “ Elementi.”
I wrench it open, flipping through pages.
“Tell me everything,”I whisper to it.
My eyes halt, registering a change in the script.
On one page, the usually pristine handwriting denigrates to illegible squiggles.
‘I believe I have found the answer. If I may only find the correct amount of current, combined with the correct chemical composition…all things may be possible. And within my reach.’
Gooseflesh explodes down my arms as I shake my head.
Not witchcraft, I do not think. But it does not sound…natural .
I pause, holding perfectly still. Something has changed in my environment, but all I hear is my heartbeat in my ears.
Silence. Crickets are quiet. Cats are quiet.
Someone is coming.
I slam the volume shut and bolt toward the window, half-falling, half-scrambling through the frame. My knees scrape the stony ground and I stifle the whimper. I feel the hot rush of blood trickle down my leg and limp over to hunker down in the false comfort of the trees and high ferns.
Light flickers on the cottage and footsteps shuffle inside.
I turn and pick my way through the underbrush toward the beach, not chancing a backward glance.
I press on with my hurried limping; not pausing till my feet strike the bottom of the dingy.
My muscles ache as I franticly row and row, putting distance between me and the words.
“All things may be possible.”
Chapter Five
Silas paces
Inhaling deeply, I try to control my frantic heart as I head toward the dwelling.
Hiding in the trees, I wait, but no sign of life, no light erupts at my presence.
Emboldened, I leave the cover of the trees. The cats halt their mewling, staring at my approach.
I freeze. Out in the open, utterly exposed.
One orange striped feline tentatively approaches my leg and sniffs. Its stare meets mine and the world lurches. Its queer yellow eyes looked too deep, somehow, too expressive.
It breaks the contest and pads forward to rub and purr and wind about my leg. I bound toward the window.
I stand on tip-toes to peer through the window.
My breath exhales in relief. What was I expecting? Cauldrons? Sacrificial animals?
Reluctantly I admit, “Perhaps.”
Two microscopes, ink bottles, parchments and half-eaten plates of food litter a scrubbed wood table. As if Brighton had departed in a hurry.
He obviously had very little, or very poor domestics.
I permit my eye to slide across the open rafters. Odd contraptions hang from the ceiling and are scattered across multiple tables; metal humbugs for which I have no name. Some whirr, some seem to hum , but all are unknown.
Emboldened by the silence, I rush to the side door and slide quietly inside.
A metallic pole totters as I open the door and I lunge, catching it before it clatters to the floor. My breath escapes my lips in tiny puffs of flustered panic. One false move will give away my dangerous game of eavesdropping and skulking.
I ease the pole upright, propping it against the wall.
My heart freezes as I register the myriad of glinting silver sparkles interspersed throughout the gloom.
The room is full of them—twenty, perhaps thirty, of the silver rods lean against the walls like metallic sentries. I shiver convulsively as I picture them animating and surrounding me, holding me captive till Brighton returns.
A warm tingle begins just below my breastbone. I scratch it. I am ever prone to rashes and itches. Some dangerously so.
“What…are those?”
The breeze creaking through the eaves wakes me from the revelry. My time here is precious.
I fly to the table where two massive, leather-bound volumes lie beside a half-eaten loaf of bread.
The warmth between my breasts intensifies and I flinch. “Ooch.”
I touch the leather cover and blink and I cock my head. A tiny jolt ripples through my fingertips at first contact, but so briefly, I doubt its occurrence.
I stare at the volume and whisper the title, “ Elementi.”
I wrench it open, flipping through pages.
“Tell me everything,”I whisper to it.
My eyes halt, registering a change in the script.
On one page, the usually pristine handwriting denigrates to illegible squiggles.
‘I believe I have found the answer. If I may only find the correct amount of current, combined with the correct chemical composition…all things may be possible. And within my reach.’
Gooseflesh explodes down my arms as I shake my head.
Not witchcraft, I do not think. But it does not sound…natural .
I pause, holding perfectly still. Something has changed in my environment, but all I hear is my heartbeat in my ears.
Silence. Crickets are quiet. Cats are quiet.
Someone is coming.
I slam the volume shut and bolt toward the window, half-falling, half-scrambling through the frame. My knees scrape the stony ground and I stifle the whimper. I feel the hot rush of blood trickle down my leg and limp over to hunker down in the false comfort of the trees and high ferns.
Light flickers on the cottage and footsteps shuffle inside.
I turn and pick my way through the underbrush toward the beach, not chancing a backward glance.
I press on with my hurried limping; not pausing till my feet strike the bottom of the dingy.
My muscles ache as I franticly row and row, putting distance between me and the words.
“All things may be possible.”
Chapter Five
Silas paces
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