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When Lotte had jumped from the roof, I was running behind Crane and Brom, trying to catch up, and cursing my little legs for being so slow. The scream that Crane let out when she fell was something I’ll never forget. It was a scream from his past, and I can only imagine it had to do with his ex-wife. How did she die? What did he witness? Did he blame himself for any of it? Because Marie, even in death, sure seems to blame him.
And then, when I saw him with Lotte as she lay dying, I was transfixed on how hard Crane was taking it. It seemed to go beyond the traumatic and horrific sight of a poor girl dying at her own hand, it seemed personal, and Crane seemed close to losing it. He’s always been so composed, so to see Brom take him away from the scene and comfort him nearly broke my heart.
Now there’s a heaviness in Crane that I can feel, his energy twisting into sorrow, his eyes melancholy. For once I wish I could give him the same feeling of safety that he gives me.
“We need to be quick about this,” Crane says as we ride through the center of campus. “As soon as we’re past the gates, we won’t stop until we get to town. Kat, we’ll get Snowdrop on the way back, after we’ve talked to the constable. I don’t want to be out there after the sun goes down.”
He doesn’t have to elaborate on what that means.
Once again, I fear the gate won’t open and the wards will hold us back, but luckily, they let us pass, and the moment we’re through, Crane urges Gunpowder into a gallop, with Daredevil, being younger and faster, taking the lead easily.
Crane is silent while we gallop down the fog-shrouded trail, the trees whizzing past us and mist clawing at our faces like fingers, the sound of thundering hooves filling the air as we follow Brom and Daredevil. By the time we’re passing Wiley’s Swamp, the weather shifts and the mist dissipates. The afternoon sunshine comes through the trees and I blink at it, as if I’ve never seen light before.
Once we pass through the Hollow Creek bridge it’s like we’ve entered a whole new land. The sky is a piercing blue with high white clouds, the fields soggy and golden with a murmuration of starlings over them. In the distance, the Hudson River sparkles enough to hurt my eyes. I see Mary’s house and I feel a calling to her, to see how she is. What happened after the bonfire? Did she ever hear me knocking at her door and yelling for help? Did her horse ever return?
But that has to wait. We gallop past her house and then past mine. I can’t look away from my front door, thinking my mother will throw open the door at any moment to stop us, but nothing happens and in seconds we’re gone.
We ride fast and hard all the way to the start of town where Crane and Brom pull the horses back to a trot, then a walk as we hit Main Street, ensuring Gunpowder and Daredevil have enough time to cool down before we come to a stop. The police station is located on the other end of town, so we spend a bit going past the shops and buildings.
Despite having been here last week for the bonfire, it’s a little jarring to see civilization again, especially in the daytime. All the white-washed buildings gleaming extra bright in the sunshine, the festive autumnal displays of carved gourds and pumpkins and stalks of corn, the perfectly pruned bright red and orange foliage of the trees around the square.
As I expected, the townspeople are staring at us as they go about their day, some whispering to each other as we pass them on the street. I’m sure everyone recognizes me, but Crane is a stranger to them, and from the snippets of conversation I hear, Brom is the talk of the town, the boy who disappeared and returned to Sleepy Hollow.
“Considering a school for witches is just outside their doorstep, they seem to be an awfully judgmental bunch,” Crane muses under his breath. “Have they never seen two people sharing a horse before?”
“They’re probably wondering why I’m with you and not with Brom,” I point out quietly.
“Ah, so they’ve noticed the golden boy has returned,” he says.
We dismount and tie the horses up outside the station, and then step inside.
Constable Kirkbride is sitting at his desk, puffing on a pipe and looking over some papers. He looks up in surprise, raising a bushy grey brow.
“Can I help you?” he says in his Bostonian accent, putting the pipe down.
“Yes, we would like to report a suicide,” Crane says bluntly, leaning with his hands on the constable’s desk.
