The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel

by Alyssa Palombo

  Involuntarily, my hands tightened on his sleeves. “No, don’t!”

  “I must, Katrina; I certainly cannot stay here tonight,” he said gently. “I will send word tomorrow, through Charlotte, to arrange a time when we might speak further.” He kissed me again. “Do not despair, my love. Please, I beg you, do not despair.”

  I nodded, though I did not see how that was possible.

  As we left the music room, I saw Brom at the opposite end of the hallway, lurking, watching us. His eyes narrowed, then he turned and was gone. But I was so shattered by the events of the evening that I could not bring myself to care.

  I followed Ichabod to the front door, not caring who else might see us. He turned to look at me one last time. “All will be well,” he promised me. And with that, he disappeared into the chilled All Hallows’ Eve night.

  31

  Broken Things

  I watched him go until the darkness swallowed him.

  Then I turned and dashed to my father’s study.

  He was still seated at his desk, slowly turning his snifter of brandy in his fingers, contemplating the amber color through the crystal.

  “Papa, why?” I cried, slamming the door behind me. I could not hold back my tears any longer. “Why will you not allow us to marry?”

  “Oh, Katrina,” he sighed.

  “I love him!” I wailed. I was not making a compelling case for my maturity and ability to choose my own husband just then, but I could not help myself. I was breaking and could not stop to put myself back together. “I love him and he loves me! Why would you stand in the way of my happiness?”

  “Katrina,” he said, “I do not doubt that you and young Mr. Crane feel genuine affection for one another. Maybe it is truly love. But what you do not know—”

  “We do love each other,” I insisted.

  “Perhaps you do,” he allowed. “But what you do not know, nor do I expect you to know at your age, is love is not enough to sustain a marriage, nor a life together. You cannot live on love. And when he cannot provide for you as you are used to, what then?”

  “I don’t care about any of that!”

  “So you say now,” he said, “but the day will come when you will care a great deal.”

  “But I am to inherit the farm, anyway,” I argued, trying reason now that pure emotion had failed—for the first time in my life—to move him. “We will have more than enough to live off of!”

  “And in the meantime?” my father asked. “And even when you do inherit the farm, what then? Does Ichabod know how to run a farm so as to keep it profitable, let alone prosperous? He does not, Katrina. You know that. It is no easy thing.”

  “But I know how, Papa! You know I do—you have said as much yourself! I can help him!”

  “Katrina.” There was a note of pity in my father’s voice. “Has it not occurred to you that perhaps his interest in you is motivated primarily—or at least in part—by his desire for your inheritance?”

  In spite of myself, Ichabod’s words came back to me: I will not pretend that the thought of such bounty, such financial security and even wealth, does not excite me after so many years living on the road, and struggling. I had thought them no more than honest, and perfectly reasonable. But could my father be right?

  No, I swore to myself, as dozens of moments of love and affection and intimacy and passionate words tumbled through my mind. No. That cannot be.

  But my father had seen my hesitation. “It will be better this way, Katrina, you will see,” he said affably. “You may not think so now, but someday you will see the wisdom of my decision. You shall marry a man with prospects, means of his own, so that you are guaranteed a comfortable lifestyle.”

  “I will not marry Brom Van Brunt,” I snapped. “No matter how much you desire him as a son-in-law, I will never marry him.”

  “There is no need for dramatics, Katrina,” he said, sounding as though that rare thing was happening: his patience was wearing thin. “You need not marry Brom Van Brunt, if the idea is so odious to you. But someone of similar station and prospects. I must insist upon this.”

  Even in my near-addled state I recognized anything else I might say at this point would only further wound whatever chance still existed that he may change his mind. Without another word, I spun on my heel and stalked out of his study.

  * * *

  I found Charlotte almost immediately. “Katrina,” she said, looking startled. “I was just on my way to see—why, Katrina, what is the matter?”

