SEVERED (A Tale of Sleepy Hollow) (8 page)

“Katrina,” Ichabod
said, snapping me back around.

“I’m-I’m sorry.
What did you say?”

His eyes narrowed
suspiciously, then he glanced into the darkness too. “I said…” He turned back.
“…you have a warm and lovely home.”

“Oh. Uh, yes.
Thank you.”

He could easily
detect my agitation. “Thank
you
. It was a wonderful evening.” He then
nodded at Brom. “Thank you both.”

As he started down
the steps, I spouted, “Ichabod!” Something was there, lurking, just out of
sight. Something or someone lying in wait.

He paused,
anticipating.

 “I –I…” How do I
start? How do I warn him?

Brom tilted his
head, annoyed. The only thing missing was an exasperated sigh.

I was about to pour
out the whole story of The Horseman – everything from the night at my window to
Garritt’s near death. But then I remembered.
Garritt. It’s Garritt who’s
marked.
Garritt’s the one in danger.
I forced a weak smile. “I was
wondering what time we should expect you on Wednesday?”

He relaxed, his
smile natural and sweet. “I hope to be here shortly after three.”

Our eyes held…a
little too long. If he saw some pleading within mine, it never showed. I looked
away.

He strode out to
Gunpowder and mounted. Then after some goading, the horse turned. Ichabod gave
us a parting wave, and they plodded off.

Once he’d ridden
out of sight, Brom caught me by the waist and pulled me aside, away from the
windows. “He’s gone now. You can stop gawking.”

I tugged at his
fingers to break his grip. “Let go.” The more I pulled, the tighter he held.

He grinned down at
me. “You know, Katrina, I’m a dreamer too.”

I struggled to
squirm free. “I’ve no doubt. Probably dreaming of tavern girls.”

He craned back and
cocked a brow. “Have you ever seen a tavern girl?”

How could his
fingers lock so tightly? “Not that I’m aware.”

“There are only
two at the River Song, and they’re as lovely as Ichabod’s horse.”

“Brom, release me
now.”

“But I haven’t
told you what I dream of.”

I surrendered,
going limp. “Tell me.”

I didn’t think it
was possible for him to pull me closer, but somehow he managed. “I dream of our
house near the river.” He nuzzled my neck. “A side porch. Maple staircase. And
a large brass knocker with the head of a lion.”

I gripped his ear
and twisted it...hard. His eyes widen in surprise.

“Get this through
your thick head. There will be no house by the river. And if, by some miracle,
there were, I’d most certainly have a say in its structure.”

He pulled my hand
away and grinned. “Sweetheart, of course you’ll have a say. You can choose the
location of our bedchamber.”

“You
are
a
dreamer.” I kicked his shin and he released me.

“Katrina, you’ll
never find anyone who cares for you as much as I do.”

I smoothed the
wrinkles from my violet dress. “Molesting me is not my idea of affection.”

“I admit,” he
said, “I don’t have the manners and education of our Connecticut schoolmaster.”
He nodded toward Ichabod’s trail. “But I can certainly provide more than
someone on a schoolmaster’s wage.”

“With Father’s
money,” I spouted.

The words hung for
a moment, then Brom stepped away, his face dark. “I think you’re forgetting
that it’s my duties as overseer that produces that money. And it’s nearly
doubled since Baltus put the farm in my hands.”

“How can I make
you understand? I don’t care about the money or being provided for. And I have
no desire to be married. Not to you,” – I nodded toward Ichabod’s trail – “or
anyone.”

He stared, jaw
jutted, then put his finger in my face. “You’ll change your mind.” With that,
he strutted to his horse, mounted, and rode off to his cabin.

Weeks,
Marten had told me.
Why must it take weeks?

* *
*

I barely slept that night, still
chilled by the unseen specter near our house. When I did sleep, I dreamt of The
Horseman, below my window – his sword…his beckoning hand. I woke twice in a
fevered sweat.

But Monday morning
finally crept in, and like every Monday it was candle day – a tradition Elise
and I started as children. We’d spend the morning dipping candles, laughing,
and catching up on gossip. Yes, even the nonsense spun by Henny.

