The Violet Hour by Brynn Chapman

feels abnormally warm, as if a fever courses through his veins.
    He reaches across me, pulling a leather strap across my lap, his lap, and the two others seated beside us. It secures by a metal hitch into the opposite wall of the boat.
    “Oh, my word,” the fair-haired girls squeaks behind me.
    I blink, surprised to see Tom, my student, next to Brighton, tugging on the strap. “Can I do it again, after this first one?”
    Brighton laughs out loud. “We’ll see, lad.”
    Excited murmurs escalate into shouts.
    A crowd gathers at the bottom of the shoot. I search through it till I spy Sarah and Jonesy’s upturned faces. Their expressions match the cloying clench of fear in my chest. Sarah reaches out to clutch Jonesy’s forearm and his hand drapes over hers.
    Brighton whispers silkily, “Steady, love. All is well.”
    Then he turns, with a boisterous bark, “Alright James, let ’er fly, just as we practiced.”
    James stares down at the crowd and on seeing Silas, clears his throat.
    Silas paces at the bottom like an expectant father. My hair on my nape rises like hackles. Money . I know he pictures the chute as a towering stack of potential coin in lieu of wood and stairs and sweat.
    He stares at the shoot, his hands rubbing together so furiously, I fear they might smoke and alight. His infamous cane is cast to the ground, forgotten for the moment.
    Leave it to that man to cheapen such an experience.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to witness the maiden voyage of the Runaway, Charleston’s first Shoot-the-Chute amusement. It was conceived by our fair owner, Silas, and brought to life by Mr. LeFroy. Without further ado.”
    James tips his hat and motions to the men to slide the boat forward.
    The nose tips and I smell the grease-lined track.
    “Oh-my-word-oh-my-word—”
    Brighton’s voice in my ear, “Relax, love.” His arm presses reassuringly behind my back, securing me tight against his side. “Don’t resist.”
    My mind reels and I bite back the response, You? Or the ride?
    The boat rocks and teeters and plummets . Sliding and growling as the bottom hums against the track.
    We are free-falling.
    My stomach leaps to my throat and crashes back to my guts in a single exhale. My hair streams from my face and my lips crack into a broad smile.
    “That’s it,” Brighton croons.
    For a glorious, brief moment I forget. Forget my father, forget the soldier, forget to fear.
    Vibration hums the seat beneath my bottom as the boat pelts forward down the track.
    Cheers erupt behind us from the platform then spread through the waiting crowd below like a wave of jubilation.
    The boat’s nose connects with a jolt and a splash and a deluge sweeps over the front, dowsing us through.
    I am laughing.
    Harder than I can ever remember.
    Happiness surges through me, watering my eyes.
    “That, is what freedom feels like.” Brighton smiles and his eyes are full of meaning. Did he mean my freedom? The northern aggression?
    “Brighton! Brighton! Look here!”
    His eyes leave mine, but the smile remains.
    A cheer erupts, “Hooray for the Runaway!”
    Silas beams as he leads the cry again, his walking stick poking at the sky.
    And the revelation strikes; the name of the boat.
    He named it after me…he knows.
    I swallow, trying to master my breathing as they steer the boat back toward the launch.

Chapter Eight

    I make my way across the grass to the gazebo, still wringing the water out of my dress. It seems the smile is now a permanent fixture of my face. I keep trying to remove it, but my muscles seem set in joy.
    I slide to my orchestra seat, barely noticing anything or anyone, still stuck in the rapture of my imagination; where the feel of Brighton’s arm and his murmurs in my ear repeat, over and over like a velvety chorus.
    Jonesy takes his place beside me, his dark complexion looking somehow sallow today. I fear for his health, but before I might enquire, Plimpton taps for attention, and several musicians make