“Oh, yeah. I do remember that story, vaguely.” I roll my eyes. “But fortunately, I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Well, I mean, Dr Larpin was beheaded, and it’s only a week until Halloween now.” He raises his eyebrows. I catch his meaning.
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you really think that poor man was struck down by some sort of sword-wielding ghost?” I ask incredulously.
He laughs at my expression, shrugging.
“That’s awful. Think of the doctor’s poor family,” I say, knocking his shoulder playfully with mine.
“You’re right.” He holds his hands up in mock defence. “Sorry, sorry.”
Outside the warm shop, the cobblestone pavements are slick, as if it’s recently rained. The streets are shrouded in a restless kind of quiet, as though the town itself is holding its breath following the death of one of its townspeople. I walk beside Brom, my arms crossed tightly over my chest as the cool autumn air bites at my cheeks. I wish I’d grabbed my scarf this morning. Above us, the sky is a swirl of grey, heavy clouds threatening to break open at any moment.
“I’ll never understand why they didn’t pave these damn roads properly,” I mutter, my boots slipping on the uneven stones.
Brom chuckles, his wide shoulders hunched against the chill. “And ruin the charm of Sleepy Hollow? You’d never hear the end of it if they did. Besides, where’s the excitement in walking down the street without the fear you’ll twist an ankle?”
I give him a side-eye but can’t help the small smirk that tugs at my lips. I’m glad I bumped into my old friend again. It’s nice having someone around to make me smile.
We walk back through the town, our steps scuffing rhythmically through the narrow streets. The buildings around us loom high, their facades a patchwork of aged stone and ivy. Windowpanes glint faintly, the glow of candles or gaslightscasting uneven shadows even in the daytime. I catch the woody scent of a bonfire on the air. Sleepy Hollow doesn’t just look old; it feels it, as though the town is suspended in time.
I hesitate slightly before asking, “You don’t happen to know Professor Crane, do you?”
“The piano teacher?” He shrugs. “Not really, no. Why?”
Our brief encounter in the music room has left me intrigued and wanting to know more.
“I met him yesterday. He’s been giving Toby music lessons apparently,” I say simply.
Brom gives me a look I can’t decipher.
“Really? I know he’s very talented. Moved away for a while to play piano professionally, but came back when his dad died. But he keeps to himself mostly.”
Huh, a similar story to my own.
“Always strikes me as a bit… strange.” Brom finishes.
It’s not what I’d expected him to say, and I feel thrown.
“He didn’t seem strange to me.”
“Speak of the devil. There he is,” Brom mutters, nodding toward a figure approaching from the opposite direction.
I’d been watching my step, but now I look up. Ichabod Crane is hard to miss. Tall and lean, his figure has an almost spectral quality as he moves towards us. His coat flares slightly with each step, and his hat is tipped forward at an angle that obscures his eyes until he’s much closer.
“Katrina Van Tassel,” Ichabod says as he nears, his voice warm and almost musical. He stops in front of us. “And Brom Bones. Taking Katrina sightseeing?”
“Something like that, Professor Crane,” I reply, tilting my head back to look him in the face. My irritation at the cold seems to evaporate under his gaze. There’s something about the way Ichabod carries himself that demands attention — a confidence that borders on theatrical without tipping into arrogance.
“You on your way to the university?” Brom asks, folding his arms across his broad chest.
Ichabod nods. “I am. I have a quick lecture on the composition of Bach before I head over to your house, Miss Van Tassel. Another lesson with Toby this afternoon. He’s improving quite quickly.”
“He does seem very excited about the recital,” I say, a genuine smile breaking through my usual guarded expression.
Ichabod’s gaze lingers on me for just a moment longer than necessary. “And how are you finding Sleepy Hollow?” he asks. “The way you were storming along there, you look like you have other places you’d rather be.”
I shrug quickly to cover the fact that he’s read me so well. “Very different from London. Very… quiet.”
