The Purple Girl
a story by
Audrey Kane
Illustrations by Tory & Norman Taber
Wakefield & Quincy Press
The Purple Girl
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Edition, January 2014
Copyright © 2013 Audrey Kane
Illustrations by Tory & Norman Taber
www.toryandnormantaber.com
Book Layout and Formatting by Pedernales Publishing, LLC.
www.pedernalespublishing.com
Published by Wakefield & Quincy Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014930320
ISBN: 978-0-9910283-1-3 Paperback
ISBN: 978-0-9910283-2-0 e-Book
ISBN: 978-0-9910283-3-7 Audio
Printed in the United States of America
To order additional copies of this title, contact a local bookstore or visit www.audreykane.com
With special thanks to: Heidi Giusto, Ph.D, Tory and Norman Taber, Ramona Long, Christopher Laney, Jose Ramirez, and Barbara Rainess.
For Andrew
Lauren, Ryan, and Caroline
—my whole heart
We are what we believe we are.
C. S. Lewis
The Purple Girl
England of Long Ago…
Chapter One
THE BABY
This is how the story was told to me.
When the midwife brought me into the world, she let out a scream. Hands trembling, she swaddled me in a white blanket, leaving only a small opening so I could breathe. She refused to let my mother see me until my father appeared and stood by her side. Purple mist seeped through the white blanket, staining the midwife’s fingers.
“God help us all. This baby is cursed!” the midwife cried, thrusting me into my father’s arms. She grabbed a rag and tried to scrub the stains off her hands.
As my father unwrapped me, the color drained from his face. My mother, weak from the delivery, reached toward him…or perhaps to me.
“What’s wrong?”
After a moment, he held me up.
My mother wailed when she saw her purple baby.
My father turned away from her and laid me in the cradle, far from my mother, his fingers shaking as he bundled me in the plum-colored blanket. He remained silent, wiping his purple stained palms on his pants. The stains wouldn’t stay on him forever…only a few moments…but he didn’t know that then.
“Oh, Samuel,” my mother sobbed. “How did this happen?”
My father gazed into my eyes, and when he finally spoke, his voice broke.
“We’ll call her Violet.” He stroked a tuft of my lavender hair and sank to his knees.
The midwife eyed my father before she whispered. “I can take her into the forest and bury her there, as if she never—”
My father sprang to his feet, his eyes blazing with anger.
The woman took a step back, then snatched her leather satchel and bolted through the door. My parents never saw the midwife again.
Chapter Two
THE OUTCAST
It was late in the evening, and flickering candlelight spilled from underneath the door of our cottage’s front room. When I cracked open the door, I found my father sitting at his desk with his head bent over an open book. A small fire crackled in the fireplace.
I slipped into the room.
With his head still in the book, Papa furrowed his brow.
I crept up beside him and peeked over his shoulder.
Papa jerked upright. “You startled me,” he said, nudging me away. His spectacles slipped down the bridge of his nose. His face was long like mine, his forehead high. His snowy white hair made him appear older than his years.
I spotted a velvet book-cover lying on the desk. Tiny silver bells dangled along the edges. I eyed the book again. “What are you reading?”
Papa snapped the book shut.
I tilted my head sideways, trying to steal a glance.
He pulled the book close to his chest but not before I caught a glimpse of it. “It’s covered in jewels!”
“This book doesn’t concern you, Violet.”
“All the more tempting! Please let me look at it.”
“Absolutely not. Your purple spreads to whatever you touch…”
“…and fades away once I’m not touching it,” I finished.
“This is different.” As he slipped the book back into its velvet cover, it jingled. “It’s old—the pages are delicate, and the cover is fragile.” He took off his spectacles and laid them on the desk. “And it’s late,” he said, rubbing his tired eyes.
“You’re treating me like a child.”
“This isn’t an ordinary book, Violet.”
“Ordinary books don’t have rubies and—”
“And you’re thirteen. A man has to be thirty years of age or older before reading it,” he said, frowning. “And even at that age…you will be a woman. It’s forbidden for you to even touch it.” He pushed his chair away from the desk and got to his feet. “You should be in bed by now.”
