Counterfeit

Although she passed the night, Anabelle was far from asleep. She tossed and turned throughout the darkened hours. With the nightmarish fiend that had taken her cousin, the sorrow she'd seen in Ichabod's eyes, and the disquiet she felt at staying in their bed, she could not close her eyes. Finally as the dawn's faintest light warmed the cold night sky, she stole from the room, eager to be about something. If she remained idle, she would be forced to think...and her brain was quite taxed.
She made her way as quietly as possible to the kitchen. Searching for pots and pans, she began making breakfast. Unsure of whether Ichabod would rise or not, she decided to take his to him. It was the least she could do.
She paused outside of his door, left cracked open during the night. She gently knocked before nudging the door open slightly and calling into the room.
"Ichabod? It's Anabelle...Are you awake?"
She received no reply, so she stole quietly into the room, taking a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. She set the tray down on the bedside table and was prepared to leave the room as silently as she entered it when a murmur from Ichabod caused her to turn and observe the sleeping man.
His long black lashes fanned out over his pale skin, his lips slightly parted as he slept. His black locks were ruffled, giving him the appearance of being no more than a lad. Anabelle's eyes strayed over his sleeping form. He was twisted in the sheets, looking as if his rest had been anything but peaceful. Her heart went out to him. He must be going through hell, with all the business with Katrina and the Horseman. It only made it worse that it was the second time he'd be dealing with this.
Slowly and hesitantly, Anabelle reached her hand out and touched his, gently running her thumb over the back of his palm. He didn't deserve to suffer so. With a sigh, she turned to go, wishing there was something she could do.

Before she could move far, however, there was an almost indistinct murmur behind her that sound almost like, "Good morning, my dear." A gentle, soft-skinned hand wrapped about her forearm, pulling her backwards. Ichabod's eyes were still closed entirely as he tugged Anabelle into a sit on the edge of the bed. A moment later, she was falling backwards onto him. He wrapped his arms tightly about waist from behind, pressing her frame against his. Setting his lips to her ear, he kissed the porcelain lobe and whispered rather unclear sentences that might have been proclamations of love or adoration, or just random thoughts escaping his mouth.

She froze, quite unsure of what to do. Ichabod must have her confused with Katrina. Her heart began to pound in her chest, the reverberations sure to reach him as he kept her close.
What startled her most was not, in fact, the touch of his lips to her ear, but the fact the warm shudders it sent through her. The fact that she did not abruptly correct him of his mistake also startled her...what concerned her more was that she wasn't sure she wished to correct him.

Ichabod did not release his hold, and by the evening of his breathing in her ear, she could have guessed that he had once more fallen into a deep sleep. His legs were slightly entwined in hers, the smells of breakfast barely affecting him. In his mind and dreams, he was in bed, holding Katrina, his wife, fast to him as if he'd never let him go.

For some reason, the rhythmic breathing of Ichabod behind her and his strong grasp on her waist made Anabelle relax. Slowly her eyelids began to droop, the anxiety of the previous night relenting. Ichabod made her feel safe, even if he thought she was Katrina, Anabelle felt secure. Finally, unable to resist any longer, her eyelids closed and sleep claimed her.

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An hour and a half later, Ichabod's eyes fluttered open. He was confused at first. He felt warm and very comfortable, but he was not quite sure why. After a few minutes, his gaze focused on the mass of dark hair in front of him. He frowned, nonplused. It took him a full thirty seconds to react, and when he did, he seemed to erupt. He threw himself away from her, arms flying, and fell of the opposite side of the bed. Then he sat on the floor, staring at the sleeping for of Anabelle in disbelief. What was she doing there? Is his bed? Had she been there most of the night?
"A-Anabelle?" he stammered, stunned as he climbed to his feet slowly, shaking.

