The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel

by Alyssa Palombo

  “What exactly are you accusing us of, Father?” I said. “Mr. Crane is a gentleman, I assure you.” No doubt those words would have had us in fits of laughter had the situation not been so serious. We were found out, but I’d be damned if I’d let my father—or anyone else—know it. “Mr. Crane merely expressed a desire to see our native woods, and was curious as to the species of bird that resides there. I have been showing him the paths, and also our lovely scenery along the riverbank. Nothing untoward whatsoever.”

  “I know that, of course, and—why, accusing is a harsh word, Katrina, very harsh indeed,” my father said. “As I said, it is a bit unseemly, that is all, and I am well within my rights to speak to the both of you about it.”

  “Master Van Tassel, I do apologize for anything I may have done to cause offense,” Ichabod said, sounding a bit nervous. “I apologize most sincerely, and humbly beg your pardon. I would never betray your fine hospitality and generosity by … by…” He stumbled about, searching, no doubt, for a word that would not give lie to our actions.

  My father, luckily, seemed to think Ichabod merely wished to speak delicately in front of a lady. “Indeed, I know you would not,” he interrupted. “Of course, the both of you know better. But Brom, I fear, is right—it does not look well, not at all. I will soon be entertaining offers for your hand, Katrina, as you know, and so I hope this does not become gossip for the village.” He cast an apologetic glance at Ichabod. “Again, I accuse you of nothing, good sir. You have been a wonderful guest. But perhaps it is just as well you are leaving tomorrow—for appearances’ sake.”

  “I understand completely,” Ichabod said stiffly. “Again, sir, I would never damage your daughter’s honor—”

  “Yes, yes,” my father said, waving him away. “Of course not, not at all.”

  I rose from my chair. “If you are quite finished with this nonsense, Father, then I shall take my leave,” I said haughtily.

  He sighed. “You shall understand one day, perhaps, Katrina. Yes, be off, then. I have said my piece, and truly meant no offense by it, daughter, to either of you.”

  I turned on my heel and marched out of his study, Ichabod following me. Tears threatened to spill from my eyes, and I did my best to blink them furiously away as I went straight upstairs.

  “Katrina, are you all right?” Ichabod asked, turning me to face him when we reached the door of my room. “Oh, my love,” he whispered, wiping away my tears.

  In spite of the shambles the day had become, my heart leapt at hearing him refer to me as my love. “It is as I feared,” I said. “He … he will not entertain your suit. He does not think…”

  “Shhh,” Ichabod said, pulling me against his chest. “Do not worry, Katrina. Please. We shall proceed as before, yes? Only it may be a little longer before I can ask for your hand. But ask for it I will. I promise it.”

  “But … but what if…” I broke off. I could not even form the sentence.

  “Do not worry, my love. He will see it differently when I am gone, when I am no longer under the same roof as his daughter. He is a good father, and he is concerned. I would feel the same, in his position.”

  I chuckled through my tears. “Someday,” I said, “may we both see exactly how you will react in his position, when young men are in love with our marriageable daughter.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “And I shall pray day and night to be so blessed as to have you bear my daughter.”

  This caused tears to spring to my eyes anew.

  “Do not despair, I pray you,” he said, releasing me. “All will be well.”

  Yet for a moment our eyes were honest with one another. There was worry there. A worry that everything would not be so easy as it had seemed in the forest. A worry that there was more pulling us apart than holding us together. A worry that love would not be enough.

  14

  Night in the Forest

  I could not sleep that night, nor had I expected to. Instead I indulged in my fears and wept, then once spent lay awake, dry-eyed. Everything was slipping away from me, and as hard as I tried, I could not seem to find a better purchase with which to hold on.

  After midnight, I heard a set of footsteps come from the guest rooms. They paused outside my door, then continued on down the stairs.

  In the silence I seemed to hear Charlotte’s voice again. Be careful, Katrina.

  I would not heed her. I could not, anymore. For what had careful gotten me?

