Touché.
He notices the diary in my hand. “And ancient libraries, apparently. Are you reading anything good at the moment?”
I hold it up, looking at it in my own outstretched hand. “Oh, this. I found it in the attic. I think it’s the diary of my ancestor, theoriginalKatrina Van Tassel.”
Toby furrows his brow slightly. “How have you had time to go in the attic? You said you only just got here!” he asks, and Ichabod and I exchange a look of being caught out over his head.
“Well, that diary had better not be cursed. You know how these things go — find an old book, start reading, and the next thing you know, you’ve unleashed the curse ofThe Mummy,” Ichabod jokes.
I smile, holding the diary closer to my chest. “I haven’t had a chance to read any of it yet. But if any ghosts or ghouls come spilling out, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“Ah well, this would be the perfect setting for it,” he chuckles. “This house does have a bit of a ghostly charm.”
“I can see that,” I say nodding slowly. “I don’t think I’ll be here for long though.”
“Oh?” Ichabod asks.
“This house… This place. It’s not for me,” I say, tears tingling threateningly at the back of my eyes.
“Of course it’s your house Kat. You live here with us now,” Toby interjects. He bends down and picks up a bag by the foot of the piano. “Thanks, Professor Crane. Same time tomorrow?” he asks as he heads for the door.
Ichabod nods. “Yes, keep up the good work, Toby. Great session today.” He begins to gather pages of sheet music intoa leather satchel. “I’d better be getting back to the university before they miss me. It was nice to meet you, Katrina.”
I like the way he says my name — almost a bit too much. This could be dangerous. I don’t want to become entangled with anything that Sleepy Hollow has to offer.
“You too, Professor Crane.”
4
After a lunch of tomato soup and homemade crusty bread prepared by Meredith, I decide I’ve explored the house enough and should check out the town next. Meredith offers to call Ben back so he can drive me in, but after travelling through the night, I could do with stretching my legs.
As I step outside, a chill hits me. Although the air was warm and mild when I arrived just a few hours ago, with the sun shining high in the clear blue sky, it seems to have quickly turned. Now the cold air nips at my hands and face. I wish I’d put a jacket on over my hoodie, but I can’t be bothered to turn back now. The imposing gates are still open, so I head down the driveway, my Docs crunching beneath me as I go, and head out onto the leafy, tree-lined road.
As I suspected, the walk doesn’t take long and about a quarter of an hour later, I reach the edge of town. It will be interesting to see if anything has changed since I was little, given that the house hasn’t at all.
I wander along the cobbled streets, taking in the picturesque shop fronts, with their wooden framed windows and hand-painted signage. Quaint and old-fashioned. Yep, that’s Sleepy Hollow, all right. As it’s getting towards the end of October, it’s no surprise to see pumpkins sitting proudly on some of the doorsteps, garish expressions carved into their plump orange bodies.
The wind blows sharply, and I pull the cuffs of my hoodie over my hands and cross my arms over my chest.
I come to a stop just outside the old doctor’s surgery. The posters in the windows are faded by sunlight and time, the glass is obscured with grime. I remember the antiseptic scent and sharp scratch of a needle from the times my mother had brought me here. She had squeezed my hand and promised it would only hurt for a moment, that the doctors would make me better again. God, I’d hated going in there.
I’m about to carry on, when the front door to the surgery bursts open, and closes again with just as much force. A man in a crumpled tweed suit stumbles out onto the path, clutching a briefcase tightly with both hands. His knuckles are white and he glances nervously up and down the street.
Before I have time to move, he barges past me, slamming into my shoulder and jolting me back a step.
“Hey —” I start, but he doesn’t stop.
He offers no apology. In fact, he doesn’t seem to register me at all. I catch a glimpse of his wild-eyed expression before he darts down the street. Rubbing my shoulder, I watch him disappear around the corner. A crow caws loudly behind me, and I turn to spot it perched on the surgery sign.
Rude.
Down a side street to my right is a warm-looking café, which I definitely remember from before. It looks like it’s been here forever, the black paint peeling away from the wooden windows.Orange, inviting light spills out through its shopfront. Even with the door closed, I can smell the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the buttery sweet scent of just-baked pastries enticing me in.
I head inside, where most of the wooden tables are empty, their surfaces worn and weathered with use. There are mismatched chairs around the tables and large, squishy leather armchairs by the fire and in the corners of the room. The girl behind the counter jumps up as I walk in, brushing her long, curly black hair out of her face. The chalkboard behind her shows a handwritten menu, indicating which cakes and pastries they have on offer today and an extensive choice of coffees.
I decide to go for a pumpkin spice latte, as it seems the most appropriate for this time of year. And it will warm my hands up.
Drink in hand, I pull the door open to leave and turn my head to call out a final thanks to the girl behind the counter. I turn back at the same time as I take a step forward into the chilled air and immediately bump into someone coming in the other way.Not again. We both jump a step back.