From somewhere she heard her name and struggled to make her eyelids obey and open accordingly. When she did, she saw Ichabod staring startled up at her from the floor. Suddenly she remembered what happened and bolted up, jumping out of bed.
"I apologize...I came to bring you breakfast...didn't wish to disturb you and was almost gone when...I have no idea what happened..."she jumbled all her words together in an earnest desire to explain what happened, finally realizing that she couldn't explain it at all. All she knew was that she felt like a small child, uncertain and backed into a corner she couldn't get out of. It was not something she liked at all and it seemed to be a reoccurring emotion as of late.

Ichabod could say nothing as he just gawked over at her. He faintly remembered dreaming about Katrina. They had gotten married and had spent a long wedding night in each others arms. What Ichabod could not shake off was the feeling of comfort that had overpowered him while he was holding Anabelle. Though, surely that was because he thought her to be Katrina... surely.
Holding up his hand to silence her, Ichabod shook his head.
"It was not any fault of yours, Anabelle. I am the one to apologize, for putting you in such a... position. I am sorry, truly I am. You have my sincere promise that that will not happen again..." He paused, searching her face from the other side of the bed. "Are you alright?"

Anabelle nodded, her hands restlessly smoothing the skirt of her dress as she felt Ichabod's eyes boring into her. Her cheeks blushed on their own accord and she longed to get out of the room, preferably outside. The biting chill in the air would be a welcomed break from how stifling she found her present location. Absently she ran her fingers through her dark tresses, gently tugging once she reached the bottom of her hair.
"I am fine, thank you," she didn't meet his eyes. "I am sorry I startled you."

"And I, you," Ichabod said, shifting uneasily. There was a long period of silence between the two, before at last, Ichabod cleared his throat. "You...er...brought me breakfast?" he asked, not being able to think of anything better to say. Quickly as possible, he pulled on his suspenders of his shirt and then his vest. "In a small while, I shall tell you about my idea... But, Anabelle? You mustn't be angry. It is for your own safety, I do hope."

Anabelle averted her gaze as he pulled on his suspenders and his vest.
"Yes, I brought breakfast for you. I daresay it's ice cold now. I'll make you something else if we go downstairs...I wasn't sure what you liked, so I made a bit of everything...and a bit of a mess, but I'll clean it all once you've eaten something," she was rambling like a madwoman. How is it that she was all of a sudden so ill-at-ease being alone with Ichabod.
"And what do you mean, 'you mustn't be angry'?"

Ichabod ran his hand through his black hair thoughtfully. He wondered how much he should tell her. Finally, he lifted his coat from a hook on the wall and nodded to the door.
"I mean, merely, that my idea may seem...unorthodox." He sighed and stood in the door frame to glance back at her. "Come, and I will explain over breakfast..." he bade, twisting his hands behind his back rather nervously.

Anabelle followed Ichabod down to the kitchen where she proceeded to restart breakfast preparations. She didn't know what he had up his sleeve, but was prepared to listen as soon as he decided to talk.
"What would you like for breakfast?" she asked, simply to have something to say.

Ichabod shrugged.
"I don't particular care. Whatever you wish to make." He pulled out a chair and sat down, his fingers tracing familiar paths through his dark hair. "Anabelle, my idea would require you to sacrifice a large part of your life, I want you to know that. You would be much safer, but you would not be... you."

"Ichabod, please," Anabelle left breakfast alone for the moment. "Just tell me what this idea is. As it is, I don't see I have any alternatives. Whatever it takes, I'll do it..." she took a deep breath. "Regardless of whom I have to be."
She met his eyes, almost drowning in their dark depths. She searched for an answer within his eyes, but found none. Only concern and hesitation. Why wouldn't he simply tell her? What did he have to be afraid of? Surely this proposition would be more difficult for her than it would be for him.

Ichabod thought and hesitated but a moment longer, before explaining.
"Well, do you think you could pass for Katrina? If we told everyone that you are Katrina, and the Katrina had been you... I do not know if the Horseman can possibly be fooled. However, the constables will not suspect you, or accuse you, of being the murderer. Anabelle... you would have to play the part of Katrina, and my wife." He paused, avoiding her gaze. "But inside the house, it would be normal. I shall remain in the guest bedroom, and you will sleep in the master bed. You know that I would never ask anything more of you. This is only for your protection."