  I leapt from my bed, prompting Nox to raise his head and look at me quizzically, and quickly changed from my nightgown into a simple, dark gray dress. I grabbed my cloak, to hide my face and keep me warm against the cool night air—and donned my boots. Moving as quietly as I could, I left my bedchamber, closed the door behind me, and tiptoed down the stairs. At the bottom, I paused, listening to see if I had roused any servants—or worse, my parents—but all was still.

  I returned to the site of our first rendezvous: the kitchen. As I pushed open the door, I found Ichabod waiting within. His palms pressed down on the counter, his head bowed, as though deep in thought. He raised his head when he heard me, and a lifetime’s worth of conversation passed between us as our eyes met.

  Yet some things still need to be said aloud. “I cannot wait any longer,” I said. Though I spoke softly, my voice rang through the dark, silent kitchen. I walked around the counter toward him. “I cannot wait any longer to be yours. I … I love you too much.”

  “Katrina,” he sighed, as though part of him wanted me—and himself—to turn back. Instead, he closed the distance between us and kissed me, deeply and slowly, a promise of what was to come.

  He rested his forehead against mine. “Katrina,” he whispered again. “Are you certain?”

  I was certain, because I was possessed of a fear that this night—perhaps a few nights—might be all that we could ever have. I could no longer speak; I only nodded. I pressed my fingers to his lips and drew him after me, through the house and out the back door. Across the road we went, and into the forest. Neither of us spoke; we made as little noise as possible as we found our way through the dark to our spot by the stream. Even then, thoughts of the Headless Horseman flickered through my mind, and I wondered if he could see us, if he knew we were there—but that night was different. I was with Ichabod, and nothing could harm me so long as I had him. And more frightening than venturing into the woods at night was the thought of who I might become if I stayed in the house, if I obeyed, bent and broke beneath such strictures as propriety and what’s best for you and a good woman.

  We reached our favorite place, our sacred place, and I removed my cloak to spread it on the ground. I turned to face him, trembling, from both chill and nerves, uncertain of what to do next.

  “Katrina,” he said again, as though he could never say my name enough, as though it tasted like the finest of wines on his tongue. “I never replied to you there.”

  “Wha … what do you mean?” I stammered.

  He stepped closer to me, brushing my loose hair away from my face. “When you said you love me,” he said. “What I meant to say was this.

  “I love you as well. I love you beyond all sense and reason. I love you so much that though I know I should put a stop to this, return us to our own beds, I will not. Because I love you so much there is nothing on this earth that could compel me to refuse time with you. And I love you so much that I cannot resist the thought of becoming yours. Yours and yours alone.”

  Tears clung to my lashes before splashing down my face, as his beautiful words flowed over me and caressed my skin. He drew me into his arms, kissing the tears from my face. His hands worked to undo the lacings of my dress, and when his fingers fumbled I drew back.

  “Let me,” I said, kicking off my boots and removing the simple garment so that I stood naked before him, shivering with cold and desire and uncertainty.

  His eyes took in every inch of me. Even in the dark, I knew he could see me clearly. “Do not leave me all alone,” I said with a coy smi
le, reaching down and pulling his thin shirt off over his head. I leaned in to kiss him again, and the feel of his lean, bare chest against my naked breasts caused me to sway on my feet, lost in the forbidden sensation I had barely dared to dream of. He groaned against my mouth.

  “How rude of you to remain dressed when a lady is unclothed,” I teased as we broke apart.

  “Rude indeed,” he said with a devilish grin, and bent to remove his boots and breeches. When he straightened, I found myself blushing and averting my eyes, suddenly afraid to look at that part of a man with which I was still unfamiliar.

  His grin faded as he approached me, seeming to sense everything I could not say. He pulled me to him and kissed me again, more hungrily and urgently this time, and the whole lengths of our naked bodies pressed together. I shrank away at first from the feel of his manhood against me, mentally cursing myself for acting the silly, inexperienced virgin, even if that was exactly what I was.