“But how did you get a book—covered in jewels?”
He turned to the bookshelf and slipped it back into place.
“And where—”
“Enough questions for one night, Violet.”
“Answer at least one. Please, Papa.”
He turned to me and sighed, his voice wavering when he finally replied. “My father gave it to me, and his father gave it to him. It is passed from father to son.”
“But you don’t have a son,” I whispered.
“Upstairs, Violet, to bed,” he said, raising his voice. “Now.”
I woke early the next morning. Before I went out into the garden, I tucked up my long skirt into my waistband so I could move easily among the rows of vegetables. I managed this way, alone, singing…protected by our cottage and the walled gardens surrounding it, the walls my father built after my birth. My little dog, Waxy, nosed my ankles.
Mama popped her head out of the window. “We’re going into the village.”
I stood stock-still. “I’m going?”
Mama nodded. “It’s time to try again.”
It was a moment or two before I took in the meaning. I brushed the lavender dirt off my skirt and darted into the cottage. Waxy trotted behind me.
Perched on my chair, I leaned toward the mirror and frowned. It was all there. Lavender eyes, purple curls, brows too violet, and cheeks too plum. No escaping. When I pulled on my coffee-colored dress, shades of violet suddenly surfaced from the brown weave and spilled through the buttons. I threw my hands up in frustration and let out a scream.
Mama appeared in the doorway. “Violet, we’ve been through this before.”
When I didn’t answer, Mama touched my shoulder. “Here,” she said, handing me a black cloak.
Spinning away from the mirror, I slipped on the cloak and pulled the hood over my head. Shades of lavender rippled through it, then deepened into plum. I shot my mother a look.
“It can’t hide you—but at least you’re not in plain sight,” she said, placing her hands on her knobby hips. “Hurry, please. We’re out of flour.” She led me out the door and past my father.
“Be careful,” he warned.
“How much trouble could I get into—a girl like me?” I asked, glancing back at him with a weak smile, hoping the tremble in my voice didn’t betray me.
As my parents exchanged a look, my mother patted the small cloth satchel at her side. “I have the knife,” she whispered.
We walked toward the bakery on a dirt road lined with twisted oaks. “Girls my age can walk by themselves,” I said, dodging a pothole.
“You aren’t like girls your age,” my mother countered. A loose strand of her mousy brown hair fell from her bun.
“Have you ever peeked in Papa’s book? You know the one—”
“What book?”
I considered telling Mama about the forbidden text, but I liked having a secret. “Oh, just a book. Nothing special.”
As voices rose from a nearby cottage, a maid poked her head out of a window. When she caught sight of me, she slammed it shut. The window locks clicked.
Mama lifted her pointy chin and quickened her step. “We are almost to the bakery,” she said, taking my hand. My purple crept up hers and then trickled up her wrist.
I pulled my hand away. “Aren’t you a little old to hold hands, Mama?” I asked with a smile.
We passed Widow Collin’s cottage and Wakefield Place and Dragonfly Hill, where thatched cottages stood closer to one another, edging the road. With the exception of green leaves brushing blue sky, the bleak town was washed in tones of dirty pail water—but it looked exciting to me.
“Two more twists on the road before we reach the bakery.” Mama’s voice wavered. “I’m proud of you, Violet, for being brave enough to try again.” We made our way down the road and past a cobbler who was setting up a stall at the outdoor market. “It’s hard being the…only one,” she whispered.
We walked by the cathedral, built in grander times, and then toward the bell-tower where a larger-than-life statue of an angel stood guard by the entrance. Her granite arms seemed to reach out to me.
My eyes dropped to her feet. Someone had painted her toenails blue! Who is the prankster? And where did he get blue paint? Biting back my smile, I slowed my step and peered past her, craning my neck toward the bell-tower that loomed overhead.
“Move along, Violet. We haven’t much time. They’ll be busy soon. The bakery will be full of people.”
I broke out in goose-bumps, understanding what she meant. People. My heart raced as she led me up the walk and to the crumbling front door.
Mama hesitated and then glanced back at me.
I drew a deep breath before stepping forward. Must not be afraid.