The tick of the clock at the edge of her desk, perhaps at times soft if not unceasing, became akin to a painful and sharp ring in his ears, one that had the ability to dig deep into his soul and seek out the only resilience he had left.

From the second their eyes had met, a clash of gold green against stormy blue, he'd determined in his mind to stand strong in his convictions and treat her as he would any other prisoner. She wasn't his wife, the woman to whom he'd once pledged his life and protection, but a liar and attempted murderer; one undeserving of his pity.

To his own lack of foresight, he should have known she'd be his better at this game of wills as the longer she went without returning his greeting, the unwavering, steady gaze she affixed him under had his resolve slipping little by little.

It completely befuddled him how easily she adorned her mask, the one that allowed no emotion to show through, no familiarity or kinship. How she could be so calm under his abrupt arrival was a testament to her skill at manipulation; to her ability to cast emotion aside in favor of resolute control.

The urge to allow his gaze to trace her form after all this time was stronger than he would have anticipated, if he'd had the foresight to anticipate it at all. She looked nothing like the empty shell he'd half expected her to be. Instead, she seemed very much herself if not indifferent to him altogether, seemingly completely unmoved by his sudden presence in her quarters.

Her long, fiery hair was pulled over one shoulder, the lush locks spilling down her chest and hanging just below her breasts, leaving him to physically force his eyes to remain on hers.

Such beauty concealing such ill intention.

Something had to be said, or he might just explode. It wasn't as if they were lacking topics. Five years was a very long time and a great deal had occurred with no care to the conflict still present between them; the still brewing tension that he feared would be his downfall. It was easy to think he might have plenty he could say; about Bella; how difficult it was to raise a child, much less a daughter, alone; how lonely he became in the dark of night, his thoughts consumed with all they could have been if only she'd been more honest, more willing to relinquish a few of her ideas in light of his.

The temptation to flee tickled his nerves as they taunted him with their twisting and turning. It was a temptation which would be easy enough to give into as she stared at him with what he was sure was internal judgment and condemnation.

Dropping his eyes to the polished desk, he attempted to work up some sort of courage to find a starting place. It was then that he noticed the leather journal laid open and the familiar flowery script that was her handwriting suddenly became a welcome distraction.

"You're writing in them?"

Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed her shift ever so slightly, likely to look down at the very journal to which he was referring.

"Yes, thank you."

Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and it was clear in her delivery that she was unaccustomed to speaking.

The thought unexpectedly pained his heart.

For her, a once outspoken, beautifully intelligent woman to be silenced, reduced to chains and a dimly lit dungeon, was heartbreaking. She'd taken so much joy out of life only to now be locked away like an animal with little lack of warmth or comfort surrounding her.

However, those regrets only registered long enough for him to comprehend and react to her gratitude.

"You-You're thanking me?"

For being captive and isolated in a dark, damp dungeon, she looked remarkably healthy, but it was clear in her gold-green eyes just how starved she was; not for food or proper living conditions, but human contact.

"For the journals, yes." She nodded to the far wall where the stacks of books rested. "And all the other comforts you've provided that haven't been to solely keep me alive."

Never taking his eyes from her, he observed the way she sat straight back in the chair, her movements as graceful and delicate as they'd always been.

"What do you write in them?"

A barely perceptible shift along her brow was the only indication given that she'd heard him as her eyes danced along the wall behind him, seemingly lost in thought and leaving him to wonder if her sanity was still intact. All the silence and lack of socialization that came with her imprisonment couldn't be good for the mind and soul.

Then again, he hadn't been sure she was entirely sane five years ago, much less now, after having been once again locked away in isolation. No one, witch or not, could escape some sort of toll being taken on the mind after so much torment.

"Anything, everything." She shrugged her shoulders as if the question was too broad. "You said to tell her about myself. So, I write every memory I can recall; every thought, every feeling; insignificant or not."

As she continued to speak, a pressure began to form in his throat; needlelike and painful. Was this his reality? Was this what his family had been reduced to? His daughter tormented with gifts she couldn't control and his wife... Was Katrina even his wife any longer? He couldn't even be sure she was a whole person at present much less comprehend if she was still his wife in body.