  I drew him down upon my cloak, so that we lay side by side upon it. His hand traveled along my side, coming up to cup my breast, his long fingers gently toying with the nipple. I gasped at the sharp twinge of pleasure that shot up through me from my core.

  He turned me so that I was laying on my back, and replaced his hand with his mouth. I uttered a small cry, grateful we were deep enough in the woods that no one could hear us. “Yes,” I whispered.

  His mouth shifted from one breast to the other, his hand sliding down between my legs. Nervous, I wanted to clamp them together, but allowed myself to relax into his touch, letting his hand move between them, stroking me in that secret place a woman was supposed to reserve only for her husband. Yet no marriage bed could have felt as sacred as that night did.

  I gasped as his fingers moved gently within me, bringing forth sensations I had not thought my own body capable of. I arched my back, pressing against him, wrapping one leg around his waist, bringing him closer to me. “Yes,” I whispered. “Please.”

  His breathing was heavy as he withdrew his hand. We were so close I could feel his heart pounding. Even so, he paused, bracing his weight on his arms so that he hovered above me. “Katrina. Katrina, my love. Are you certain?” he asked again.

  “Yes,” I breathed. “Oh, yes.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and drew his lips down to mine, and as we kissed again I felt him lower his weight onto me, felt him at the entrance to my body, and opened my legs a bit wider. The kiss went on as he gently, slowly entered me. I jerked away and cried out at the sharp pain.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered. “I am sorry, my love.”

  I looked into his beloved eyes above mine in the dark. “I … I know,” I said. “All is well.”

  With that, he began to move within me, and I became consumed by feeling, by the strange, awkward, intimate, yet pleasurable movement of his body inside mine, reveling in the feeling of our closeness, as close as two people could physically be, and felt in that moment that our hearts, our souls, were as close as they could be as well. Pleasure and happiness swept through me. I understood how desire culminated in this act, and why it was called the act of love, and I never wanted it to end.

  He cried out and shuddered in his pleasure, resting his head against my shoulder, spent. I held him against me, both of us panting, the sheen of sweat on our bodies cooling in the summer night’s breeze.

  “God and the devil together forbid I shall ever be without you again,” he murmured. “A life without you would be no life at all.”

  “Never stop saying such things to me,” I said, pressing my lips to his. “I want nothing but you and your beautiful words for the rest of the days of my life. Never leave me.”

  He returned the kiss, hard. “Never,” he said. “I will die first.”

  He lifted himself off of me and drew me against his side, his breath slowing. Tears seeped from my eyes again. I would never have expected it, but it hurt to be this happy.

  15

  Gunpowder

  I wanted to stay in the woods all night, all week, for the rest of our lives. But we dared linger there together only an hour more—we had to make it back before the household began to stir. My father believed our innocence thus far, but if we were found returning from the woods together in the wee hours of the morning, there was no excuse that would be plausible.

  Reluctantly, we rose and helped each other dress, taking the opportunity to let our hands wander over one another all over again.

  “We shall never make it back in time if you do not stop that, my love,” Ichabod whispered against my ear as my hands strayed below his waist.

  I bit my lip, considering letting him make love to me again, and damn the consequences. I heard his breath catch in his throat and knew that he was thinking the very same thing.

  Luckily—or unluckily, perhaps—reason prevailed, and we resumed dressing. I picked up my cloak from the ground—soiled and rumpled; I would need to hide it from Nancy until I could wash it—and draped it over my arm. Ichabod took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, and together we began to make our way out of the forest, staying pressed close to one another the whole way.

  We both slowed as we came out of the trees and crossed the road, approaching the fields that surrounded my house, eyes sifting through the darkness to see if anyone was watching, then paused when we reached the side door that led into the kitchen.

  Swiftly, Ichabod pressed my back up against the house and kissed me, crushing my body against his briefly before releasing me. “God help me, I wish I was not leaving in the morning,” he said.

