The Violet Hour by Brynn Chapman

Author:Brynn Chapman
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2015-04-14T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Burning. I feel as if I am on fire.

Heat begins in the small of my back and radiates up, tendrils extending over my arms, legs, belly and breasts, culminating in a searing cluster of pain—like a branding iron, on my chest.

I sit up too quickly and stars pop in my vision as I reach for the bedside water-pitcher, awkwardly spilling half down my shift. To douse the pyre between my breasts.

My teeth chatter violently—the world is changed. Something is off. Or wrong.

The moonlight shines through the window and outside the fireflies bob around my window like tiny lighted sentries.

Same guest room in Brighton’s cottage. My meager belongings at the foot of the bed.

I force my eyes closed and breathe deeply, feeling my nostrils flare.

I analyze my body, flexing and bending each part; the only pain is from the heat. I open my eyes and blink—my vision is unchanged.

A blast of music, an internal orchestra, vibrates the inside of my head, knocking me sideways with the force and I collapse to the bed, panting.

I had music in my mind every day, long before I could speak.

But it was always the cello which carried the melodies. It sang naturally to me, filling my days, lulling me to sleep at night.

To imagine the melodies of the other instruments was work. At times, it took months.

But now…

I force myself to listen. Listen to the inner workings of my mind.

Every instrument sings, in concert—violins, percussion, horns and chimes all meld and blend in a musical weaving of melody and harmony.

I slide from the bed and pace, frantic to find paper. To put it to paper before it leaves me. I think of Heir Mozart.

I have read everything about the man I could find. It was the only time my father ever honored a request, assisting me to every journal and paper he came across on the prodigy, assuming it would translate into coin for him.

Mozart began to play at three. I was closer to nine. I was gifted, but not a prodigy. But now…

I sway and twirl in a circle on my tip-toes, my arms raised to the heavens, astounded and awed by the sounds between my ears.

I whirl as a scuttling sound blasts the side of my head and cover my ears, crouching down, panting against its force.

My eyes tick across the floor. A mouse.

But how? A mouse could not make such a terrible, ear-crushing racket.

I must find parchment. Brighton’s supply is exhausted, he has told me so just last eve.

I fling open my door and hurry across the darkness of the parlor and out the front door. A tiny voice beneath the orchestra screams, impulsive, but this compulsion to rid my mind of the music drives me forward.

The travel through the isle’s ferns to the water and across the bay seems a dream, and I awaken to find myself hurrying down the Fancy’s thoroughfare…toward the white, flapping tent.

It almost seems illuminated, like a ghostly specter in the inky Charleston night.

My heart flutters uncontrollably.

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