The need to do something other than stand there all stiff and tense forced him to take a step forward and lift the journal from the desk while being wary of her hands which were rested in her lap.

Once he had taken a safe step back, he began flipping through the pages, not truly having a purpose, or direction. The neat flow of her handwriting was a welcome relief to the pressing tension in his shoulders. How many nights had he lain awake, cold and stiff within his tent, rereading the long letters she'd sent him during his time away from her? He could still picture in perfect detail all the promises of her warmth and love that had awaited him upon his returning to her. What he wouldn't give to have her write to him in such a fashion once more.

As he paused over a particular passage which spoke of Katrina's own mother, a kind and caring woman who'd seen and experienced far too much at an early age, he was reminded of just how early his wife had learned of what heartache was through the untimely death of her mother at the young age of seven. Katrina spoke of her as though she were telling the story to Bella herself. She made it lively; intriguing. He felt as though he were there, standing before the long lain to rest van Tassel matriarch, witnessing all the wonder she had brought into the world through the eyes of her daughter.

"You look different," she whispered, her voice now a little stronger, a little warmer, prompting his gaze to return to hers.

Her eyes, ever piercing, were tracing his form, obviously taking in his state of dress, which was admittedly a great deal different than the last time she'd seen him. His white dress shirt, freshly pressed, was tucked inside his black slacks and accompanied by a pair of shiny boots. All in all, his fashion as of now was a far cry from the colonial garb he'd once refused to cast away as was the much shorter hair he now chose to keep.

"It was time to change."

With that rather evasive answer, he returned to the journal, finishing off the passage and moving to another. However, before he'd read halfway down the next page, the words that caught his attention brought a heat to his collar, leaving him to adjust his stance in order to gain his bearings.

When had it become so hot in the previously cool room?

Carefully lifting his eyes, he found her watching him with a steady gaze, unmoving, but completely alert.

"You intend to give all of your journals to her?"

A barely perceptible frown touched her brow as she answered, "Yes, why?"

Unsurprised by her response, but wishing it had been different all the same, he cleared his throat and read aloud, "I'll never forget the first time he slipped his hand between my thighs-"

The sound of her laughter immediately halted his words and snapped his gaze up to find her head thrown slightly back as she glowed with amusement.

Hardly knowing what to make about any of this, he closed the journal and waited for her to collect herself while considering this entire situation highly irregular, almost dreamlike. For the love of all that was good in the world, the last time he'd seen her, she'd been attempting to kill him.

The piercing screams echoed throughout the chamber, filling every inch of the space with untold pain as they bounded off the concrete walls and made their way into what he thought was his very soul.

As he paced the outer room, he ran a frantic hand through his mussed hair and prayed it would soon come to an end as it was becoming too much for him to bear.

For near to six months, he'd nervously and quite worriedly anticipated this moment; the birth of his child; the unexpected creature that was soon to make an arrival.

It would be his second, yet first, and he found himself riddled with confliction over meeting him or her.

Not that it mattered, but he found himself desperately wishing for a daughter. Too much had happened, too much pain and anguish, for him to contemplate the idea of a second son.

Another scream ripped through the air, forcing him to sag against the wall and slide to the cold, stone floor; the weight of the past year pressing down on him

There'd been a time that he'd dreamed of this; dreamed of what it would be like to witness the birth of his and Katrina's child. He'd longed for the day; prayed for it even. Since the moment she'd caused him to realize what love truly was, he'd wanted this with her; he'd wanted everything with her.

However, after everything that had occurred over the past year, he'd lost all hope of this ever happening. Most especially considering the fact that the only woman he'd ever really loved was now a prisoner in the same Masonic cell that had once held his former best friend.

That fateful day, when Henry had died and Katrina had gone back in time in an attempt to kill him, had been a drastic changing point in everyone's lives. For a split moment, his world had crashed and burned, the reality of the two most important lives in his world being ripped from him leaving him broken and tortured.

When Katrina and Abbie had reappeared before his eyes mere moments after vanishing, his worst nightmare had become a reality as his wife, the woman who'd one said that every life was precious, had attempted to murder his best friend.

