The next day, Brom returned to New York, and my whole body breathed a sigh of relief. I had, however, been genuinely touched to see the emotion on his face as he bade farewell to Anneke and promised to return soon.
I spent most of the day with my baby, pushing aside all thoughts of tarot cards and candle flames and death on horseback. I spread a blanket out in the garden for her, releasing her from her swaddlings. I fed her right there in the garden, and when her eyelids began to droop I laid curled up beside her on the blanket.
If nothing else, she deserves to know, someday, what happened to her real father. And what sort of man he truly was, I thought, before drifting off to sleep myself.
* * *
Later that day, I sat again at my desk with my quill and notebook, Anneke dozing beside me in her cradle. I wrote a brief description of my most recent nightmares and visions, and of Charlotte’s cards, then I flipped back to the middle of the book and began setting down a new story, that of Van Dam, the ghostly rower on the Hudson. The story went that he had been very fond of drunken revelry, and had spent most of his Saturday nights in pursuit of such before the Sabbath. One night, he promised he would return home before the stroke of midnight, when the Sabbath began. Yet as the Sabbath bells tolled, he was still in his boat on the Hudson, rowing furiously to make it home in time to keep his promise. And so, in the early hours of Sunday mornings, many have reported seeing him rowing still, doomed to row forever for not keeping the Sabbath.
As I wrote, I heard footsteps come into the room and looked up, expecting to see Nancy. Instead, Charlotte stood there. “Why, Charlotte!” I said, rising from my chair. “Do come in and sit down.”
“Nancy let me in,” she said, sitting down on the daybed. “But I am sorry, I seem to have interrupted you,” she said, nodding toward my notebook and quill.
“Oh, do not worry about that,” I said. “My writing project, you see. I can pick it up again later.”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “Writing project? What writing project is this?”
“Can it be that I have not told you?” Yet it seemed that I had not. The birth of Anneke, and the reordering of my life, had made me quite forget to bring it up to Charlotte.
Anneke began to stir, and I rose to pick her up. “No, please let me,” she said. “I’d love to hold her.” She picked Anneke up and cradled her securely in her arms. Anneke stopped fussing immediately and reached up to grasp the strands of red hair tumbling over Charlotte’s shoulders, studying them with fascination.
“So, your writing,” Charlotte prompted.
I told her the whole story, how Ichabod had once suggested it, and how the project had given me more purpose and pleasure than I had ever anticipated, and also how I had taken to chronicling my attempts to find Ichabod.
“What a marvelous idea, all of it,” Charlotte said when I’d finished. “You must read me one of your tales!”
I laughed. “You know them all as well as I do.”
“But you’ve always had such a gift for telling them, truly. I should like to hear how you’ve committed them to paper.”
“Soon, then, if you wish,” I asked. “But what brings you by? And I hope that I can persuade you to stay for dinner. It should be ready any moment now.”
“I’m happy to accept, of course. I simply wanted to see how you were faring this morning,” she said.
I sighed. “Well enough. I spent the day with Anneke and put all the rest out of my mind. But I cannot seem to forget it for long.”
“I may be able to help you,” she ventured.
“Oh?”
“There are certain techniques one can use to bring a vision on,” she said. “If you are certain this is what you want to do. You have been resistant to such things in the past.”
“Yes. Teach me whatever you can, Charlotte. I am done with half measures. Let us find the truth and have done with it, whatever it might bring.”
Charlotte nodded. “Very well, then. After dinner?”
I nodded. “I will tell Nancy to set another place.”
* * *
After dinner, with Anneke in bed for the night and Nox keeping watch, I led Charlotte back into the parlor. I shut the door and drew the curtains closed. A few candles were lit for our purposes, and Charlotte brought one branch to the floor, where we sat across from one another.
“Now,” Charlotte said. “Fire is a difficult medium in which to see anything. On the rare occasion that I seek out such visions, I use a bowl of water or a mirror. But fire wishes to speak to you, and I think we should listen to it.”
I nodded.
“Close your eyes and take several deep breaths; however many you feel are necessary to relax yourself. Keep your eyes closed,” she said, her voice low and melodic. I did as she said.
“When you are ready,” Charlotte murmured, “when your mind is clear and your body relaxed, open your eyes and look into the center of the flame. Ask it—silently—to show its secrets to you.”
I took a few more deep breaths, then slowly flicker my eyes open, fixing my gaze on the flame. Show me, I thought. Show me your secrets, show me the truth. Somehow I felt more powerful than before, as if my intention had given me strength. Show me your secrets, your knowledge. Reveal to me the truth.
The flame danced lightly on the wick, flickering as our breath stirred the air in the still room. For a second it seemed like the dark center of the flame was expanding, and I leaned forward expectantly, ready to see what it had to show me, but to my disappointment nothing was revealed. The flame did not engulf me; I did not tumble into some dark world of revelations.
After a few minutes, Charlotte cleared her throat. “Let us try again,” she said. “Repeat the same process—deep, slow breaths, eyes closed, clear your mind—and begin again.”
I started over, entreating the flame to show me something, anything. And again, nothing.
At least show me Ichabod’s face, I begged it finally. I do not even need to see what became of him, just, please, please, let me see him one more time.
But still the flame proved obstinate.
Tears began to trickle down my cheeks, and I squeezed my eyes shut and looked away.
“Katrina…?” Charlotte said. “Please do not fret if you cannot see anything. This kind of art is very capricious and it takes time and practice. We will try again, don’t worry—”
I shook my head. “It isn’t that,” I said through my tears. “Not really. Not only that. I just…” I buried my face in my hands and let out a sob. “I miss him so much.”
Charlotte did not say anything; she simply slid closer to where I sat on the floor and wrapped her arms around my shaking shoulders.