Elise arrived,
gleeful and pert, bringing with her a satchel and the gown she’d borrowed.
“Thank you
so
much, Kat.” She laid the dress on the bed and, floating in
a daze, brushed her fingers across the emerald brocade. “It’s the color of
Ichabod’s eyes.”

She was right. It
was a close match to those eyes I’d looked into so many times last evening.

“How was your
dinner with Ichabod?” she asked. “Isn’t he’s magnificent?”

“He’s…different.”

“To put it mildly.”
She fluttered her lashes and sighed. “He’s so handsome and gallant and…and…”

“Delicious?”

“Sinfully. And
look what he brought me.” She opened the satchel and brought out his copy of
The
Thousand and One Nights: Persian Tales.

I took it from her
and flipped through the vellum pages, awing at the sketches inside. Women
peering through veils. Men in plumed turbans. Majestic palaces with spiral
domes.
“What a generous gift.”
Exceedingly generous.

Her mouth
twitched. “Not a gift exactly. He loaned it to me. But he said the tales should
play to my romantic nature.”

“Oh. He’s speaking
of romance already?” A pang of envy pricked my heart.

“Not directly. But
perhaps he feels it’s too soon to profess his love.”

I suppressed a
smile. “Perhaps.” I handed the book back and she gazed on it with love in her
eyes.

“Have you read any
of the stories?” I asked.

“Just the
prologue.” She opened to it. “It tells of a king, whose name I can’t
pronounce.” She pointed and I read
Shahrayar
. What a name. My tongue
would stumble over it too.

“This king,” she
continued, “brought young virgins to his bed each night, and then the next
morning he’d have them executed.”

“What? That’s
horrific! And not exactly what I’d deem exotic.”

“Wait.” She
pointed to another word. “This woman –” I read the name
Shahazad.
“ –
came to him. She’d devised a plan to stop the killings. Each night she’d tell
him a story, but never finish it – always leaving him curious as to what
happens next.” Elise’s eyes bloomed with delight. “After a year had passed, the
king grew to love her
and
her stories. He spared her life and kept her
as his queen.” She sighed.

“And you find that
romantic?”

“Don’t you?”

“Of course not.
The man slaughtered all those young virgins and was never punished for it?
That’s outrageous.”

Elise slumped,
tilting her head. “Kat, it’s not a
true
account.”

“But even the most
fantastical fiction should reflect real life in some way. Why was there not an
uprising? Surely the fathers of those girls would have conspired revenge.”

Elise pushed my
brocade dress aside and plopped down on the bed. “I’m sure this is why Ichabod
gave the book to me and not you. He knew I wouldn’t try to rewrite it.”

She had a fair
point. It was a valuable piece of literature. Who was I to pick it apart?
“You’re right.” I held up my hands in surrender. “Maybe we can read some of the
stories together.”

“Only if you
promise not to crusade against each one.”

“Cross my heart.”

She gazed upon the
treasured item. “Where is Persia?”

“A very long way
from here.” I hopped up, took her hand, and tugged her to a standing position.
“The fires are ready.” Then we hurried outside to the kettles and racks.

Elise snipped the
string while I attached it to the hooks. “I want to hear about
your
dinner with Ichabod,” she said.

“I assure you, it
was not as perfect as yours,” I teased.

“I never said mine
was perfect. You’re forgetting, my stupid little brothers were there. They
dominated every conversation, badgering him with questions about school. ‘Will
the assignments be difficult?’ ‘Will you allow us some play time?” And Dirk had
the audacity to ask, ‘Will you be adding a whipping post?’”

I blurted a laugh.
“Ichabod prefers bargaining over beating.”

Her eyebrows rose.
“You must’ve learned a great deal about him.”

“Just that he’s
unconventional in his thinking.”
And a breath of fresh air.

She helped me
lower the first group of strings into the wax. “And that’s what I love about
him,” she uttered.

“It’s an admirable
trait.” But there was so much more of Ichabod to discover…
if I wasn’t
sailing away.

We placed the
strings onto the rack.

“Did he bring one
of his stories to share?” she asked.

“Yes. He’s a
marvelous writer.”

Her mouth curved
into a sly grin. “A tale of debauchery?”

I laughed,
remembering that look on old Henny’s face. “Hardly. Father would’ve booted him
right back to Connecticut.”
And very nearly did.

