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Authors: Brynn Chapman
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it pains me to think on it. I wish to alleviate her suffering…protect her.
I grind my teeth together. “This is not productive. Nor helpful.”
I startle and stare around to see if anyone may witness the witch talking to himself. Yet another reason to condemn me. Madness.
I pick up my instrument and stare at it, willing my hand to apply the right amount of force as I touch it to the parchment.
It shatters instantaneously and I curse, whisking it away before ink ruins my work.
I sigh, grind my teeth and extract another.
I stare at the plans, beginning to make changes, but raised voices from the porch above halt my fingers mid-sketch.
“Officer, I will assure you once again. No such person is employed or has been to Charleston’s Fancy.” Silas’s voice is unnaturally high and formal. If it were not someone of import, I know he would rip the man’s head from his shoulders.
I turn and squint. A soldier, by the look of the uniform, stands nose to nose with Silas.
I gather up the drawing and retreat closer to the house, out of sight, but still within earshot.
“My Lord will pay you for any and all information pertaining to this person.”
“I understand. If I see or have a patron matching your description, I assure you I shall be in touch.”
Worry tickles the back of my throat. Is it she?
I must find the story of her past. My longing rears its head excitedly—that I must now speak to her. Must find out.
I gather my belongings and press my lips together. This must be handled carefully.
* * *
I am spying. Once again. A common voyeur. My mother always warned that my curiosity must be curbed. What is it about LeFroy?
I have been enamored before, of course, with local boys whom Father immediately forbid me from seeing; for fear they would distract me from my music, and he from his primary asset. Also my music.
A revelation strikes and a shiver courses my spine. LeFroy makes me forget my music .
For a time anyway. That has never, ever happened before.
The notes, the tones, the stories I weave into the sound have long been my respite from the suffocation that is the real, crushing world.
Despite his aloof nature, despite his oft-surly words, something about the slight upturn of his mouth, the hint of playfulness in his words, betray there is much more to him. A kinder self. That he is steadfastly hiding. From me and from the world at large.
I step off the thoroughfare and into the woods, despite Silas’s ardent warnings, and head in the direction of the Shoot-the-Chute. I first came across it the other day when I decided to try to find the drawings in mother’s book.
She was fascinated with sketching bodies of water. Both here, in Charleston, every place I ever played, and in our homeland.
I happened on the Shoot the Chute, half-completed, several weeks prior.
I have practiced my excuse for searching him out; we still have two more shows to compose. Only one is finished.
Brighton has been steadfastly avoiding me, and if I wish to see him, I know I have a choice of three locales; the shoot, the gradual lighting of the Guest House, or the isle.
My mind replays the rabbit spectacle from the other eve. Did he heal that rabbit? It was a breath from death. I bite my lip.
LeFroy is engineer, electrician and resident master of pyrotechnics.
He is not, however, an apostle, able to resurrect the dead.
The man is obviously brilliant. “And obviously trouble,” I whisper.
My eyes steal to the night sky, clear as the toll of the church’s bell, and intuitively know if the dusk is cloudless, he toils somewhere, carrying out the business of Charleston’s Fancy. If the night were stormy, I would no doubt find him on the rocky isle.
His soul is restless. I have never seen him still for more than a moment.
When he sat transfixed by my music was the only time I’ve seen the veil over his features lift. But I was too transported by my own notes to stop.
The scraping of saws and of axes hitting trees
I grind my teeth together. “This is not productive. Nor helpful.”
I startle and stare around to see if anyone may witness the witch talking to himself. Yet another reason to condemn me. Madness.
I pick up my instrument and stare at it, willing my hand to apply the right amount of force as I touch it to the parchment.
It shatters instantaneously and I curse, whisking it away before ink ruins my work.
I sigh, grind my teeth and extract another.
I stare at the plans, beginning to make changes, but raised voices from the porch above halt my fingers mid-sketch.
“Officer, I will assure you once again. No such person is employed or has been to Charleston’s Fancy.” Silas’s voice is unnaturally high and formal. If it were not someone of import, I know he would rip the man’s head from his shoulders.
I turn and squint. A soldier, by the look of the uniform, stands nose to nose with Silas.
I gather up the drawing and retreat closer to the house, out of sight, but still within earshot.
“My Lord will pay you for any and all information pertaining to this person.”
“I understand. If I see or have a patron matching your description, I assure you I shall be in touch.”
Worry tickles the back of my throat. Is it she?
I must find the story of her past. My longing rears its head excitedly—that I must now speak to her. Must find out.
I gather my belongings and press my lips together. This must be handled carefully.
* * *
I am spying. Once again. A common voyeur. My mother always warned that my curiosity must be curbed. What is it about LeFroy?
I have been enamored before, of course, with local boys whom Father immediately forbid me from seeing; for fear they would distract me from my music, and he from his primary asset. Also my music.
A revelation strikes and a shiver courses my spine. LeFroy makes me forget my music .
For a time anyway. That has never, ever happened before.
The notes, the tones, the stories I weave into the sound have long been my respite from the suffocation that is the real, crushing world.
Despite his aloof nature, despite his oft-surly words, something about the slight upturn of his mouth, the hint of playfulness in his words, betray there is much more to him. A kinder self. That he is steadfastly hiding. From me and from the world at large.
I step off the thoroughfare and into the woods, despite Silas’s ardent warnings, and head in the direction of the Shoot-the-Chute. I first came across it the other day when I decided to try to find the drawings in mother’s book.
She was fascinated with sketching bodies of water. Both here, in Charleston, every place I ever played, and in our homeland.
I happened on the Shoot the Chute, half-completed, several weeks prior.
I have practiced my excuse for searching him out; we still have two more shows to compose. Only one is finished.
Brighton has been steadfastly avoiding me, and if I wish to see him, I know I have a choice of three locales; the shoot, the gradual lighting of the Guest House, or the isle.
My mind replays the rabbit spectacle from the other eve. Did he heal that rabbit? It was a breath from death. I bite my lip.
LeFroy is engineer, electrician and resident master of pyrotechnics.
He is not, however, an apostle, able to resurrect the dead.
The man is obviously brilliant. “And obviously trouble,” I whisper.
My eyes steal to the night sky, clear as the toll of the church’s bell, and intuitively know if the dusk is cloudless, he toils somewhere, carrying out the business of Charleston’s Fancy. If the night were stormy, I would no doubt find him on the rocky isle.
His soul is restless. I have never seen him still for more than a moment.
When he sat transfixed by my music was the only time I’ve seen the veil over his features lift. But I was too transported by my own notes to stop.
The scraping of saws and of axes hitting trees
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