The Violet Hour

Not every wave is a greeting.

a novel by

Harriet V. Bronson

coming

// the book

On a street where the lights come on late, dusk is a door left open. The pond at the bottom of the cul‑de‑sac holds the sky a moment longer than it should, the fence has been missing one board all summer, and at the exact edge of the porch light something stands where the seeing gets difficult — patient as arithmetic, lifting one slow arm. It isn’t saying hello. The boy who tells stories is the only one who knows that — and no one has ever once believed him.

Be there at dusk.

The list hears everything first — the early pages, the cover, the day the book arrives. Rare letters, never noise.

One click to leave, any time. Your address goes nowhere else.

// the author

Harriet V. Bronson writes fantasy set in the violet hour — the stretch after the porch lights come on and before the dark commits, when a street holds both its ordinary self and its stranger one. The Violet Hour is her first novel. She prefers letters to introductions, and answers most of them. What she can tell you is this: there is a gap in every fence, someone is always waving from the far side, and the whole trick is deciding whether to wave back.