After our trip to the clearing that day, I did not bring up the search for Ichabod again for some time. The truth was I did not know what else to do. Or, rather, I had some ideas—consulting the tarot cards again being one of them—but I did not feel ready. Every so often of a winter evening, I would find myself staring into the fire in the hearth, hoping and fearing that another vision would come to me in the flames. A part of me did not want to feel that suffocating terror again, but another part felt it would be worth it, if there was a chance it would give me answers.
Yet as my pregnancy progressed, I was often tired and irritable, and heeded Charlotte’s wisdom that I not risk harming the child. That meant my search for answers was postponed until after the child’s birth. This self-imposed restriction at times brought feelings of both relief and frustration.
Winter melted into spring, and I continued to run the house efficiently. When Brom was home, he slept in the guest room to ensure that the child and I benefited from a full night of rest. I was grateful for his absence from my bed, but I could not help but be touched by his obvious concern and solicitousness.
He was gone most days, in New York or occasionally Boston, and I found I did not relish being alone, not as I once had when I was a girl. There was too much in my mind that I wanted to escape, to forget, and the empty silence of the house meant that memories could more easily find me. I did not wish for Brom’s presence, but some days I could not help but feel that the more people who were in the house, the better.
Nancy was always about, of course, and she and I grew closer than ever. We dined together most nights, when she was not out visiting friends, and of many a cold evening we would sit together by the fire, gossiping and laughing.
I visited with Charlotte often, as always, and invited her to my house whenever Brom was gone. We shared many a meal together when we could, on those days and nights when she was not needed to assist her mother.
And whenever I felt as though I could not stave off the memories, I would go to my desk, seize my quill, and continue writing my stories. Some took days to write out in full, with all the detail and embellishment that I could give them. It gave me joy and purpose in a way I hadn’t anticipated, and I soon found myself longing for those free, quiet moments when I could sit with only pen and paper for company. As spring ripened and the air got warmer, I would go into the woods—not far, not deep—to a new secluded spot I found where I could sit and read or write without being disturbed.
The one story I found myself unable to commit to paper, however, was the very first one I had told Ichabod: the legend of the Headless Horseman. I felt rather superstitious about writing it down. This was ridiculous, of course, and I told myself that I could not summon such a specter with my words, yet still I did not write it down.
One day, I flipped to the blank pages at the back of the book and started a new, very different entry. I wrote a date at the top of the page, then the following:
Walked with Charlotte to the clearing where the Headless Horseman is said to have lost his life in battle. Air was heavy and oppressive, somehow. We searched the whole perimeter of the clearing, but other than some disturbance of the ground did not find anything of note.
I went on to detail the fast-changing weather that day, the thoughts I’d had as we searched, Charlotte’s strange moment of deep thought, before I laid down my quill, satisfied. I would record it all here, along with my stories. Everything I found—or did not find—in my quest for the truth. It would be a book of truths, stories, and spells.
For are not truths, stories, and spells all the same thing, in the end?