Sometimes walking around Sleepy Hollow is a real pain.

You might think I mean that in a figurative sense, but I'm here to tell you that's not the case. I mean it actually does hurt. Not a lot, and not all the time—I would have moved away long ago if that was the case—but there are times and places around here that definitely remind me of where I am in unpleasant ways.

My brother Seamus feels it too. That's why his car lot's just outside the township proper, away from the direct influence. He doesn't like talking about it, not even with me, but he doesn't deny it anymore. Sometimes when he's in a bitchy mood he'll tell me it's because we're the good guys. "Suffering; that's our lot in life, right? Both sides of the family bringing it on for the last two decades."

He's got a point. When you're Native American and Scots Irish, there's a lot of painful history right there, but Seamus always forgets the good part too, and it boils down to this: suffering makes us stronger. I'm still not talking figuratively here in case you were wondering. I mean despite all of the conflicted miasma that drifts through Sleepy Hollow, Seamus and I can take it and do. We know the lay of the land, and have a pretty good read on the people here.

I'm Hannah, by the way. Hannah Nokomis Duncan. I run the Take the Cake Bakery on Elm and Third in town. You probably know the place; the one with the pink awnings and the neon cupcake signs in the windows? Forget subtle; I know what it takes to compete with Starbucks around here and I know damned sure I do a better muffin. Lots of folks around here think so too.

People like Sheriff Corbin, rest his soul. He always told me if I ever branched out into pie he'd marry me, which was one of the nicest compliments I ever got. Too bad pie wasn't my forte; I'd have kept him to his word and out of Maddie's Diner. I miss him stopping by each week to chat, and grab a baker's dozen of my best for his staff. A week after his funeral I put a cruller on his grave and buried a St. Benedict medal just under his headstone.

Hope it helps him rest; more than anyone else I know, he deserves peace.

Anyway, as I said, walking around Sleepy Hollow can be a pain. For instance, I never cut through the old graveyard because I get a bad case of the prickles if I do. Imagine having the bristle end of a broom pressed hard against the crooks of your elbows, the backs of your knees and the tender skin of your throat all at the same time.

That's the prickles. They hurt, and they get worse when I know I'm passing by certain graves. I suspect it's why mourners don't linger much in Reverend Knapp's churchyard after funerals.

I also don't like the woods at the north side of town either. The place has had a bad reputation for years; even before the Mills sisters were found there and even now it's undeveloped because nobody can ever finish surveying the area. Part of the main road into town cuts through it, and if I have to drive that way I go as quick as I legally can.

And even then the sensation still feels like cobwebs clinging to me, urgh.

Still there are good places too. I don't want to make anyone think Sleepy Hollow doesn't have pretty parks and a breathtaking overlook and in the holiday snow you won't find a more gorgeous little town. The river is clean, the homegrown vegetables here are the best and on long summer nights you can see almost every constellation in the sky. I grew up here and I'm generally pretty happy about staying on.

But as Seamus would point out, it's because I'm one of the good guys. He is too, he just doesn't like to admit it to anyone. Aunt Marie knew both he and I had it in us back when we were kids and she made it her business to put the edge on the axe, as the saying goes.

We were trained in a lot of the old arts, and listened to a lot of the legends growing up. Other kids had catechism; we had lodge days. Aunt Marie would not only tell us about Ojibwa and Mohawk and other First Nation mythology but also stories about our town too. The stuff Corwin was skirting around the edges of.

So that's how I knew that what happened to Abbie and Jenny was real.

Not that I could do or say anything that would help; I was only a year older than Abbie at the time. Still, Aunt Marie and I left baskets of meals on their porch for the first couple of months, and I gave a fat lip to anyone who talked bullshit about those girls when I was around. It didn't help much but it made me feel better.

After college, I came back to Sleepy Hollow wondering what I was going to do with a degree in cultural psychology. I was hurting. I mean Will had died before we'd even gotten to announce our engagement, I'd lost out on the prestigious internship in Boston, and I was too broke to even get a foothold in any of the big cities. Rough time until Seamus showed me the real estate Aunt Marie had left each of us. He got the acreage he ended up turning into Geronimotors—which for the record I think is possibly the stupidest name ever—and I got the lot on Elm and Third.