A struggle between he and Katrina had ensued and, somehow, despite her overwhelming power, he'd managed to gain the upper hand and knock her unconscious.

The moments that followed immediately after became a debate over what to do with her, resulting in an intense argument between he and Abbie; one that had found them both screaming as they stood over Katrina's unconscious form, gesturing wildly at her with each of them attempting to take charge of what was to be her life or death.

Abbie, understandably, had wanted to put an end to it all. She'd argued that if it were anyone other than Katrina, he would have agreed; would have put any other dark creature out of its misery and ensured the safety of the town.

Unable to refute her, he'd fallen to his knees and begged for time to sort things out; to think it over and consider all his options.

Their solution had come with Jenny's arrival. The younger Mills sister had been quick to think of the Masonic cell as she'd only just been there with Captain Irving.

For weeks after, talk of what to do carried on, arguments broke out between all three of them, and, then, just when he thought he would go as insane as Katrina, the news came to him via Jenny.

Katrina was pregnant.

So shocked by the unanticipated news, he'd stormed to the cell in a ball of fury, intent upon ridiculing her for her further lies; for her further manipulation of him. He wasn't going to have any more of it.

However, when he'd reached her, he'd found her prepared for him; her shirt bunched under her breasts and her slightly bulging belly on full display.

There had been no denying it at that point. She truly had been pregnant.

As the realization sank in, he'd collapsed to his knees; completely weakened by the knowledge that everything they'd ever wanted was within their grasp at the worst possible time. It was there that he'd lost the last of his ability to think rationally and, as he'd hunched over on the stone floor, her tender and caring hands had gently cupped his face while she'd whispered in his ear that if he would only release her, they could be one again. They could have their baby and everything else would work itself out.

She'd been so loving, so like his Katrina, and he'd been so distraught over the situation that just as he'd moved to unlock her chains, Abbie had stormed in and forcibly stopped him from continuing in his actions.

Katrina's reaction had been violent.

Her incensed screams had bounced off every wall as she'd lunged for Abbie, the intent to murder clear in her eyes.

That had been the last time he'd been allowed in the tunnels until now. Both Abbie and Jenny had said Katrina's hold over him was too strong and he was too emotionally compromised to deal with her any further. At the end of his will to fight, he'd agreed and allowed the sisters control of the situation.

However, as piercing cries replaced Katrina's screams altogether, he snapped his gaze to the window and reclaimed his footing, the sound drawing him forward like a beacon in the darkest night.

Long, brisk steps had him wrenching the door open as he all but staggered into the inner room.

The stench of blood and other smells he wanted no knowledge of met his nose, but that was hardly enough to stop his stride as he approached the center of the room where Katrina laid amidst blood covered sheets that Jenny was pulling away, her form looking weak and drained.

However, Katrina wasn't who held his fixed upon gaze.

"Abbie?"

His friend turned, her eyes, exhausted, yet bright and youthful, catching his. "It's a girl."

Overcome with so many feelings he couldn't give name, he slowed his steps until he was still as stone; half a dozen steps remaining between him and his friend, who held a white blanket in her arms.

The soft cries of his daughter assaulted him as Abbie's face broke out in a grin while she moved toward him.

"Do you want to hold her, daddy?"

His lips parted, but he wasn't aware if he actually spoke as he was too focused on the small fingers visible just outside the blanket. Could a creature so small actually exist and belong to him?

"Come on," Abbie encouraged, her voice soothing. "You can do this. Just hold out your arms."

Hesitant, he did as instructed and watched as Abbie carefully slid the blanket into his arms; the weight easily fitting against him.

An angel.

That was the only description he had for the small creature in his arms.

Soft, dark hair thinly covered her head while tiny, wrinkled and pink fingers stretched, searching for something on which to grasp. She was a lively little thing as she wriggled in his arms and while her eyes were tightly shut, he imagined they were just as beautiful as the rest of her.

"Watch," Abbie whispered as she touched her pinky to the baby's palm.

His daughter immediately clamped onto the digit as her small head rolled back and forth, her fury over having been removed from her warm home to meet the cold, harsh of the living world evident.

