Chapter 12
Morning light filters through the gauzy in curtains Ichabod’s flat, softening the room and sending a warm glow over the stacks of books and papers scattered across his desk.
I’m perched on the edge of his bed, pulling on my boots, when he emerges from the small kitchenette with two cups of coffee.
He’s dressed casually today, his usual polished professor look replaced by jeans.
He passes me one of the mugs. “What do you say to a little adventure today?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee.
I take a sip of my own drink, the cup warming my hands, and study his face. He hasn’t said any more about the Headless Horseman this morning, and I’m starting to wonder if we were both just caught up in the eerie surroundings of the dark streets yesterday. Or if I just imagined the whole thing.
“Depends,” I say, watching him over the rim of the cup. “What were you thinking?”
“The museum.” He sits beside me, slipping on his own shoes. “It’s small, but it has its secrets. Stories to tell. I think you’ll like it.”
I think back to the diary entry, of my ancestor and her date to the art gallery with her soldier. This is very much not a date. But after the terror of last night, the idea of surrounding myself in beautiful art and losing myself in a history other than my own sounds very appealing.
We’ve only just met, but there’s something about Ichabod that I’m captivated by. He feels very grounded, which I seriously need right now, especially amongst the weirdness of Sleepy Hollow.
It’s not a date. But it feels like the shadow of one.
The walk to the museum takes us through the heart of the town, and it’s quieter than I expected. The few people I see walk briskly with their heads down, conversations hushed. It’s no wonder, really. Two brutal murders — sorry, accidents — in such a short time would unsettle any town.
“Can you feel it?” Ichabod asks, keeping his voice low as we pass a cluster of townsfolk gossiping in hushed tones.
“Feel what?”
“The fear,” he says. “Something in this town has changed. You can feel it in the air.”
I nod. He’s right. Even in daylight, something lingers. A sense of unease.
“Well, yeah. I’m not surprised people feel nervous. Hopefully, they find the killer soon,” I say, giving up the pretence of talking about accidents. “Then things can go back to whatever this town’s version of normal is.” I try to sound optimistic.
Ichabod doesn’t answer. But his gaze lingers on mine for a heartbeat too long, as if he wants to say more but doesn’t.
The museum squats in the middle of Sleepy Hollow like a relic from another time.
It used to be the town hall, before being converted a few decades ago.
Grecian columns hold up the triangular roof, and wide stone steps invite us up and inside.
As Ichabod promised, it’s small, but indoors is a labyrinth of exhibitions filling the high-ceilinged galleries.
He leads the way with the enthusiasm of someone who’s been here a hundred times but never grows tired of it.
He pauses frequently, pointing out details in the paintings or sharing little-known facts about the sculptures.
As much as I enjoy the exhibits, what I find most fascinating is Ichabod’s perspective.
Viewing it all through his eyes, the details he pulls out that he finds interesting, that he thinks I will find interesting.
Watching him become excited over something I’m almost certain he’s seen several times before.
His voice is low but animated and I can’t help but be drawn in — not just by the exhibits, but by him.
Our hands brush as we walk, and I feel a little jolt of electricity each time.
“This one is my favourite,” he says, stopping in front of a dark and brooding landscape, dominated by bare twisted trees and a sky heavy with storm clouds. “It’s called Hollow Secrets. Supposedly, it was inspired by the legends surrounding Sleepy Hollow.”
He’s looking at me, not the painting, head tilted slightly as if waiting to see how I’ll react.
“So, where’s the Horseman then?” I laugh. “It’s beautifully done, but kind of sinister.”
“Ah, maybe that’s the secret,” he smiles faintly. “That’s what makes it so haunting.”
There’s something about the way he says it that raises the hair on my arms.
We move deeper into the museum, into the heart of Sleepy Hollow’s own story, a gallery dedicated to the history of the town itself. I wander over to one of the large glass display cases.
“The Legend of the Headless Horseman,” I read aloud. “Is this where you’ve been doing your research then?” I ask, finally broaching the subject that’s been hanging in the air since last night.
Ichabod steps up beside me.
“Partly,” he shrugs, but there’s a ripple of tension in his voice. “Do you know anything about the story?”
“Uh, yeah, Brom was talking about it just the other day. You Sleepy Hollow men seem a tad obsessed with this guy.”
“It’s one of the town’s most enduring stories, Katrina. And there’s always been an underlying fear that one day he’ll return.”
I turn to face him properly. “You really think it’s true?” I ask. “That the Horseman is real?”
“After last night, how can you not?” he counters.
I pause. Sure, something creepy had happened last night. But in the harsh light of day, with children pointing excitedly at display boards and families murmuring about lunch, it all feels absurd. Whatever I saw last night, it couldn’t have been a ghost. It had to be something else — something real.
“I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for what happened last night,” I say finally.