Anabelle paused, turning over the proposition in her mind. Playing the part of Katrina wouldn't be difficult, she thought. Surely she could do her cousin's mannerisms justice and pretend to be her. Then, suddenly, her eyes widened at the rest of Ichabod's statement...

His wife...

That would mean, in public, she would be Katrina Crane...Mrs. Crane...married to Ichabod. Certainly there were far less pleasing men to be married to, and Ichabod would never let any harm come to her...but why did the idea of play-acting as his wife make her feel lightheaded. She lifted her gaze to meet his eyes but did not succeed. Her deep brown eyes rolled back into her head and her world went black.

Ichabod blinked as Anabelle simply seemed to crumple. He had expected raised voices, a red face and rage. He had certainly not anticipated her to just collapse, unconscious. After a second of being stunned, Ichabod stood and knelt by her side. Oddly, he felt need to check her pulse, which he did, then her forehead for any sign of a fever. It seemed odd for her to have this reaction, but was it a good, or bad reaction. Surely she would not have fainted if she thought the idea was a good one.
"Anabelle?" Ichabod asked, shaking her shoulder gently. "Anabelle, wake up." There was no response. He tried again, but when there was still no reaction from Anabelle, he sighed. Being unable to think of what else to do, he slid his arms under her knees and around her shoulders and lifted from the cold floor. After shifting her slightly, he carried her up to the master bedroom and laid her down on the bed. Then he stepped back and looked down on her.
Was his idea not a good one after all? Perhaps he had told her too much too son. He might have shocked her into fainting. How long would it be until she woke? What would she do then? Would she be angry, or scared? Try to simply sneak out without him noticing? Perhaps he would stay, just so be sure, and to make sure she would be alright. Pulling a chair closer to the bedside, he sat down and flipped open one of his journal, taking out a fountain pen and starting a sketch small, random drawings.

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Anabelle's mind was blurry as her eyes focused slowly on the darkened scene before her. She was standing in Sleepy Hollow, in the field by Katrina's house. Not too far off she could see Ichabod and Katrina, arms around each other, as they traipsed back to the house. She smiled a small smile as she watched Ichabod's behavior. He was so devoted to Katrina, his gaze barely falling on any sight beside her face. His eyes were warm, his arm around her resting tenderly on her waist.
How was she supposed to pretend to be Katrina? Certainly her presence did not prompt such affection from Ichabod, and everyone knew he was madly in love with Katrina.
Light blinded her, causing her to cover shield her eyes. The light kept increasing, brighter and brighter until Anabelle's head began to ache. Her eyes fluttered open and refocused on a completely different scene.
Ichabod was sitting close to the bed, leaning back in the chair, doodling in a journal. His fountain pen left an ink stain on one of his fingers, which he had managed to smear on his cheek, near his nose. His black hair fell into his eyes, which were glued to the page of his journal.
Slowly, Anabelle sat up, pulling her knees up. She had every intention of doing this quietly so as not to disturb Ichabod, but the bed creaked.
The bed? She didn't recall getting upstairs. They had been in the kitchen, hadn't they? Surely something must have happened. Upon hearing the creak of the mattress, Ichabod looked up and met Anabelle's questioning, surprised eyes.
"What happened?" Anabelle blinked.

"You fainted," Ichabod replied simply, lowering his journal. He snapped it shut hurriedly before Anabelle could see any of the contents, and set it down on the bedside stand. Looking back to the young woman on the bed in front of him, he leant forward, looking a little concerned. The emotion in his dark eyes was so jumbled that it was difficult to determine. He was grieving, of course, and stressed. Yet he felt something more than normal concern seeing her scared, or unconscious.
"How do you feel?" he asked, frowning a little as he attempted to push this new mess of feeling into submission. "It was quite sudden. Perhaps you are ill?" He reached out to feel her forehead again, and then paused. "And if you do not value my plan, I could maybe think up a new one."

