Diary, just last week I had remarked how much I had loved the stalls filled with artwork, and that I had always admired the talent. My soldier must have remembered to plan out such a day.
The gallery itself was marvellous, set in a room with tall windows throwing light upon the canvases of various size, shape and colour. I confess, Van Tassel Manor seems dark and gloomy in comparison to this light and airy building.
There were landscapes so vivid, I felt I could walk in them, and portraits so lifelike that I thought the people inside may step down from their gilded frames. My soldier was fascinated with one piece in particular, a scene of a stormy sea, the dark waves wild and crashing. He stared into my eyes and told me he thought it to be an exploration of “the beauty of passion and chaos.”
The way he views the world is so different to anyone I know. He surprises me with his insights, and I could have listened to him talk about the other pieces for hours.
After we had thoroughly perused the gallery, refreshment was served in the gardens. Lucy and I admired the shapes that the evergreen trees had been cut into, ready for the coming winter months.
My soldier suggested we venture further and walk around the grounds a bit, for there were woods and a small lake on the estate to be seen. Somehow, on our way out of the gardens, we became separated from dear Lucy, but my charming soldier reassured me we would find her again soon, after a short walk in the grounds. He offered me his arm, which I took with some hesitation, aware of the watchful eyes of other guests as we departed.
The woods were much cooler than the lawn outside the gallery had been, and my chivalrous soldier took off his jacket to drape around my shoulders when I confessed that I felt a chill. Thankfully, it was only a short walk through the dense trees, where I held my soldier’s arm for balance with one hand and my skirts up with the other to avoid the undergrowth.
Soon, we emerged from the trees, back into the glorious autumn sunshine. The lake spread out in front of us, the still surface sparkling in the mid-afternoon light. As we stood there, admiring the view, the warmth of the sun bathing us and a gentle breeze carrying the scent of falling leaves, I couldn’t believe that I had lived in Sleepy Hollow my whole life, but had never realised what beauty lay right on my doorstep.
Well, dear diary, how to carry on? I feel my cheeks heating now at the mere thought and can’t possibly put into written words what happened next.
My soldier took me by the hand and led me down to the water’s edge, his hold firm yet gentle.
The air was still and the world seemed to go quiet around us. I can’t even recollect hearing the call of birdsong. He reached out to brush a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his amber eyes reflecting the golden light of the sun. His touch sent a shiver through my whole being. Then, ever so slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing against mine with a tenderness that took my breath away.
His lips lingered on mine, sending waves of warmth through me. And as he pulled back ever so slightly, his gaze still locked on mine, I knew this would be a moment I would remember forever.
He leaned back in, pressing his lips to mine once more. This time, I felt his hand lifting my skirts, running along the skin of my inner thigh. His fingers found what they were searching for and began to rub in smooth circles, soft at first and then more insistent. We stayed like this, wrapped together at the water’s edge until the light that glittered across the surface of the lake also danced behind my closed eyes.
I close the diary softly. It’s hard to believe that this past Katrina is younger than I am now. The way she writes is far more elegant than anything I could put together, with her vivid description of sparkling lakes, I could almost be there with her. And at just sixteen, she was taking carriages toestatesto view artwork that’s probably on display in a museum right now.
I can’t help but feel a pang of jealously. The way this Katrina writes about two loving parents buying gifts for her birthday and preparing for fabulous balls that brought the whole town together. The one parent I have left has barely spoken to me since I got here. Katrina’s life seems to be full of dancing, bustling town markets and fine art. She’s even getting more action than I am from this gorgeous unnamed soldier.
Her Sleepy Hollow seems like a much nicer place to be.
9
The long stretch of corridor is quiet, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet runner. I find myself pulled back to the music room again. Maybe it’s because one of the strongest memories I have of this house is Mum in this room, laughing and playing the piano. The door is already slightly ajar, and I step inside.
I’m surprised to see Ichabod is still here. I thought Toby’s music lesson must have ended hours ago, while I was reading, but here’s Professor Crane packing sheet music into his briefcase. He lifts his head as I enter the room.
“Katrina. What a nice surprise,” he smiles.
“Yes, very surprising to find me in my own home, Professor Crane.”
He chuckles. “Ah, and I thought you were determined that Sleepy Hollow wasn’t for you. I’m glad you’re starting to think of it as home. And please, call me Ichabod.”
That makes me pause. Had I just referred to this place as home? Christ. I definitely don’t wantthat. Sleepy Hollow is not my home. If this is the effect Ichabod is having on me, maybe I should back the hell out of this room right now. I feel drawn to him. He’s definitely the most interesting thing about this place. Aside from the murders, of course, although that’s moreterrifyingthaninteresting. But something about him does make me want to know more.
But I donotwant to stay in this town.
As he finishes putting the last of his papers into his overflowing briefcase, he indicates the piano next to him. “Do you play?”
I flex my fingers instinctively. I haven’t played for a long time and I’m sure I’ll be rusty. I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of Ichabod — an actual piano teacher, and a talented one, according to Brom. And, let’s face it, I just don’t want to look stupid in front of a hot, older guy.
But I find myself moving towards the piano. “I used to.”
I sit on the bench, and he joins me, his knee close enough to brush mine. I lay my fingertips against the white keys, resting them there for a moment, deciding what to play. I test a few notes out tentatively. As soon as I start, I find muscle memory kicks in and my fingers are flying across the ivories, playing a piece by Chopin that I learned a long time ago.
I can sense Ichabod next to me, watching the way my fingers move.
The heat from his body next to mine radiates between us.
