Until I Wake
Recurrence
- 1-2 -
~ * ~
Hail, fair sun, Spirit of the Day.
Rise of the morn to light my way.
~ *~
Night had settled lazily upon the area, the crowds of passersby having dispersed, anxious to be before their own fires. The Crane residence, now household to Van Tassle and Masbath as well, followed suit with the other homes and shut its lights out, the caretakers bidding good dreams to each other as they left for their respectful rooms.
Giving Ichabod a rather forced smile, Katrina parted ways, being sure that the youngest tenant made it safely to his room far from her own and the Constable's. Seeing his door quietly shut, she glanced back to Ichabod's just in time to see his inky black hair disappear beyond the wooden port. Sighing reluctantly, she stepped into her chamber, leaving the door an inch open behind her.
Dismissing the fire that glittered in its place, Katrina hastily undressed and slipped into her nightclothes, compelling herself not to think about the very man poignant in her mind. Letting her thoughts overtake her, she crept to the door once more, peeking out of its slightly ajar state. Cursing herself for her curiosity, she found that his door was cracked open as well, but he was not as impetuous as she. Upon further inspection, Ichabod sat at his desk, his brow furrowed as he reread the letter from before. Having removed his traditional black vest and leaving the first few clasps to his white undershirt open, Katrina's stomach fluttered, corrupted by butterflies.
Forcing herself away from her perch, the young lady settled on her bed, eagerly tucking her chilled feet beneath the warm spread. Sinking into the pillow's softness that lay at her back, she sighed, idly watching the orange flames in the fireplace lap at itself, the fascinating colors sifting from blood red to orange to a sunny yellow. Yet, it was all but sunny; her words and memories haunted her. Blood red of the fire.
*The windmill's fate is none too much of a haunt,* she considered to herself. *But these bloodied flames are all too much to bare.*
Twisting in her bed to face away from the small blaze, Katrina silently spat at the fact that she needed its warmth, for her cheeks seemingly iced over the moment she turned away. Of course, the fire would eventually die out, but only after sleep would claim her, when she wouldn't care.
*He seems a bit nervous,* she chided, letting her thoughts relinquish to another subject. She admitted to her disappointment of the sleeping arrangements. *I am wicked,* she accused herself, berating her person for comparing her own ideas to the actions of her late stepmother. Thought it worried her, she knew that it was what she wanted. She was a grown woman, and had been since the departure of both her mothers. From the day she followed him into the Western Woods, she had known destiny would bring them together. Hell, she knew from the moment she removed her blindfold, ridding herself of the visage of the Pickety Witch. She also knew that dear Ichabod felt deeply for her in return, but to what extent?
*And here I lay, my mind full of wrongful deeds that mustn't be attempted on my behalf.* But would Ichabod take the reigns of her desires? He had swiftly replaced the burly Brom, but had not her former suitor's words as well has his place, for no proposals had worked their way from his lips. She pined for those few words, but feared they would never bestow themselves upon her. He brought her into his home, yes, but was it for her mere role of evidence? True, once more, he had feelings for her, but she in return did not know much about the older lad that took her from her birthplace to her recent settlement amid the busying streets of the city.
Letting her heavy eyelids drift shut, the young maiden readily welcomed the sweet serenity of sleep, which in turn brought forth whispers of dreams of the future.
~ * ~
Whilst the beauty across the way began her journey to dreamland, the soul residing in the second guest room was sullen from his thoughts, the letter stationary in his mind. Apparently, the Burgomaster had seen, or rather, heard, of his arrival in New York, head still intact, for his signature was scrawled at the foot of the parchment sheet followed by the date: December 1st, 1799. Their coach sent from 'The Hollow' had set track in the city that very day, having left three days prior, and the letter, with the date of today, had greeted him n the wooden trap aside his front door that acted as his mailbox. Having heard of his departure by rumor of a messenger, Ichabod deduced that the man had dictated the Head Constable and, knowing the return trip would take a mere three days, readied the note for him to find, even before the horses that had drawn their carriage even set hoof on the city's ground.
Tossing the note's waxen seal into the dimming fire, the Constable followed suit with the letter, heeding it as a burden. Watching vehemently as the paper's edges curled and blackened from the flames' touches, Ichabod let loose a long, held back sigh. Slipping his white undershirt over his head and gladly finding a clean nightshirt in his only piece of luggage, the somber man pulled the garment upon his shoulders and fell to his bed, savoring what little comfort it provided.
But no sooner had he found his rest was he brought to his feet, the weak light peeping through his jarred door arousing his interest. Silently, Ichabod made his way across the hall, gently pushing the opposite door open. Though different, the scene was uncanny, the fire-lit room and hazy atmosphere immediately reminding him of his second meeting with the youngest Van Tassle, who now slept soundly atop his once-own bed. The dying flames in the hearth, which in turn grasped the weary man's attention, highlighted her cheeks, showing their own flushed color despite the chill. Taking the poker from its stand beside the built-in stone structure, Ichabod stirred the kindling, rousing the fire and pleading for its warmth, for her sake. He refused to allow a cold to take away the cheerfulness that his angel constantly illustrated, that which he valued. It was all he wanted.
Tearing away from the humbling scene of the sleeping splendor, Ichabod quietly left, closing the door noiselessly behind him once sure that she'd keep warm. The next room he had his sights rested on stood down the hall, a faint glow that emanated from a fire within flooding from beneath the crack of the door. After giving it a slight knock, Ichabod entered, offering a polite smile to the boy residing within.
"Sir?" Masbath questioned from his place at his desk. A torn sheet of paper sat before him and small piece of charcoal dirtied his fingers. Ichabod nodded, offering yet another grin.
"You are comfortable, I hope, young Masbath?" he stated, his voice a murmur so as not to wake Katrina down the hall. An expression of thankfulness crossed Masbath's face as he nodded vigorously, glancing around the room. He hadn't the heart to admit he had expected so much less.
"To have such chambers I can call my own is beyond a simple comfort, sir," he replied, his childish simper widening as if it would never dispel. The elder man nodded, eyeing the charcoal.
"Tomorrow I shall find you ink and a quill, so you can do what you wish with it," Ichabod announced, wandering over to the halfheartedly filled shelf. "But for now, I recommend a book for you to abide your time with, if you cannot sleep." Surveying the few, dusty books, the man's eyes caught sight of one that held to his attention. "This one I sanction."
Turning to face an anticipating Masbath, Ichabod handed the boy his choice book, proud of the way his eyes shone. The coarsely embroidered title read Anatomy.
"It is not a fictional tale, but an educational reference. You may be interested," Ichabod added, watching as the youth indulged in the reference. "Seeing how you hadn't much schooling. I suspect your father taught you to read and write?"
"I thank you repeatedly, sir," Masbath murmured, flipping through the pages absently. "I pray the words aren't too difficult for me."
Ichabod chuckled, clapping a hand lightly on the boy's shoulder. "You are a bright lad," he assured him. Regaining posture, he nodded to the tiring boy. "Goodnight, Jonathan. Do get some rest."
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