Anabelle closed her eyes as his hand rested on her forehead. She forced herself to keep her breath level. When he pulled his hand away, she opened her eyes to meet his.
"I am well, I think," she answered. "That's so odd...I have never fainted before."
For a while neither spoke. Anabelle stared off into space, idly using one hand to pull back the fingers on the other with a thoughtful expression on her face. "And please do not fret over your plan. It's a good idea. I hope it's not too hard on you to have me parade around as Katrina. I do worry about you, Ichabod, with that aspect. If you are going to be all right with it, then we should go through with it."

Rubbing his chin, Ichabod shrugged.
"I'll admit that I don't really know how it will be. It may be hard for the both of us, but it will buy us time to find the real culprit." Ichabod's face grew stiff and he stared ahead of him, out the round window on the other side of the room. "When we do find him, I will kill him myself. He murdered my Katrina, and he will not get away with it." Standing up, Ichabod tried to relax himself. "Please, stay here and rest yourself. You still look pale. I have to be down at the station for my shift in ten minutes, but I will be back in just an hour. I will start thinking through the finer points of the plan, and will inform you when I return." With that, he turned and left the bedroom, locking the door behind him. What he did not realize was that he had left his sketchbook on Anabelle's bed stand.

Anabelle heard Ichabod's footsteps die down as she lay back against the pillows of the bed. She didn't feel ill, just a little shaky at the newest twist her life had taken. Her eyes darted about the room, landing on the sketchbook Ichabod had been doodling in before he left. She rose to her feet, taking the book in her hand as she left the room. She'd leave it in his room for when he came back.
A piece of paper fell to the ground. She stooped to pick it up. One side held a perfect likeness of her cousin, bearing Ichabod's initials in the corner. Her eyes widened in shock. She had no idea he was so talented! She flipped it over to find a strange pair of glasses carefully drawn on the other. Her eyebrow arched as she imagined Ichabod wearing glasses like these...it actually made her laugh.
Sticking the paper carefully back into the sketchbook, she entered his room, placing it carefully on his bed before heading downstairs to the library.

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An hour later, Ichabod returned to the house. He was panting, and sweat poured from his brow and soaked his white shirt through to the vest. After unlocking the broken door and stepped inside and leant against the banister, bent double and trying to catch his breath.
"Ana-Anabelle...," he wheezed, wincing a little as his lungs failed to fill adequately yet again. He had been anxious to return, so the moment after he had reported into the station, he had dashed away up the street back to the house. He half-expected to, and was terrified he would, find the house once more in a wreck and Anabelle beheaded on the bed. This thought made him shiver, but he had been relieved to find the door still securely locked and everything in the same place. "Anabelle?" he called again, a little louder this time.

From the comfy chair in the library where she sat curled up with an entrancing book, Anabelle heard her name. She quickly stood, making her way to the library door.
"Here I am," she looked out to the hallway to see a very tired-looking, rather sweaty, Ichabod leaning against the banister. "Are you well?" she asked, not trying to hide the worry in her voice as she noted the red glow to his pale cheeks, his chest laboriously rising and falling.

"It is just about freezing outside," Ichabod commented through a series of light coughs. "And I sprinted the distance from the station to here, but yes, I am fine." He straightened himself and tried to even the quickened pace of his heart. "How are you? Was all well while I was away?"

"All was well," Anabelle answered. "I took the liberty of borrowing a book from your library, I hope you don't mind." She glanced up to see his lips looking slightly blue from the cold. "Come, you're half frozen. I'll fix you something to warm you up. Since I haven't done anything productive all day," she chided herself, hesitatingly reaching forward to take his hand and pull him into the kitchen.

