Almost. The man is crooked and bent, like the Magnolia trees swaying in the breeze behind me.
The fireflies arrive, streaking through the air like a trillion-tiny-twinkling bits of stars, fallen from the sky, attaching to his barn
They descend, swarming close to my hand. A few crawl onto my neck and I panic, swatting at them and swear I hear a hiss.
I back away from the window, swiping violently at the air.
“His laboratory. It is a laboratory.”
I step back further, breathing hard.
Their lighted bodies form a buzzing horde—crawling up the windows, flitting about the roof, teeming on the chimney.
I blink and rub my eyes. The lab winks and twinkles with their eerie luminescence.
I walk backwards, my eyes fixated, my legs tense, preparing for flight if they should alight and descend on me .
Something or someone scampers from the other side of the barn. I back up too quickly, stumbling.
Did it spy me?
I feel the ferns brush the back of my leg—I’ve reached the edge of the woods. The cats leap to the windowsill, meowing and calling back and forth to one and other in a guttural feline symphony.
And then…my heart stops for a tick then surges hard and loud, filling my ears with its beat.
It begins again. The synchronized dot, dot, dash of their sparkling insect bodies. My mind screams with the travesty of nature and I swallow, fighting back tears.
This is significant . I feel it to my core. It is no random event.
A type of communication.
I’d been fascinated by Father’s telegraph machine and from an early age, begged, prodded and whined till Monsieur Lafayette, father’s chief of security, had sat me down and taught it to me. It was a curious interest for a girl, but he had lost his only daughter to influenza, so I held a particular, singular soft spot in the burly man’s heart.
I extract the journal from my bag, watching, repeating and recording the sequences of light, scribbling them down.
Thunder crashes and the first drops of water tap on the top of my head.
In a swirl of black, churning clouds, the storm arrives, dumping buckets of rain into the forest.
I shove the journal back in my bag and turn and dash for the shore.
Chapter Seven
“How much longer till the Shoot the Chute is completed?” Peter, one of my builders leans over my blueprints, his eyes squinting against the late afternoon sun. We are in the shadow of the guest house, but not enough for his liking.
Silas appointed me my own drawing room within the house, to use for any construction project…but there is an air of malevolence in that building. So I always draw outside, much to Peter’s chagrin.
“I would say within a week. Shorter if we had more men.”
Silas has been making cuts wherever possible, making his grand projects virtually impossible to complete.
Peter rubs his cheeks, as he does when he is considering. “Do you know any other soul in this God-forsaken place who could lend a hammer?”
I smile slightly. “Perhaps. We’re done here, I will check with you at day’s end.”
Peter nods and tips his hat, “Right.” He glances up at the guest house, “Don’t get into any trouble till I see you again. Do you think you can manage that?”
I smile back, “Sometimes trouble needs getting into.”
Peter shakes his head, already walking away. “You are a trouble-magnet, LeFroy.”
“Indeed.”
I stare toward the smattering of tiny cottages, and wonder what she is doing. I have no right to wonder, but I shall just the same.
I try to force out the image of her playing the cello away, but it is seared into my mind like a branding iron. She is utterly breath-taking, of course…but that does not explain the insistent need to be in her presence. I have fought it since the first moment I laid eyes upon her, distancing myself.
My life is so complicated; it would be cruelty to bring her into it. But that does not stop the longing. My mind returns again and again to her faulty finger. It is a minor malady, but
The fireflies arrive, streaking through the air like a trillion-tiny-twinkling bits of stars, fallen from the sky, attaching to his barn
They descend, swarming close to my hand. A few crawl onto my neck and I panic, swatting at them and swear I hear a hiss.
I back away from the window, swiping violently at the air.
“His laboratory. It is a laboratory.”
I step back further, breathing hard.
Their lighted bodies form a buzzing horde—crawling up the windows, flitting about the roof, teeming on the chimney.
I blink and rub my eyes. The lab winks and twinkles with their eerie luminescence.
I walk backwards, my eyes fixated, my legs tense, preparing for flight if they should alight and descend on me .
Something or someone scampers from the other side of the barn. I back up too quickly, stumbling.
Did it spy me?
I feel the ferns brush the back of my leg—I’ve reached the edge of the woods. The cats leap to the windowsill, meowing and calling back and forth to one and other in a guttural feline symphony.
And then…my heart stops for a tick then surges hard and loud, filling my ears with its beat.
It begins again. The synchronized dot, dot, dash of their sparkling insect bodies. My mind screams with the travesty of nature and I swallow, fighting back tears.
This is significant . I feel it to my core. It is no random event.
A type of communication.
I’d been fascinated by Father’s telegraph machine and from an early age, begged, prodded and whined till Monsieur Lafayette, father’s chief of security, had sat me down and taught it to me. It was a curious interest for a girl, but he had lost his only daughter to influenza, so I held a particular, singular soft spot in the burly man’s heart.
I extract the journal from my bag, watching, repeating and recording the sequences of light, scribbling them down.
Thunder crashes and the first drops of water tap on the top of my head.
In a swirl of black, churning clouds, the storm arrives, dumping buckets of rain into the forest.
I shove the journal back in my bag and turn and dash for the shore.
Chapter Seven
“How much longer till the Shoot the Chute is completed?” Peter, one of my builders leans over my blueprints, his eyes squinting against the late afternoon sun. We are in the shadow of the guest house, but not enough for his liking.
Silas appointed me my own drawing room within the house, to use for any construction project…but there is an air of malevolence in that building. So I always draw outside, much to Peter’s chagrin.
“I would say within a week. Shorter if we had more men.”
Silas has been making cuts wherever possible, making his grand projects virtually impossible to complete.
Peter rubs his cheeks, as he does when he is considering. “Do you know any other soul in this God-forsaken place who could lend a hammer?”
I smile slightly. “Perhaps. We’re done here, I will check with you at day’s end.”
Peter nods and tips his hat, “Right.” He glances up at the guest house, “Don’t get into any trouble till I see you again. Do you think you can manage that?”
I smile back, “Sometimes trouble needs getting into.”
Peter shakes his head, already walking away. “You are a trouble-magnet, LeFroy.”
“Indeed.”
I stare toward the smattering of tiny cottages, and wonder what she is doing. I have no right to wonder, but I shall just the same.
I try to force out the image of her playing the cello away, but it is seared into my mind like a branding iron. She is utterly breath-taking, of course…but that does not explain the insistent need to be in her presence. I have fought it since the first moment I laid eyes upon her, distancing myself.
My life is so complicated; it would be cruelty to bring her into it. But that does not stop the longing. My mind returns again and again to her faulty finger. It is a minor malady, but
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