Read Online The Violet Hour by Brynn Chapman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brynn Chapman
Ads: Link
reaches my ears. I head in a straight line toward the sound, taking care to slink behind the thick overgrown trees.
The brush thins into a clearing and I see Brighton and…I squint. Jonesy ? Whatever is Jones about? I took Jones for a musician, only—not a laborer?
Behind them is the Shoot-the-Chute, almost complete by the look of it. My eyes steal across it; a long stairway climbs the back to the tallest tower I have ever seen, where passengers may wait beneath a roof for the ride of their life.
My eyes jump down the greased boards where the boat will plummet and splash into the sound and my heart immediately pounds with fear at the prospect.
I am not fond of heights.
“How many more, Brighton?” Jones calls, startling me.
I ease myself behind the tree till only my eyes peak around.
“Why, you tiring out on me friend?” Brighton’s tone teases.
Jonesy wipes his forehead, and halts chopping the massive tree he’s apparently going to fell. “I can go as long as you. Longer. Just wondering so I can pace myself—”
Craaak!
My head whips to the sky, searching for lightning. Nothing. Still clear.
Craaak!
The tree lurches left. But there’s no wind?
The trunk splits.
“Jones!”
The next moments blur. Brighton bounds across the clearing, leaps over the downed logs and is over Jones before I’ve had time to bellow a warning.
The tree is sailing towards his head. Jones dives to the dirt, but his legs are still in its crushing path.
And somehow. I blink, shaking my head, my heart vibrating my ribs with the staccato beat—Brighton stands over Jonesy.
The tree slams across his shoulders, buckling his knees, sinking his feet ankle-deep into the clay, and I cry out—instantly covering my traitor-mouth.
I hurry toward them, forgetting myself.
The trunk snaps in half as it strikes his shoulders, the top half heading towards Jonesy’s head.
“Jones!” he screams again.
Jonesy’s eyes widen and he rolls right as the evergreen top collapses so close an outlying branch slashes his face.
Brighton pitches off the massive trunk, sending it flying, no cartwheeling , as if it he were flicking a bloody matchstick.
He extends his hand to Jonesy, still supine on the ground.
They clasp hands and soon Jones is righted, vigorously dusting mud and wood from his trousers.
Joney’s eyes narrow. “That was entirely too close. Apparently I shall not trade my violin for the lumberjack circuit.”
Brighton pulls him into a quick, fierce hug and releases him. “No, my friend. No more felling trees for you.”
I come to my senses just as I’ve reached the forest threshold, one more step and I will be starkly visible in the moonlight and lanterns.
Chest heaving, I lean against the tree, waiting.
Jonesy’s gaze is serious, but does not match the wild fear and awe I feel pinching my own.
That blow would’ve, nay should’ve, killed any man. Yet here he stands.
My conscious whispers, ‘Witchcraft’.
I shake my head, willing away the words.
“You weren’t exaggerating,” Jones says, bending to pick up his axe.
Brighton’s face is grim. “No. I wish I were. But it certainly came in useful today, no matter how odious its origins.”
“Sorry about the tree.” Jones says sheepishly. “It has been awhile since I left the farm.”
“Not to worry my friend.” Brighton’s eyes are sweeping the forest line and I take another step backward, fear filling my mouth.
“What is it?” Jones says, his posture immediately shifting to attention.
Brighton’s eyebrow rises. “I don’t know. Never you mind. Let’s finish this.”
I spin and bound through the thicket, ignoring the tear and hot sting of thistles against my arms.
LeFroy really may be a witch.
And my friend, my very dear friend, is a party to it.
* * *
I cluck to the horse, and angle her down the cobblestones, heading toward the bay and the shipyards. The customs house, situated at the pinnacle of a very long stretch of road, I suspect was
The brush thins into a clearing and I see Brighton and…I squint. Jonesy ? Whatever is Jones about? I took Jones for a musician, only—not a laborer?
Behind them is the Shoot-the-Chute, almost complete by the look of it. My eyes steal across it; a long stairway climbs the back to the tallest tower I have ever seen, where passengers may wait beneath a roof for the ride of their life.
My eyes jump down the greased boards where the boat will plummet and splash into the sound and my heart immediately pounds with fear at the prospect.
I am not fond of heights.
“How many more, Brighton?” Jones calls, startling me.
I ease myself behind the tree till only my eyes peak around.
“Why, you tiring out on me friend?” Brighton’s tone teases.
Jonesy wipes his forehead, and halts chopping the massive tree he’s apparently going to fell. “I can go as long as you. Longer. Just wondering so I can pace myself—”
Craaak!
My head whips to the sky, searching for lightning. Nothing. Still clear.
Craaak!
The tree lurches left. But there’s no wind?
The trunk splits.
“Jones!”
The next moments blur. Brighton bounds across the clearing, leaps over the downed logs and is over Jones before I’ve had time to bellow a warning.
The tree is sailing towards his head. Jones dives to the dirt, but his legs are still in its crushing path.
And somehow. I blink, shaking my head, my heart vibrating my ribs with the staccato beat—Brighton stands over Jonesy.
The tree slams across his shoulders, buckling his knees, sinking his feet ankle-deep into the clay, and I cry out—instantly covering my traitor-mouth.
I hurry toward them, forgetting myself.
The trunk snaps in half as it strikes his shoulders, the top half heading towards Jonesy’s head.
“Jones!” he screams again.
Jonesy’s eyes widen and he rolls right as the evergreen top collapses so close an outlying branch slashes his face.
Brighton pitches off the massive trunk, sending it flying, no cartwheeling , as if it he were flicking a bloody matchstick.
He extends his hand to Jonesy, still supine on the ground.
They clasp hands and soon Jones is righted, vigorously dusting mud and wood from his trousers.
Joney’s eyes narrow. “That was entirely too close. Apparently I shall not trade my violin for the lumberjack circuit.”
Brighton pulls him into a quick, fierce hug and releases him. “No, my friend. No more felling trees for you.”
I come to my senses just as I’ve reached the forest threshold, one more step and I will be starkly visible in the moonlight and lanterns.
Chest heaving, I lean against the tree, waiting.
Jonesy’s gaze is serious, but does not match the wild fear and awe I feel pinching my own.
That blow would’ve, nay should’ve, killed any man. Yet here he stands.
My conscious whispers, ‘Witchcraft’.
I shake my head, willing away the words.
“You weren’t exaggerating,” Jones says, bending to pick up his axe.
Brighton’s face is grim. “No. I wish I were. But it certainly came in useful today, no matter how odious its origins.”
“Sorry about the tree.” Jones says sheepishly. “It has been awhile since I left the farm.”
“Not to worry my friend.” Brighton’s eyes are sweeping the forest line and I take another step backward, fear filling my mouth.
“What is it?” Jones says, his posture immediately shifting to attention.
Brighton’s eyebrow rises. “I don’t know. Never you mind. Let’s finish this.”
I spin and bound through the thicket, ignoring the tear and hot sting of thistles against my arms.
LeFroy really may be a witch.
And my friend, my very dear friend, is a party to it.
* * *
I cluck to the horse, and angle her down the cobblestones, heading toward the bay and the shipyards. The customs house, situated at the pinnacle of a very long stretch of road, I suspect was
Similar Books