Ichabod could not suppress a smile as he was led into the kitchen, but as he sat down at the table, it slipped away. He rested his elbows on the table and his face in his hands, shivering.
"Anabelle, the magistrate is coming over for dinner. Would you mind terribly cooking something up later today? If you do not want to, I can hire a cook." He paused. "I would rather not have another person here to hear when we tell him about the plan though."

Anabelle's nose wrinkled as he said the word "magistrate." She recalled his behavior towards her the previous day and was disinclined to think highly of him. Nevertheless, she couldn't disappoint Ichabod.
"A cook is not necessary," she shook her head, her dark locks brushing over her shoulder. "I will make whatever you two desire to dine upon." She set about making a pot of hot tea. "I...tend to cook a lot when I get apprehensive," she admitted, biting down on her lower lip and twisting her fingers in that nervous way of hers.

"I can understand that," Ichabod said, nodding. He looked up at her with a bit of a strange expression on his face. He wondered how he would really cope having her as his "wife". Shaking his head, he pushed the doubts from his mind. He had been friends with Anabelle since they had met and he was concerned about her. "I tend to draw when I get apprehensive. I was, in fact, drawing earlier when you were..." He trailed off, frowning. "I think I left my journal in the room. Did you happen to see it?"

"Oh yes. You left it on the bedside table. I brought it back to your room. One of the pages fell out...you really are quite talented! I never knew you could draw so well, Ichabod. You ought to do something more than just putter about in a journal," she turned her attention back to the tea, searching for mugs. "You don't ever wear those glasses you drew, though, do you?"

Ichabod's pale face went bright red in the period of about two seconds. He looked down at the table and picked at a bit of the wood, digging his fingernail into a softer part.
"Oh, well, yes. I do wear them. It is one of my inventions. I will show you, if you like." He bit his lip, digging deeper into the wood. "My mother taught me to draw. I never especially liked the idea of doing anything more with the drawings than keep them unseen in that journal. Even Katrina never saw..." He shrugged, and then blushed deeper, not able to remember what else had been drawn on that page. If she had seen what he was drawing while she was asleep... He held his breath. "Er, thank you, though, for the compliment."

For the first time since, she smiled brightly, hearing herself let out a small laugh at the thought of him in those glasses. She turned to look over her shoulder, her bright smile still on her lips.
"I would like to see you in those," she admitted, her eyes sparkling with amusement. After a moment she added, "And when we find Katrina, you must show her the one you did of her. It was on the back and I've never seen a more perfect likeness."

"There's so much about you, Ichabod, that I just don't know," she added after another pause, finding the mugs and pouring tea into them. She handed Ichabod his first before she leaned on the table. "You can draw, invent, solve crimes that puzzle all other authorities...what else are you hiding from the world?"

Ichabod had just taken a sip of his tea, when he choked, spluttering it down his chin. After a few seconds, he managed to stop coughing and he had looked up at her, shrugging.
"I'm not hiding anything. It's only that I do not take many measures to tell anyone anything." Out of habit, he opened his hand and looked down at the small dot-like scars on his palm, placed in perfectly spaced squares. Then he clenched his hand shut again and put it on his knee under the table. Her brilliant smile made his stomach twist and he felt relieved that a drawing of the glasses and of Katrina was all she had seen. "I don't know much about you myself, Anabelle. What are you hiding?"

"I have no secrets, Ichabod," she sipped on her tea. "Perhaps, like you, I do not take many measures to tell anyone anything," Anabelle quoted his words back to him. "However, if there is something you wish to know, if you ask me the questions, I shall spell you no lies."

Ichabod could not help but chuckle. He liked Anabelle more and more as the minutes passed. Wanting to come to some sort of agreement with her, He cleared his throat.
"How does this sound? I shall tell you one truth about me, or my past, and you will follow with one truth about you. Reasonable?"

"I accept your offer," Anabelle smiled a small smile. This should prove to be an interesting game. "Who begins?"

