Page 46 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
"Who are you?" Brom sneered.
"Who am I? You do not recognize your own kinsman? It has been many years, I suppose, and I've not been out and about much since my return. I believe the last time I saw you, you were about five years old." Eamon set the plate and teacup on a narrow table in the hallway and cracked his knuckles. "You have grown. So have I. Come, let me shake your hand."
Brom descended the steps, but he did not extend his hand. He peered up at Eamon, who was nearly a head taller than him, and somewhat broader in the shoulders, too. "You are that distant cousin or something, related to my father's first wife. Your name is—Ayland? Edmund?"
"Eamon."
"That's it. Eamon. Not an honest Dutch name, is it?" Brom flicked the front of Eamon's waistcoat. "We are not blood."
"No, we are not, thank the Goddess."
Brom's face twisted, his lip curling. "Get out, you and your pagan swears, before I alert the constable, or the minister. Who said you could be present here? This is a private celebration."
"That must be why the entire population of Sleepy Hollow is on the premises," Eamon said dryly. "How foolish of me. I should go. Katrina my love, your toast and tea are here when you are ready for them."
"How dare you address her in that familiar way?" spluttered Brom. "I should knock you flat, you insufferable ass!" His fist balled up, and my stomach clenched.
"Brom Van Brunt," I said sharply. "I would like you to meet my intended, Eamon Berrigan."
Brom's jaw went slack. He stared from Eamon to me and back again, blinking his pink-rimmed eyes.
"And I find it hypocritical in the extreme that you would take issue with his manner of addressing me," I continued, "when you called me a 'whore' just moments ago."
Eamon's lips retracted in a ferocious grin. "Did he now?" One massive hand gripped Brom's collar. "Come with me,cousin."
He hauled Brom toward the back door.
"Eamon," I called. "He lost his mother."
"I will be merciful," Eamon said between his teeth.
Smiling, I descended the steps and took a bite of the toast. It was warm, and buttery, and perfect.
***
The morning of my wedding, an autumn storm blew through Sleepy Hollow, shaking the remaining leaves from the trees and sending sheets of rain down the lanes, turning them to slick mud. My mother fussed and fretted, complaining that the weather was a bad omen and that we should postpone. She also objected to our plan to ride into the hills after the wedding lunch and spend some time at Eamon's cabin.
"It is very strange," she said. "You should not be leaving your fine home for a tiny cabin. You and Eamon should live here, with us. There is plenty of room."
"We will, sometimes," I reassured her. "But for a while, we would like to be alone. Surely you can understand that."
Her pale face pinked. "I suppose so. Oh, Katrina—he is very handsome, isn't he? But are you quite sure you have made the right choice?"
"I have never been more sure about anything in my life."
"Well then. But you must bring him back to our house after a few days. A week at most. We will make things comfortable for you. No daughter of mine will live in some drafty mountain cabin when she has a fine beautiful bedroom full of lovely things!"
"We will work it out, I promise." I kissed her forehead lightly. "Come now, we must hurry. We will be late to the church."
Even the gloom and the rain could not keep the denizens of Sleepy Hollow from witnessing my gossip-worthy marriage to the mysterious doctor who had saved my life. The fact that our first meeting occurred on the night of Ichabod Crane's disappearance made the event all the more alluring. So the church was crammed full of damp people, and smelled heavily of wet wool and dripping leathers.
Eamon and I spoke the words as we were prompted. We moved through the ceremony and the luncheon with smiles and thanks to those who congratulated us. But it felt like a dream—distant, and less real than the moments we had spent together in his cabin, when I was injured and he was anxious, and we had slashed at each other with words until we cut away all the layers and reached our deepest truth. Those were the moments in which we truly became one. The ceremony was important, yes, but still more vital was the ritual, conducted two nights ago in a shed at the back of our property, when I mingled my blood with Eamon's, spoke the spell with him, and painted my own neck with dripping crimson runes. It was a primal rite, and when we clasped hands at the end, I had felt the rush of magic through my body—a blazing wash of heat, a buzzing sensation over every inch of my skin.
After that initiation into my new role as Ceannaire, our quiet ceremony in the church seemed slightly anticlimactic. But it was necessary to my future plans, and his. I could think of no better mind to partner with me when I finally took over my father's holdings—no better man to stand by my side when I freed my father's slaves and moved toward a new reality. We would face censure, and questions; there would be pain and struggles we could not foresee. But as long as we stood shoulder to shoulder, we could meet it all.
When the last guests had straggled out into the rain after the luncheon, I went to find my mother and say goodbye before my trip into the hills with Eamon. I found my father first—he was staring out the front windows and grumbling at the rain.
"You cannot go up into the hills now," he said. "Your horses will slip and fall. You will be soaked to the bone and catch a cold."
