Disclaimer: I own Rose and Nancy and the shopkeeper dude in the previous chapter.

Once Upon A Time
Chapter Two

Nancy sighed. "Mister Crane, would you tell me again why we are wasting our time in this dismal place?"

Ichabod scowled, but continued to sift systematically through the disorganized piles of books. "Because Rose likes to read," he told the irritating servant woman.

She scoffed. "Women don't like to read," she said, with a great deal of distaste in her voice. "Women like to knit and sew and chat in the parlor while having tea and scones." She sounded almost wistful.

He almost growled. "Well, be that as it may, Rose is not quite so simple as all that," he said. "She likes to read and draw and enjoys spending time in her father's library."

"She sounds odd," Nancy commented.

"Well, of course she's odd," he said, and took a book out from the pile. "That's why I like her. She doesn't act as other girls do." He flipped through the book's first few pages and did not even notice as the pile from which he had extracted it had begun to sway. Then it crashed to the floor, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Oi!" the shopkeeper called out. "Be careful, you ruffian!"

"I beg pardon!" Ichabod replied, voice shaking.

"Oh, come, Mister Crane," Nancy advised, "let us leave this place before you upset any more books."

"No," he said firmly. "Not until I have found a suitable book for Rose."

Nancy sighed again. "Well, what does she like to read?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Lots of things." He plucked another book from a nearby pile, wary of the pile's stability. As he replaced the book a moment later, something suddenly clicked in his mind. "But she especially likes poetry. Yes, I'll get her a book of poetry." He strode up to the shopkeeper at his desk and asked, "My good man, have you any books of poetry?"

"What kind of poetry?" the shopkeeper asked, not looking up from his ledger. "Love poetry?"

Ichabod blushed for the second time that morning. "I suppose," he said meekly.

The shopkeeper pointed to a stack of books in a corner near the entrance to the shop. "Over there," he said, "you'll find plenty of them."

Without another word, Ichabod dashed away and began to search the pile for something more along the lines of friendly, rather than romantic. In the end, he found a book with a collection of sweet little verses that he thought were appropriate, and he purchased it without any other incident. Then he returned to Nancy, who asked, upon noting the book in his hand, "Are you ready to leave now?"

"Yes," he grumbled, and they were off.


Young Ichabod spent the next few days attempting to come up with a birthday card that would match the quality of his gifts. He had a hard time of it, unaccustomed to the writing of sensible rhyme. He finally decided he would make it a private letter to Rose telling her just how special she was and how much she meant to him and how miserable his life would be without her, with only Nancy for company.

One night, after he had finished his letter, he went in search of the stamp that held the Crane family crest. He could not find it in the library, nor in his own room, when it occurred to him to search his father's study. This was something with which he was not entirely comfortable, seeing as he and his father did not get on at all well. In fact, they avoided each other as often as they could, which was surprisingly often, since his father was not often at home.

But on the eve that he went searching for the stamp of his family's crest, Lord Crane happened to have returned unexpectedly early. And he was sitting in his study, staring vacantly out of the window. He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he hardly noticed when his son entered the room. But Ichabod noticed him. "Oh," he said softly. "I beg pardon, sir. I meant not to disturb you."

Lord Crane's ears perked up, like a dog who had caught scent of a fox. Then he stood and turned to face his son, clearing his throat. "Worry not," he said, "you have caused no disturbance. But why have you come? You do not often enter my realm."

"I was merely searching for the stamp with our crest upon it," he said meekly, "so that I might seal a letter."

"Seal a letter?" Lord Crane repeated. "To whom is the letter addressed, boy?"

"Rose Hughes, sir," Ichabod replied, dark eyes cast at the floor.

The Lord Crane almost smiled. Well, it was more of a twitching at the corner of his mouth, but it was as close to a smile as he was ever going to get. His dark eyes, which he had passed on to his son, shone with an endearing sort of amusement, something often alien to his stern features. "She is in your company often, is she not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Stop calling me sir," Lord Crane commanded, more harshly than he had intended.

Ichabod took a moment to reply. He swallowed and asked, "What else would you have me call you?"

"Father, of course," Lord Crane said, but his son's words were like a knife through the back. Then again, he could not expect anything different from the boy, for the two of them had never been close, nor even comfortable being in the same room. So he cleared his throat and said, "The stamp is in the bureau, in the third drawer on the right."

Without a word, Ichabod moved to the bureau and began to search through the aforementioned drawer. Before long, the stamp was found and he quietly said, "Thank you, Father." And then he left.


In the days that followed the stamp incident, Ichabod saw no more of his father. He passed by the study once more, and leaned against the oaken doors to hear what might be going on inside, but the only sound that greeted his ears was silence. However, he did become so bold as to place his hand upon the knob and turn it ever so slightly, but he could not open the door. He was afraid of what might be waiting for him on the other side.

So he turned his thoughts away from his father and onto Rose. Her birthday approached swiftly, like a rider galloping up on a noble steed. And before he was too much aware of time's passage, the day arrived, and he found himself striding determinedly across her front lawn and onto her porch, dressed smartly in a wine red suit with golden embroidery, and a tricorn hat upon his head. He held his gifts behind his back as he knocked upon the door.

It was answered a moment later by a strawberry-blond maid whom he knew to be called Katherine. "Good day, Mister Crane," she said, and gave a curtsy.

"Good day, Katherine," he replied, and bowed in return. "I am here to see Miss Hughes. I hope I have not arrived too late..."

"Oh, not at all, sir," Katherine assured him. "The girls have all just sat down to open gifts. They're in the parlor. If you would follow me, sir..." So he followed her into the parlor, where half a dozen or so girls sat crowded around the fireplace, giggling and whispering amongst themselves. It took all of Katherine's volume for her to say, "Presenting Master Ichabod Crane." And then she quickly bowed out, leaving the aforementioned Ichabod alone with a gaggle of girls.


The blood is the life, Sikerra.