Chapter 9
Crane
Suffice it to say, I barely slept a wink last night.
After I found the message, I quickly disposed of the snake in the forest. Mercifully, the creature was fully dead—it must have been a reflex that caused it to move.
It was only then that I realized I needed to hold on to the sewing needles and the piece of paper.
Sure, the blood I had seen in the hallway wasn’t real, and the woman I saw dragging herself on the floor disappeared, but this was evidence that I had.
The only problem is I don’t know what it is evidence of.
By the time the sun came up, casting pale gold on the surface of the black lake between the patches of fog, I was already in the dining hall getting breakfast, a tray of eggs and salted pork, before anyone else was up, including the students.
I’m amazed I have an appetite at all, and it’s only when I finish my meal and get a cup of coffee from the cook that other teachers and students start coming in.
There are the two girls who walk in wearing matching outfits.
They must be sisters, their faces similar, their braids coiled on their heads matching.
They exude a quiet energy, a shy one, and even though it’s been only a week since classes started and I’m still getting to know everyone, I recognize them from my mimicry class.
They’re from Oklahoma, and they both seem fascinated by astrology.
One of them, in particular, I know has prophetic dreams.
There’s a man, Doug Smith, who is probably a few years older than me, his beard peppered with gray, who shows promise in psychometry, which is what Leona has—the ability to gain foresight by touching objects. He showed this off in my psionic class yesterday.
Then there are the teachers, who don’t always eat in the dining hall at the set times.
This morning, I recognize the shy and quiet Ms. Peters with her sad eyes and ruddy complexion, sitting alone with a slice of bread and syrup, but there’s no one else to be found.
I at least wanted to see Daniels or Desi to inquire if they had heard any peculiar noises last night.
I know I might sound a bit daft by asking, but I have to know it wasn’t all in my head.
I reach over to my coat pocket and slide my fingers inside, finding the paper. As long as I have this, I know it wasn’t a dream.
I finish the rest of my coffee and get up to procure another cup when I bump into Sister Sophie in line.
“Professor Crane,” she says to me, her face brighter with her head free of her hood.
Sister Sophie is the twin of Sister Margaret, both looking exactly the same except for a small mole above Sister Sophie’s lip.
But while Sister Margaret is rather cold and stiff, Sophie’s personality is a little more pliable, and she’s easier to talk to.
“How are we this morning?” she asks, adjusting the copper pin at the throat of her cloak.
My jaw tenses while I think of what I should say to her. Would the truth make me look weak? I take a chance.
“Tired, actually,” I say as the iron-eyed cook refills my coffee cup. I nod my thanks and walk with her slowly across the hall. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“I know what that’s like,” she says, blowing on her coffee. “Too many thoughts in your brain rattling around.”
“You’re not wrong,” I tell her. “That’s usually the case.”
That’s why opium was such a godsend for me. I’d been clean ever since I came to Sleepy Hollow—Leona forbade it—but boy did it ever help in making me feel at peace for once. It made me feel normal for a change, as if my brain was orderly instead of absolute chaos.
“It was different this time,” I go on. I come to a stop and fix her with a pertinent gaze. “I woke up because I had heard something out in the hall.”
“Oh?” she asks, her thin brows knitting together.
“I heard crying, and then…it was enough for me to get my lantern.” I go on and tell her the rest of what happened, ending the story by bringing out the piece of paper from my coat pocket, careful not to spill my coffee on it. “This is what they wrote.”
I wave the folded paper until it snaps open and show it to her.
Her lips purse as she looks it over. “I see,” she says in a low voice. She glances up at me. “Not a very funny prank, is it?”
“A prank?” I gape at her. “You think this is a prank?”
She gives me a wry look, like I’m a complete dunce. “The students’ dorm is in the building across from yours. Do you really think that a little harmless ribbing isn’t in the repertoire for them? It’s part of the hazing, Professor Crane. Surely you’ve been through that before.”
“A hazing is a thumbtack left on the teacher’s seat or a student hiding all the chalk,” I say indignantly, though I’m careful to keep my voice down. “It is not someone killing a snake and putting it in a teacher’s room and writing a warning in blood!”
She chuckles, smoothing her hair back before pulling up her hood, enveloping her face in shadow.
“Oh, you are fretting over nothing. First of all, that is not a warning. That is a saying that we have here. Welcome to Sleepy Hollow. May you never leave. Because you’ll love it here so much.
And the dead snake, which I’m sure they found in the garden, probably died from natural causes.
No harm, no foul. Let me ask you, when you went to explore the halls, did you lock the door behind you? ”
I shake my head. “No, I…” I didn’t even close it.