A laugh bubbled in his throat, or, at least, he assumed it was a laugh. It could very well have been a sob.

"She's beautiful." His vision began to cloud. "I-I can't believe she's mine."

"Ichabod?"

Gaze tearing from his newborn, he found Katrina staring at him, her brow drenched in sweat and her every feature etched with exhaustion. The sight of her sent a shock of longing to be with her through his heart.

"Ichabod, please," she whispered, a trembling hand outreached. "Let me hold her."

The first step was taken before he thought better of himself and stopped, a terrible foreboding in his chest.

If he put their baby in her arms, if he let Katrina smile and dote over her with him at her side, he'd never leave. He'd let her go and, then... What if she disappeared with his baby? What if he lost his daughter forever due to his love for his wife blinding him once again?

No.

He couldn't allow that to happen. He would never allow that to happen.

"Ichabod," Katrina pressed, her voice more desperate as she pulled at the sheets in an attempt to sit up. "Ichabod, please. I'll do anything."

Unable to stand looking at her directly, he closed his eyes and turned away from her.

"Please, take her."

As Abbie carefully accepted his daughter, he asked her to leave; to take the child somewhere safe and far from this place.

When she was out the door with the now screaming baby, he finally registered Katrina's sobs; their weight and anguish pressing heavily into his heart as it ripped in two.

"I can't lose another baby," she cried, the sound of the bed springs squeaking beneath her. "Don't do this to me. You wouldn't be this cruel to me."

Barely able to keep his feet under him, he helplessly caught Jenny's troubled gaze.

"What now, Crane?" She gestured to Katrina, who was in the midst of a writhing fit. "You've been avoiding answering the question of what we do with her now for months."

"I-" Tears cascaded down his cheeks as his body weakened by the second. "I don't know."

Jenny ran a hand down her face and began moving toward the door. "I need to go talk to Abbie."

As Jenny exited the room, he heard the bed give an unforgiving lurch, prompting him to spin on his heel to see Katrina attempting to sit up only to fall back in a weak heap, her head limply rolling over the pillow.

It was enough to have him rushing to her side in a panic.

"Katrina." He dug his knee into the bed as he leaned over her, worriedly running his hands over her sweaty face. "My love, wake up."

Hardly having a moment to register her eyes snapping open, he felt the cold iron clamp around his neck and cinch tight.

"I am not your love," she growled as she jerked him against her and rolled to straddle him, her eyes alight with fire. "You just killed whatever was left of that woman."

Lungs burning, he became desperate to get the chains off, prompting him to claw at his neck, struggling for air as his vision began to darken.

"You would take another child from me!?" she screamed, spittle splattering across his cheek. "After all I've done for you!?"

"Kat-"

"I'm going to leave blood in my wake," she whispered as she leaned down to his ear, her hot breath spiking fear in his core. "Everyone of you will pay for taking my children from me."

Darkness clouded his vision and then everything went slack.

"Ichabod, why are you here?"

Jolted from his thoughts, he ran a hand along his neck, almost swearing he could still feel the grip of the chains.

After that night, he'd awoken on the floor of the outer chamber to a sore throat and the sound of Jenny screaming for him to wake up.

The memory prompted him to take another step back.

"Curiosity," he answered in a clipped tone before turning to the nearest wall and finding another place for his gaze.

"Forgive me if I find that rather odd as you've not been curious about me for quite some time."

He ran his fingers along the smooth edge of her dresser, taking in the few trinkets she had laying upon it. Books. A hairbrush. Some lotions. A cd player with various cd's stacked neatly behind it. All things he'd chosen; all things he'd purchased with her in mind.

"Have you read this?" he asked, lifting the familiar copy of Pride & Prejudice. "I couldn't put it down and ended up reading it in one night."

"I've read everything you've sent," she said, her voice soft, almost alluring.

He wondered if she was purposefully sounding that way, or if he was simply desperate to recognize something of the woman with which he'd once spent hours discussing everything from politics to housekeeping.

"I couldn't help but think of you while I read of Elizabeth Bennet." He set the book down and clasped his hands behind his back as he continued around the room. "Stubborn, bold, quick witted, and outspoken with everyone no matter their class or rank."