"I!" Ichabod said, lifting his chin a little. Then he paused for a moment to think of something. He wished to avoid bringing up his mother for as long as possible. "Alright... When I was 15, I snuck into the brandy cabinet of my employer, and I...got rather drunk. Went outside and got run over by a passing stagecoach. Broke my arm, and got bruised up pretty badly. Haven't touched more than wine since then. The novelty sort of wore off, you see." He smiled faintly, despite himself.

Anabelle couldn't imagine Ichabod Crane drunk on brandy. She tried not to smile at the amusing image it painted. Then she remembered that she would have to follow with a truth about herself. Certainly there were things in her past which Ichabod would not want to know...and those she wished to keep from him as long as possible.
She stared into her tea, as if expecting the leaves to give her an answer.
"When I was small...perhaps eight or so...I was out ice skating on the pond at Sleepy Hollow. The ice cracked and I fell through. I don't quite remember all that happened afterwards, I don't even recall who pulled me out, but I do remember my brother standing there laughing at me for being stupid enough to fall through the ice. I also remember Katrina being angry with me for losing one of her skates."

Ichabod frowned, thinking of his fiancé yelling at the young Anabelle for something as trivial as an ice skate.
"I suppose she used to be a little more material possessive?" he inquired, twisting his hand beneath the table. He was next. He tried to think of something as he kneaded his thumb into the palm of the opposite hand.
"Well...hmm..." He scratched his chin. "When I was first at Sleepy Hollow, all of my childhood beliefs, the superstitions and such, all cane back to me. I refused, at first, to believe in the Horseman, but eventually he became undeniable. Namely when I witnessed the murder of Magistrate Philipse. I have always had a weak stomach. That and the full terror..." He paused, looking down at the table, embarrassed. "I fainted," he finished simply, avoiding her gaze.

"Well, I am not sure, but I think those were Katrina's new ice skates...from the City...and I lost one. I am sure they were very expensive," Anabelle wanted to clear things up. She hadn't meant to say anything against her cousin, especially to Ichabod.
"All right, my turn..." she paused to think."The very first time I got to ride a horse was a dreary day in March. We had several family friends, along with some of our family out to celebrate my brother's engagement. It was windy and cold and I wasn't thinking of what I was doing. Anyway, the horse flung me off his back and into a mud hole. I was covered from head to toe in thick, half-thawed mud."

Ichabod shook his head.
"I cannot say I favor the equine species much. It is awkward, but I suppose unavoidable in some case." He went quiet, thinking about what she had said about Katrina. "I do not need to have talk of Katrina's flaws censored from me either, Anabelle. We are all only human. We each have our faults. Katrina... She was no angel, though she was angelic to me. I loved her, and I failed her. She is gone." Ichabod seemed to suddenly crumple before her. His shoulders slumped forward, his head in his arms and his hair tousled. He was breaking down, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

Anabelle watched as he broke down. She was so angry with herself for bringing up Katrina, making him dwell on it...but that would do no good now.
In a few steps she was beside him, her hand resting on his disheveled hair as she smoothed back the black locks. It felt like silk as it slipped through her fingers. She leaned forward and to place a sweet kiss on the top of his head, continuing to allow her fingers to run through his hair.
"I am sorry, Ichabod," her voice came out in a whisper as she set another sweet kiss on his head. "I seem to have quite a talent for saying the wrong things."
Black locks fell silently through soft fingers on small hands, seeming to mesmerize Anabelle. She only hoped it was of some comfort to Ichabod.

Ichabod's shoulders shook for a moment before he was lifting his head and looking at Anabelle with something like amazement. Her touch was so different. While similar to Katrina's in some way, it was a world apart. Reaching up, Ichabod took her hand in his and lowered it to his eye level. As though he expected to see something about it that was odd or out of place, he examined her hand from wrist to palm, to fingertips, looking thoughtful. His finger traced light paths over her digits, oblivious to what affect it might have on her.