“There you go,” she says with a satisfied smile, though it looks eerie with her eyes in shadow.
“Anyone could have snuck in, and it sounded like you were gone for long enough. As for the blood, probably a trick of the eye. You know you see what you want to see. And don’t forget, you are at a school for magic.
Don’t underestimate some of these students.
More than a few of them showed an inclination toward the power of illusion. ”
“I know what I saw,” I say firmly, my molars grinding together. “That was no prank.”
“Perhaps a student dressed in a nightgown or, as I said, an illusion,” she says. “The students here will continuously surprise you. Keeps you on your toes, doesn’t it?”
Then with a flick of her hand, she waves goodbye and turns, gliding out of the dining hall like a ghost in black, sipping her coffee as she goes.
I watch her go, absolutely befuddled. Could she be right? Could it have been a prank by the students? I look around the room, trying to see if any one of them is looking my way and laughing, but no one is paying any attention to me.
I let out a low breath before taking a large gulp of my coffee, which has already gone lukewarm from talking so much. Probably for the best that I don’t have too much—I don’t want to add to the anxiety that I already have.
I go back to my table where I left my textbook on crystals in ancient Rome, surprised to see Ms. Peters flipping through the pages.
“Good morning?” I ask as I approach.
She looks up, and her face reddens even more. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says in a breathless, dainty voice. “I was looking for this at the library. Didn’t realize you had taken it out.”
“You’re free to borrow it if you want,” I tell her. “Or I can return it to the library, and you can officially borrow it if you like playing by the rules.”
“No, that’s quite all right. Take your time,” she says. She sticks out her hand. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Clara Peters.”
I shake her hand. It’s cold but sticky, like she just put on oil. “Professor Ichabod Crane,” I tell her. “You’re the kitchen witch.”
He’d heard nice things about her. Good with herbs and plants and food. Tinctures. Medicine of sorts. Not unlike a forest or hedge witch.
She nodded.
“How long have you been teaching here for?”
“Four years,” she says.
“Ah. So not quite a beginner like myself but not someone with tenure either.”
“Actually,” she says with a faint, disbelieving smile, “I’ve been here the longest out of everyone. Most teachers don’t last more than a year or two. Vivienne Henry, the woman you’re replacing, she was here the longest. Seven years. I thought she would never leave.”
Welcome to Sleepy Hollow. May you never leave.
“Why did she leave?” Of course, I know nothing about the teacher whose position I had taken over. I hadn’t even thought to ask. “Work get too much for her? The isolation?”
Did students leave dead snakes in her room?
Clara shakes her head, pressing her lips together until they go white. “No. She liked it here. And she was a good witch too. Very powerful. Put on fantastic shows for us. Really believed in the students.”
I cross my arms, intrigued. “So what happened?”
She looks a bit nervous. Perhaps I’m pressing too hard.
“She…she had a bit of a breakdown. Mentally. Hysteria, they said. One day, she just snapped and said some things about the school that just weren’t true. She was acting all paranoid, and then…”
“Then?” I prod.
“She was found in the lake. Dead. Everyone said it was suicide.”
I was not expecting that. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly, feeling bad for asking so much. I should have noticed the signs. “I didn’t know.”
“No one knew it was coming,” she says softly, looking down at her hands. “Until her episodes, she was always so happy. Everyone loved her.”
“Sounds like I have some big shoes to fill,” I admit, rubbing the tense spot at the back of my neck.
“She was kind, and you seem kind too,” she says with a placating smile. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”
I try not to laugh at that. I’ve been called many things by my students, but kind hasn’t been one of them.
“Anyway, I better get going,” she says, stepping away from the table. “It was nice having this chat. I’ll see you later.”
“Of course,” I say. But as she turns her back to me, I call out softly, “Clara?”
She pauses to look at me, a fretful look on her face, like an animal close to escaping. “Yes?”
I walk over to her, lowering my voice. “You say that she was saying things about the school that were untrue. What sorts of things?”
A dark look comes across her face, her body tensing. “I don’t really remember. None of it made much sense.” She looks around her, eyes darting as if someone else is listening in.
“Can you give me an example? I’m just curious,” I add, smiling at her as if that will help her lower her defenses.
“Just strange things like the school was a trap. That’s it, really—the school was a trap, and we were all just flies in a web. She sounded out of her mind, to be honest with you.”
“Sounds like it,” I say carefully. “Thank you very much, Clara.”
She just gives me a quick nod and hurries along her way before I can ask her anything else.
I wonder what else I can find out about Vivienne Henry.