So I built my bakery there. Baking is easy, bread never goes out of demand, and I had the added bonus of living upstairs from work.

The night after the concrete foundation was laid I came back with two drums of purified salt and poured an unbroken line of it all around the perimeter of the cement. Did it again when the supports were put in, and once more when I had the flooring done. Three layers of fortification, invisible to the eye.

That's why people feel comfortable in my shop. Safe. They're protected at Take the Cake the minute they cross the threshold. I have other shields in place too, but nothing obvious. At least I didn't think they were obvious until Abbie Mills and her companion came in.

Seamus had warned me. "Knows about Ro'kenhronteys, Han. Even says the name right; look out for him."

I watched him study the shop even as I nodded to Abbie, ready to take her order. "Hey lieutenant. More doughnut holes?"

Before she could say anything, the man with her pointed a finger and spoke up. "That is a hag-stone!"

He was right of course; I'd had it mortared in between the bricks above the glass-front oven and most people think it's just a funky piece of decoration. Abbie looked over at him and then at the stone. It's a nice big one of mottled green glass with a hole in the center about the diameter of my pinkie.

"A what?" she asked him, and I cleared my throat so they'd both look my way.

"Hag-stone. They keep witches out. I didn't want any coming down the chimney and screwing up my brioches."

Abbie smirked because she thought I was kidding but Crane gave me a stare that I gave right back to him until his manners kicked in.

"Forgive my outburst," he murmured and did a little head-bow thing. "My name is Ichabod Crane, associate of Lieutenant Mills here."

He pronounced her rank with that British inflection—'leftenant'—and the more I looked at him the more he stood out, from the clothes to the ribbon holding back his hair. Anybody else would have been giving off a hipster vibe from a mile off, but I didn't get that, not with him.

And he'd made it over the doorsill, so I relaxed. "Hannah N. Duncan, proprietress."

"Best baker in town," Abbie added and I grinned at her.

"Six free doughnut holes just for that," I shot back, making her snicker. Crane smiled briefly too and it did a lot for him.

"A noble profession and one in which you are well-versed, judging by my previous consumptions."

"Previous consumptions?" Abbie teased him and turned to me. "Don't let the lean physique fool you; he practically inhaled the last bag I shared with him."

"Lieutenant!"

She mouthed 'in-haled' again and I ended up laughing because hey, it's nice to know your work's appreciated.

"Now that our little moment of levity has passed," Crane harrumphed, "I am curious about your stone, Miss Duncan."

"One of my ancestors brought it back from Scotland," I told him as Abbie pointed to various glass cases and I began to fill a box with muffins. "It's got its uses."

I got a sharp look from Crane for that and let him see I was serious before getting back to the business of chocolate chip versus blueberry. Abbie looked a lot more relaxed than I'd seen before, which was good. Part of it was being in a safe place of course, but I suspected there was more to it.

"Duncan, Duncan . . . are you perchance related to Seamus Duncan?" Crane murmured in my direction while looking at one of my seven-layer Sin Deluxe cakes.

"Sister," I told him, and put an extra muffin in the box before taping it up and handing it to Abbie. "He mentioned you two."

At that, both Crane and Abbie looked at me. It was good that there weren't too many customers around because I could tell I'd struck a chord with them, so I made change for Abbie's twenty and gave a little shrug. "You . . . impressed him; not many people do that."

She tipped her head and looked bemused. "He impressed us too."

I nodded. "Under that gruff exterior is a wise man. Just don't let him sell you that DeLorean."

Abbie laughed at that, and Crane didn't get it but smiled indulgently anyway. As he came closer as she took the muffins out of his reach and he pretended not to notice. "Are you as well-versed in tribal lore as he is, Miss Duncan?"

The curse of a direct question. I knew I couldn't fudge on this, so I looked him straight in the eyes. "We both know the ways, Mister Crane. And we both know the lay of the land around here."

I watched Abbie look up at the hag-stone again while Crane gave a slow nod, all of us perfectly aware of what I said—

-and what I meant.

Later I told Seamus about it and he grunted. "You don't want to be encouraging them, Han. Things are stirring up around here and they're in the middle of it."

"They're on the right side," I pointed out to him. "And sooner or later everyone in Sleepy Hollow's going to have to pick one."

He didn't have an answer for that.