We set about,
dipping another set of strings – the heat from the kettle warm on our faces. I
gazed out across the field, imagining Ichabod by the brook, journal and pencil
in hand. “I wonder how many stories he’s published?”

“I don’t know,”
she answered, “but I want to read them all. Or even better, lie next to him, my
head on his shoulder, while he reads them to me.”

I admit, it did
sound like a cozy pastime.

We dipped more and
more, watching the wax grow fatter.

Tilting her head,
she mused, “I wonder why he doesn’t have a wife?”

That came as such
a surprise, I nearly dropped the candlewicks. “Elise, he’s barely older than
us.”

She continued as
though she hadn’t heard me. “Maybe she died?”

“What makes you
think he should be married?”

“Because he’s
perfect.”

“I’m sure if we
look hard enough we’d find plenty of flaws.” My thoughts turned to that book of
witchcraft that he read like a Bible.

“Still” she said,
“I bet he had his pick of girls back in Hartford.” I could see the cogs in her
mind turning. “Surely one would’ve snared him by now.”

I picked up a
snippet of string and wrapped it around her ring finger. “Maybe he was waiting
for you.”

She admired it
like it was a gold band. “If only that were true.”

Once the dipping
was done, we snipped the wicks and bundled the hardened candles into boxes. I
had not told her about Ichabod coming to teach the slave children. Or that I’d
be assisting him.
It would only hurt her
, I told myself…several times.

As we gathered our
things, Elise suddenly stopped. With squinted eyes, she peered across the
field. “Katrina, is that Marten’s horse?” She was gazing in the far distance,
where Brom’s cabin sat.

I stepped onto a
stool to see. Indeed it was Marten’s horse. And Brom’s was hitched next to it.

“I wonder why
Marten isn’t fishing today?”

I wondered the
same. And even more so, why Brom was not out overseeing the farm. What business
did they have in his cabin on a late Monday morning?

The wind picked
up, and a sudden gust prickled my skin. “Maybe the waters are not right for
fishing,” I offered. Though deep down I knew that wasn’t true.

* *
*

Father and I had one thing in
common. We always woke up grumpy and cross. Father would huff and growl,
communicating with gestures. I, on the other hand, would plod through the
house, seeing through blurry eyes. The only person with a smile was Simon, ready
with our tea and breakfast. But on this particular Wednesday, I broke my droopy
routine.

Simon tilted his
head, eyes narrowed. “Something’s got you mighty cheerful this morning, Miss
Katrina.”

“I’m just well
rested,” I lied. Truthfully, I’d tossed about, a thousand things whisking
through my mind. Mostly, the joy that this would not be a typical day, stuck
within these walls. I stirred some honey into my cup. “Ichabod comes this
afternoon.”

Simon shuffled
some pots off the stove. “He’s a very generous soul.”

I gazed out the
kitchen window. “Yes, he is. And thankfully, we’re having lovely weather.”

“Thankfully,” he
agreed, suppressing a grin.

Was he
thinking…?
“It’s just that I’m interested in Ichabod’s teaching methods.”

Simon still held
back that grin. “I’m sure they’ll be most interesting.”

I stirred in some
cream. “The children will benefit greatly.”

“It is a
blessing,” he said, now smiling broadly.

I finally had to
ask. “Simon, what is so amusing?”

He lifted the
teapot. “I was just thinking that you might want some tea in that cream and
honey.” He poured.

“Oh…uh…”

“Miss Katrina,” he
said with a laugh, “it’s going to be a wonderful day.”

* *
*

I prepared by baking two dozen
apple dumplings and filling a jug with cider. These were not meant as rewards for
good work, but to fill the children’s small bellies beforehand. After all,
hunger is a gnawing distraction. So is clock-watching. Something I tried not to
do.

Ichabod arrived
about half past three, juggling four hornbooks, a sum book, and two other texts
in his arms. Even though he’d spent the day teaching the village children, his
smile was as pleasant and refreshing as if he’d just awakened to a day of
sunshine. “I would’ve been here sooner, but Gunpowder had other plans for me.
It took some persuading to get him out of the schoolyard.”

I peeked out at
the pigheaded beast, which at the moment was using the hitching rail as a
scratching post for his gray speckled breast. “Surely Van Ripper has another
horse he could loan you.”