  “When … how shall we meet again?” I asked, only now beginning to see the difficulty of the thing. “You shall be in the village, and I here … where can we meet safely? How will we communicate with one another? When—”

  “Shhh.” He pulled me close. “Do not fret, my love. We will find a way. I … I will borrow a horse, buy one, if I must, and ride to meet you. And I will still come to give you music lessons, if your father is agreeable, yes?”

  I brightened. I had forgotten. “Yes,” I said. “And then we can make … arrangements.”

  He smiled. “Indeed. Very pleasurable arrangements.” He kissed me once more. “When we go inside, I shall go into the kitchen, so if anyone hears and awakens, I can say that I was simply getting myself some milk.”

  “And I shall go straight upstairs.”

  “Yes.” His lips found mine again, and lingered, knowing it might be some time before we could be alone together again.

  Finally, too soon, we broke apart and entered the house as quietly as possible. I moved swiftly toward the back stairs, while he remained in the kitchen. Once there, I balled up my cloak, stuffing it into the back corner of my wardrobe, then quickly removed my dress and changed back into my shift. Noticing traces of blood on my thighs, I quickly dipped a cloth into the bowl on the washstand and cleared it away. I shoved the cloth under my bed until morning, when I could dispose of it. Then, at last, I climbed into bed. Yet even then the nervous, euphoric energy of the night would not leave me, and as such, it was not until dawn was bleeding into the night sky that I finally fell asleep.

  * * *

  I had expected to be despondent when I awoke, knowing Ichabod was leaving, yet I was not. Though I barely slept, I rose with an enormous grin on my face, one I would be hard pressed to hide from the world.

  Nancy knocked twice, then bustled in. “Good morning, Miss Katrina,” she said. She paused. “And what are you so joyful about this morning?” she asked. “Is it a holiday I don’t know about?”

  “No,” I said, trying and failing to dim my smile. “Just … just sweet dreams, I suppose.”

  “Mmmhmm.” Nancy studied me for a moment. “Sweet dreams about that handsome schoolteacher, I wouldn’t wonder.”

  “Nancy!” I shrieked, feeling my face redden. I had to fight to fend off a fit of giggles.

  Luckily, she had turned away to open my wardrobe. My grin fading, I held my breath, hoping she would not notice the cloak; but she
merely pulled out a clean dress and shut the door. Thankfully, she made no other teasing comments and simply helped me dress as usual. As soon as she left, I went straight downstairs, not wanting to miss a moment of Ichabod’s presence.

  As it happened, my parents had laid out a large breakfast in the dining room, with fresh rolls, cheese, slices of chicken and ham, and some strawberries. I walked in to find Ichabod already seated at the table with my mother and father. He and my father rose as I came in.

  “Good morning, Katrina,” my father said. “We decided to send young Mr. Crane off in style. Join us, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” I said, taking a seat directly across from Ichabod. Our eyes met, and to my horror I felt my blush return, remembering in far too much detail the night before, how his skin felt against mine, how it felt to have him inside me. Quickly I looked down. By God, but it is a good thing he is leaving, I thought fervently. I could never behave normally around him after that. Never.

  “Good morning, Miss Van Tassel,” Ichabod said, perfectly courteous, and in glancing up, I saw he was avoiding my gaze as well.

  “Good morning, Mr. Crane,” I said, matching his tone. A slight, mischievous smile curved my lips. “I trust you slept well last night?”

  I thought he was going to choke, but he managed to swallow the sip of tea he had just taken without incident—barely. “Indeed,” he said. Ensuring my parents were both distracted, he cocked an eyebrow at me.

  I looked away, fighting back laughter yet again. Oh, thank God he was leaving. We would never survive more than an hour with our secret intact.

  The rest of breakfast passed without any incident. Once we were through eating, we all rose and moved toward the front door, where Henry, my father’s manservant, had already brought down Ichabod’s two bags and his guitar.

  My father and Ichabod shook hands. “It has been a pleasure having you,” my father said.