  My eyes overflowed with tears again, and I drew her away into the front foyer, the nearest unoccupied space, so I could tell her all. The words poured out of me in a rush, like vomit, that they might be expelled as quickly as possible.

  “Oh, Katrina,” she said when I’d finished. “I know you were uncertain, but truly I believed your father would give his consent.”

  “Did you?” I flared up at her, needing to blame someone. “Or did you foresee this long ago, and not see fit to tell me? What were all those warnings about?”

  She flashed a hurt look at me. “Of course I did not foresee this, Katrina,” she said. “No, the warnings … they always had an echo of Brom about them, somehow. No doubt that was about the duel. I don’t suppose he told your father anything?”

  I bit my lip. I could not be sure, not after Brom had confronted me leaving the Jansen cottage. But if my father had known how far our relationship had progressed, he would have been far angrier. “There is little evidence of that,” I said at last. “No, Papa’s objections were no more than I had feared.

  “But,” I added, “Brom was skulking in the hallway when Ichabod and I left the music room, so I know not what he may now have overheard. I expect it does not matter.”

  Instantly Charlotte’s face took on a troubled expression, but when she did not say anything right away I spoke again.

  “Ichabod will be sending word through you tomorrow about meeting, so that we may discuss our options,” I told her. I reached out and squeezed her hand. “This cannot be the end, Charlotte. It cannot. I won’t let it be.”

  She still looked distracted, as though trying to see something that existed only behind a far-off fog, but she nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I will be waiting for him tomorrow, then.”

  I hesitated, realizing that I had forgotten to tell her about the child. No matter. Quite enough had gone on for one night. I would tell her some other time, when my world had been righted again.

  “Charlotte, there you are,” Mevrouw Jansen said, stepping into the foyer. “It is time we took our leave.”

  Charlotte embraced me quickly. “We will speak tomorrow, I promise,” she whispered. “Try to get some sleep, Katrina. That will be the best thing for you.”

  I nodded, unable to reply for fear I would start sobbing again.

  Charlotte drew back and smiled at me encouragingly. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

  I nodded again.

  Mevrouw Jansen moved toward the front door, drawing her cloak around her. “Good evening, Katrina,” she said, smiling. “Thank you for your family’s wonderful hospitality, as always.”

  “Of course,” I managed.

  As mother and daughter stepped outside, I heard Mevrouw Jansen ask, “Is everything all right, Charlotte? You seem rather troubled.” Yet then the door closed behind them, so I could not hear what reply my friend made, if any.

  With Charlotte’s departure, I suddenly felt weary down to my very bones. I could not bring myself to bid farewell to the few remaining guests just then. Instead, I trudged out to the barn to fetch Nox before making my way up the stairs to my room. I wriggled out of my dress, too tired to wait for Nancy, and left it in a heap on the floor. I changed into my shift and crawled into bed, pulling the covers up over my head. Despite all the turmoil in my mind, I was asleep almost instantly, Nox curled up beside me.

  I do not remember the nightmares I had that night, only that they were dark and terrifying.

  32

&n
bsp; The Disappearance of Ichabod Crane

  I was awoken the next morning by Nancy’s clucks of disapproval. She was shaking the wrinkles out of my gown. “What on earth possessed you to leave this beautiful dress crumpled up on the floor like rubbish?” she demanded. “You just disappeared last night, and couldn’t even wait for me to help you undress, I see. Why, this might be ruined!”

  “I have every faith in your pressing and laundering abilities,” I mumbled.

  Nancy straightened up and gave me her full attention, hands on her hips. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked, eyes narrowing on me suspiciously.

  “Nothing,” I said automatically, like a surly child.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “Seems like something is troubling you.”

  “Nancy, I’ve said all of ten words to you,” I said irritably. “Why does that lead you to believe something is troubling me?”

  She sat on the edge of the bed beside me. “Because I know my girl,” she said, her tone suddenly soft, softer than I’d heard it in years. “And I know when something is troubling her.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes, and before I could stop it I was weeping all over again.