Anabelle couldn't breathe. Ichabod's touch was sending shivers through her, shivers she hoped he couldn't feel. His fingers traced her hand, slowly, with precision. She was under his careful examination and it made her heart race. She watched as he studied her hand; the object of his search alluding her. His fingers bypassed the scar on her thumb or the faded burn mark across her middle finger. Apparently he was looking for something she did not see. His touch was gentle and soft, making her shudder and bite down on her bottom lip to keep from sighing. His fingers slightly intertwined with hers as he examined and traced over hers.
Silently she wished his touch would always feel this way to her.

Without any explanation to her, Ichabod dropped her hand and looked up at her face instead. Those eyes seemed so familiar, but he felt sure he had never before looked into eyes that deep and so rich a color. She had a simplistic beauty to her, and yet he knew no soul would ever be able to puzzle out the intricacy in her eyes. Some people were simple to translate, others it would take time.
Suddenly, it occurred to Ichabod what he was doing. He stood up, pushing his chair backwards and turned away quickly to the doorway.
"I... have to go... I need to get ready for dinner...before the magistrate arrives. Clean off...and change clothes." He stepped out of the room quickly adding, "Dinner will need to be ready in about two hours..."

Anabelle stood puzzled, alone in the kitchen. Ichabod had been searching for something...something he apparently didn't find. She had no clue what it could have been that made him bolt form the room so quickly. With a small sigh, she picked up the mugs, setting about cleaning up tea and starting dinner preparations. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the thought of dealing with the magistrate again. Well, this time he would find her in much more control of the situation, she silently vowed.
Peeking her head out the door, she saw a young boy strolling down the street. She called to him and quickly jotted down a note on a piece of loose paper.
"Take this to the yellow house near Saint Michael's Church. Wait for a bag from the housekeeper. Here's some money for your troubles. If you hurry back, I will double it."
With a bow and an eager smile, the boy took off in the direction of Saint Michael's Church.
Her errand dispatched, Anabelle turned her thoughts to preparing dinner.

Ichabod stood inside the guest room, his temporary bedroom, facing one of the walls. He had one hand rested on the wall and his head bowed. Though nobody looking briefly into the room would see it, his cheeks were damp with gentle tears. He had failed Katrina. He had failed her, killed her, and now he was being unfaithful. He was a fool and somewhere in the back of his mind, he wished the Horseman would just come and end it for him. He wanted to die. If he died, he would see her again. He could be with Katrina.
But what about Anabelle? a little voice said in Ichabod's head. He shook his head, forcing that thought from his head. Katrina was his love, not Anabelle. Katrina had been his fiancé. Ichabod moved to the window and looked out.
Down in the darkening street, a dark figure was slowly making his way towards the house.
The magistrate, Ichabod thought. A moment later, Ichabod's breath caught in his throat. Every step that figure took was accompanied by a soft jingling at his heels. And there was something about that stance. Then Ichabod noticed the smaller, more feminine figure standing near the steps of the house.
"Anabelle," Ichabod whispered desperately. The figure was drawing a huge sword and Ichabod realized. There was no head. Before he could do anything though, the woman had started to turn, there was a quick shwing noise, a splatter of read, and a series of thuds as the newly severed head rolled away from the crumpled body.
"ANABELLE!!!" Ichabod managed to scream, before he fainted once more.

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"Was it really necesary to command him to kill my daughter, woman?" a dark figure said, rolling his eyes as he peered down at the scene in the street from a different angle, higher up in a building. Slowly, his ran his rough hands over the arms of the woman standing in front of him, pulling her further into the shadows and away from the window.

"You complain of distractions, yet when I have them stopped, you complain more?" the feminine voice drolled sarcastically. She stepped into him, pressing herself up against his frame, making him back against a wall. "In fact, I believe there is only one thing I do that you do not complain of..."

The man laughed a cold snicker, turning her around and shoving her harshly against the wall.
"You are correct, m'dear. I certainly do not complain."