“I felt his presence,” Ichabod says, quiet but certain. “And you did too, even if you don’t want to admit that to yourself.”
I hesitate. The air feels heavy, as if the weight of the town’s history is pressing in on me from all sides. I think about the chilled air and the sound of hooves in the dark.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I just don’t believe in anything like that.”
Ichabod watches me for a moment and then nods. He doesn’t argue and we don’t mention the Horseman again.
We leave the museum not long afterwards, stepping back out into the crisp afternoon air. I feel lighter and more grounded than I have in weeks.
“Thank you for this,” I say, glancing up at him. “I’ve needed this. A normal day.” I swallow. “There’s something about you that makes everything else… quieter. Even the grief.”
He smiles down at me. “Anytime, Kat.”
He reaches for my hand and runs his thumb across my knuckles.
We walk on in comfortable silence for a while longer, and we could just be two people out for an autumn stroll in any country town, until I realise we’re about to pass the old mill. Toby’s eyes, large as saucers, float to the front of my mind as I remember his distress yesterday. The town lawyer.
Like a car crash, I can’t stop myself being drawn to stare at the pavement outside the old building. Sure enough, the remnants of police tape are waving in the breeze above the blood splattered pavement.
Neither of us say anything, but as we near the edge of woods, I can’t help but glance cautiously into the trees, half expecting to see the shadow of the Horseman lurking in the dark.
The sun is beginning its descent by the time I make my way back to Van Tassel Manor.
Orange rays strobe across the sky, the last warmth of the day stretching out but not quite touching the sprawling house.
As soon as I step through the grand double doors, any trace of warmth vanishes, replaced by the cool stillness of the building.
The house is quiet, except for the faint ticking of the grandfather clock standing sentinel near the staircase. For a moment, I think I’ve managed to slip inside unnoticed, but then I hear the creak of a door swinging open and heavy footsteps on the floorboards.
“Katrina.”
I turn to see my father emerging from his study, his keen gaze sweeping over me.
I feel like one of his students caught running in the hallway.
Philip Van Tassel towers over me, his salt and pepper hair combed neatly back, his stance wide.
He closes the door to the study behind him firmly, his fingers lingering on the handle for just a second.
“You’re back later than I expected,” he remarks, his tone is even but laced with something I can’t quite place.
At least he doesn’t seem to be aware I didn’t come home last night.
I shrug. “I was out.”
“With Ichabod Crane.” It isn’t a question.
I hesitate, but there’s no point in denying it. “Yes,” I say simply.
His jaw visibly tightens. “I don’t think you should be spending time with that man.”
I frown. “And why not?”
“He’s a professor at my university. He’s too old for you.”
I scoff, crossing my arms. “He’s not that much older than me.”
“Katrina, I work with him. He’s a grown man and you’re just a teenager.”
The words sting more than they should, coming from him. “I’m nineteen,” I retort. “I can make my own decisions.” But I wince internally, hearing the petulance in my own voice.
“Of course you can. I’m just telling you to be mindful of who you spend your time with and who you put your trust in. You barely know the man and…”
I cut him off. “And you don’t trust him?”
“I don’t trust his intentions with you,” my father volleys back. “You’re young.”
“I’m not a child,” I snap. “And maybe if you’d been around for the past ten years, you’d know that.”
A flicker passes over his face, guilt or regret perhaps, but it vanishes just as quickly as it appeared, once more replaced by stoicism.
“Katrina, I can’t change the past. But I just want what’s best for you now.”
“You don’t get to decide what that is.” I cock my hip.
“No,” he concedes. “But I can still try to protect you.”
There’s that word again, protect. He and Meredith both keep using it. It’s not unusual for parents to want to protect their children, but this feels like something more. Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.
“Is something else going on here?” I finally ask.
His back straightens ever-so-slightly.
“I just don’t want you wandering the town with someone you don’t know,” he says slowly, as if each word has been carefully selected.
“Because as much as you all keep pushing this terrible accident narrative, the deaths in town definitely make it seem like there’s a killer on loose? Is that it?”
His eyes flash.
Recognition. Or panic.
But the moment passes, and he stands taller, smoothing the lines of his suit jacket over his stomach.
“This isn’t up for discussion. You’re not to see that man again, and don’t leave the house after dark.” Before I can interrupt, he continues. “Dinner will be ready shortly. I suggest you freshen up.” With that, he turns his back to me and returns to his study.
I stand stiffly, staring at his retreating back for a moment, before heading for the stairs. I can’t believe how quick he was to cut me off, to treat me like a child. Expecting me to just blindly follow his orders, with no explanation or discussion.
When I reach my room, I close the door behind me and let out a slow breath, my mind still reeling from the conversation.
My father says he’s trying to protect me. But from what? Ichabod? Or something else entirely?