  “Oh, child.” Nancy reached out her arms, and I fell into them. She rubbed my back and murmured soothing noises in my ear until I finally stopped crying. Then she helped me to get up and dress without inquiring further.

  * * *

  Once downstairs, I did not know what to do with myself. At some point, Charlotte would come with a message from Ichabod, or perhaps take me to an arranged meeting place. Until then, all I could do was wait.

  Wait. The very last thing I felt able to do.

  Unable to sit still, I wrapped myself in a cloak to ward off the chill and walked down to the river. I wandered along the bank, trying unsuccessfully to quiet my thoughts. Eventually I changed direction, making my way into the woods, just in case Ichabod was waiting at our spot by the stream. I did not truly expect him to be there, but even so, upon arriving the little clearing looked gray and cold and depressingly empty. I gave it no more than a glance before I turned and, shivering, headed back home.

  The day soon trickled into afternoon, and still there was no sign of Ichabod nor Charlotte. At about three o’clock, I could bear it no longer and pulled on my cloak again. “Mother,” I called, “I am walking to the village to see Charlotte.”

  “Have a nice time, dear,” my mother said absently. She had not sought me out all morning, leading me to believe my father had not told her of Ichabod’s proposal the night before. Depending on what transpired today, perhaps I could tell her myself and enlist her as an ally. She would likely be inclined to agree with my father initially, but no doubt I could bring her around, once she saw that Ichabod and I truly loved each other.

  I had Henry saddle Starlight, and soon I was off, riding furiously for the village, Nox happily running alongside. When I arrived, I knocked loudly and urgently, and Charlotte answered almost immediately. “Katrina,” she said, sounding unsurprised to see me. She let Nox and me in and closed the door behind us. “I was just about to come see you.”

  My heart leapt at her words. “You were? Ichabod has sent a message, then?”

  Her forehead creased in a frown. “You don’t know?”

  Just as quickly as it had come, my elation was banished by the look on her face. “Know what? How could I know anything?”

  “I thought someone might have come from the village to speak to your father, but I was just on my way to tell you in any case.” She sighed and shook her head.

  “Tell me what? For God’s sake, Charlotte—”

  “Mr. Crane,” she said. “He is … he seems to be missing.”

  My body began to shake as if drenched in icy water as her words sank in, as they penetrated through my very skin and added weight to my bones.

  “He … what?” I whispered. I did not feel capable of speaking louder. I reached down to pat Nox, as though reassuring myself that he, at least, was still there.

  She took my hand and drew me down to the daybed, sitting beside me. “Apparently he did not return to the farm where he was lodging last night,” she said quickly, as though to get the telling over with. “At first Meneer Van Ripper and his wife thought nothing of it, thinking he had elected to stay the night at your house rather than make the ride at too late an hour.”

  Oh, how I wished that he had. How I wished I had convinced him to do just that, in spite of everything.

  “But then he never appeared at the schoolhouse for morning lessons, and some of the children went to seek him. Someone remembered seeing him leave the Van Tassel house last night, so a search party has been launched.” She paused. “I thought that perhaps someone would have come to enlist your father’s help, that you may have known already.”

  “No,” I whispered. “No one came. And what … what of his horse? What of Gunpowder?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “There has been no trace of him, either. But surely that is a good sign, yes? He may have merely ridden off somewhere for a time.” She squeezed my hand tightly. “I am sure there is a reasonable explanation.”

  “And … the search party,” I asked through my constricted throat. “Have they found … anything? Any trace of him?”

  Charlotte frowned. “I have not heard.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I believe the plan was to inspect the road and its immediate surroundings between the Van Ripper farmhouse and yours,” she said.

  I rose quickly. “We must join them. We must … I must know what they have found. Or what they will yet find.”

  Charlotte did not say a word to either agree or dissuade me; she simply plucked her cloak from the peg on the wall, and followed Nox and me out of the cottage.

