Page 45 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
"Of course." I led her upstairs to my bedroom and shut the door. "What is it?"
She drew out Ichabod's well-worn volume of Cotton Mather's writings. "I went to Hans Van Ripper's house, after Ichabod—after he disappeared. Brom told everyone he was killed by the Headless Horseman, but I wasn't sure, so I thought I would go and see if—" She hesitated, closing her eyes and breathing deep. "Van Ripper told me that Gunpowder had galloped home with Ichabod's saddlebag, and he said he was going to go through Ichabod's things, since he was surely dead. I told him Ichabod might yet return, but Van Ripper would not listen to me, the greedy old goat. He would have burned this book, but I managed to steal it away. It is only slightly singed, here, along the spine. I—I thought you might want it, to remember Ichabod. You two were—well, you—"
"We were friends. Thank you, Sascha." I accepted the volume, rubbing the sooty marks on the spine. Touching the book soothed me in a way I did not expect. "You liked him too, did you not?"
Sascha bit her lip, tears glistening in her eyes.
I laid my hand on her arm. "You should keep this book. It will mean more to you, I think. But you must promise me you will never get rid of it. This particular copy—it's special."
She nodded.
"Give me a moment with it, would you? I'll leave it on the bed when I'm done, and you can take it with you when you leave."
With another nod, Sascha slipped out of my room.
I carried the book to my writing table and laid it open. I rarely wrote anything—I preferred reading or being outdoors—but my mother kept the inkstand full and a fresh quill ready, in case I should decide to be a proper lady and write a letter to some relative or other.
Carefully I turned the pages, until I found the one with the notes about the dullahan. There were other notations too, throughout the tome—bits about kelpies, and selkies, and pixies, and tricksters in red coats. But the notes about the dullahan were the most copious of all.
I found a scrap of empty space in one of the margins. Dipping the quill, I wrote in my smallest, finest script. "A dullahan may not kill his own master. But another may kill the master for him, thus setting the dullahan free. If the dullahan is out hunting when the master is killed, the intended victim will be spared."
I could not be sure that anyone would ever read or need the information. But what was knowledge, without someone to pass it on?
The act of making the notation, small as it was, quelled my distress. Ichabod would have been so excited about the information, so glad of its presence in his book. This tome, this treasure of his would live on, and possibly find a soul who would truly understand its value.
Leaving the book on the bed, I stepped out of my room and leaned against the wall, closing my eyes for a moment. Saying goodbye to Ichabod.
Then I descended the stairs—only to find Brom at its foot.
His black suit of clothes hung wrinkled and slovenly from his big frame. The puffiness around his eyes spoke of late nights and frequent excessive drink.
The last time I had seen him, he was striking Ichabod, kicking him—dumping him off the side of the Old Church Bridge. He had run away and left me at the mercy of the Horseman.
Those memories turned my skin hot with anger; but I could not help being nervous too. There was no one else in the back hall, and Brom looked anything but sober.
"Brom," I said stiffly.
"Katrina."
"I am sorry you lost your mother. That must be very difficult for you."
"Yes, yes. Very difficult. I lost her, and I lost my intended bride. One fell swoop, as they say." He stepped forward and swayed, catching himself against the railing. "I hear you're getting married to some strange traveling medicine man."
"Traveling doctor," I corrected.
"They also say you spent days in this doctor's cabin." He smothered a hiccup. "You finally had some fun, eh, Katrina? You were always a greedy little whore."
The heat in my face intensified, more so because he was not entirely wrong. My desire had always been there, strong yet unfocused, an urge that many in this valley would consider unwomanly or sinful. Now my lust had found its focus, and it had merged with a love so intense that sometimes I thought my heart would burst with the fullness of it.
I had nothing to be ashamed of.
"You should leave, Brom," I said. "You are too drunk to recall your manners."
He mounted two steps, unexpectedly fast for someone so inebriated, and my skin chilled with apprehension. His sour breath puffed in my face. "I will leave when I am good and ready."
"You'll leave now." A deep and deceptively mild voice from the hallway made Brom twist away from me.
Eamon stood in the hall, a plate of toast in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.