  “I did not see anything amiss on my way here, so let us go this way and see what we find,” I said, striding toward the Van Ripper farm, which was half a mile or so past the church.

  Charlotte hurried to keep up. “You did not know to be looking for anything on your way here, and so perhaps did not notice something that—”

  “One step at a time,” I snapped at her. Instantly I regretted my sharpness. I sighed. “I’m sorry. I just…”

  “It is all right,” Charlotte said, her tone even. “Let us go this way.”

  We headed up the Albany Post Road, and it did not take long before our efforts bore fruit.

  As we approached the church, we could see a group of people gathered on the bridge over the river than ran past it, the one that had fed the mill pond of old Mr. Phillips’s mill. They all gathered at the railing of the rickety old bridge, talking and pointing at something in the water.

  My knees buckled as black began to crowd the edges of my vision. I clutched Charlotte’s arm to keep myself upright. On my other side, Nox pressed against me, as if knowing that I needed steadying. “Charlotte … what … what are they looking at?” I gasped. “Is it … do you think … do you think they found a … a body?”

  Charlotte slid an arm firmly around my waist and led me to the edge of the crowd. “Wait here,” she murmured. “I will go see. Courage, Katrina.” She slipped through the crowd until she reached the railing of the bridge.

  Upon her quick return, I tried desperately to read the grim expression on her face. She drew me back a few paces from the crowd. “It is not a body,” she said in a low voice. I felt faint again, this time with relief. “It is…” she shook her head, looking somewhat puzzled.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “It is … shards of a hollowed-out pumpkin,” she said. “Littered on the bank. And…” She hesitated.

  “What? Charlotte, for God’s sake, what is it?”

  “A man’s hat, caught in some branches at the edge of the river,” she said. “It … it looked like Ichabod’s.”

  I felt as though I had been shot. I would have crumpled to the ground entirely if Charlotte had not held me up, with a strength belied by her slender frame. “It may not be his,” s
he said quickly. “But everyone seems to think so.”

  “Let me see,” I said, shoving her away, my resolve giving me new strength. I pushed into the crowd and to the railing.

  I clutched the rail of the bridge, white-knuckled, for support. It was indeed Ichabod’s hat; I was certain of it. Yet its presence in the stream was innocent enough, was it not? It may well have flown off his head as he rode over the bridge. It may mean nothing at all. Most likely it meant nothing at all.

  The broken pumpkin was less easily explained. Or was it? Perhaps someone had tossed a pumpkin in the stream for whatever unknown reason. It need not mean anything at all.

  The murmurings of the villagers began to break through my fog. “Aye, ’tis his hat, all right,” one farmer spoke up. “I’ve seen it upon his head meself.”

  “You saw the tracks in the dirt along the road there,” Mevrouw Maarten said to Mevrouw Douw, and pointed. Hoof prints dotted the muddy ground of the road behind us, imprinted with such force that the horse must have been moving at great speed. Horses, I realized, taking in the number of prints.

  “Indeed,” Mevrouw Douw said. “We all waste our time here. ’Tis plain for anyone to see that the Headless Horseman has carried him off.”

  I whirled to face her. “What did you say?” I demanded.

  Mevrouw Douw cackled. “Don’t tell me that you tell all the stories but don’t believe them, young Miss Van Tassel,” she said.

  “But the Horseman is … he is just a story,” I protested feebly.

  “You are a fool if you believe that,” she said. “And young Mr. Crane ought to have paid more heed to the stories, as well, it seems.”

  I spun away from her and pushed my way back to where Charlotte stood. All around me, the whispers circled. Carried off by the Horseman, aye … He must have been … The Galloping Hessian has struck again … The Horseman has taken him, no doubt … Poor Mr. Crane.

  “Charlotte,” I gasped. “It cannot be true. It … cannot be real.”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” she said, hesitation in her voice.