Her bed was perfectly made, something he wouldn't have expected given she had absolutely no reason to do so.

Then again, what else did she really have to do?

With a sigh, he avoided the far corner of the room which looked like her cleansing area and cut through the center. As he did so, he felt her gaze bearing into him, tracking his every move.

"Is your curiosity fulfilled, or would you like to check under the bed as well?"

Her flippant tone nearly brought a smile to his face... Nearly.

Returning to his former position in front of her, he said, "Bella."

Katrina's eyes fluttered as her gaze lowered to the desk.

Following it, he found a picture of Bella on a tire swing, a toothless grin plastered on her face.

"As you're not panicked or in tears, I imagine she's not hurt." Katrina's eyes returned to his, a knowing glint in them. "But you wouldn't have come down here just to speak of her. So, that must mean you need me for something you can't find help for elsewhere."

Irritated she was still playing games after all this time, he straightened his posture and replied, "She was at school this morning and... there was an accident."

The way her eyes narrowed gave way to her deepening thoughts as she tilted her head to the side. "What sort of accident?"

"There was a fire," he said, all his fight gone as the memory of his daughter's terrified face flitted over his vision. "When I got to her, she-"

Swiftly turning from Katrina, he paced a few feet away as tears began to well behind his eyes. He couldn't do this now. To show her weakness was to let her into his thoughts and that was the last thing he wanted. There was nothing Katrina was more adept at manipulating than his pain.

"Is she alright?"

"She wept until exhaustion overtook her." He composed himself and faced her, leaving himself exposed to her probing gaze. "Katrina, please, there must be something you can tell me; anything."

Gold-green had him fixed in place.

Surely, she wouldn't refuse him. Regardless of what she'd done in the past, he knew the one thing Katrina still cared about was their child. It was the one thing he'd never doubt about her.

"If you're waiting for me to beg-"

"I know what you look like when you're begging, Ichabod," she interrupted, her voice even. "And while you on your knees begging for my attention and touch has its own time and place, that's the furthest thing from what I want."

Without another word, she bent over the desk and began writing something on a piece of notebook paper, leaving him standing mentally baffled by her response. She, then, ripped it out and handed it to him.

"It's a remedy my mother used to prepare to soothe my nerves." She gestured at the paper, her chains scratching the desk as she did so. "I was prone to stomach aches and it would leave me feeling so drained that I was barely able to keep my feet under me much less keep control of my magic."

As he looked over the ingredients listed, he felt his vision cloud again.

"Bella told me her stomach was bothering her this morning." He lifted a hand to hold over his burning eyes. "I thought she was attempting to weasel out of school. So, I made her stay."

"The remedy will help," she whispered, her voice softer than he would have imagined she'd permit with him.

Wiping a hand down his face, he gathered himself and folded the piece of paper before sliding it into his pocket.

"Thank you."

Katrina flinched. "I'm not doing it for you."

Eyes fixed on her suddenly blank ones, he held his ground and explained, "It doesn't matter. I appreciate anything you do for my daughter."

"Your daughter," she whispered as a pink tinge spread across her cheeks. "I give birth to her and you call her your daughter."

"It was only a phrase, Katrina," he replied, already regretting himself. "It's simply what I'm accustomed to saying. I meant nothing by it."

While she still appeared ruffled, her countenance softened as she ran a hand down her arm as if to ward off a chill.

"She got an A on her spelling test yesterday," he said, hoping the small offering would be enough to sway the tension.

It seemed to be effective as Katrina's eyes ventured back to his accompanied by a small smile on her lips. "She's intelligent."

"A trait she likely doubly inherited." He felt a grin creep over him as thoughts of his daughter swirled in his mind. "As well as her stubborn, ill tempered nature when things aren't going her way."

A chuckle slipped between her lips, leaving him feeling soothed by the light sound. There was a time he'd have made a complete fool of himself for such a sound to be sent his way.

"She's so like you, Katrina," he whispered while sadly observing her. "Sometimes, I feel as though I'm living with you reincarnated."

Laughter gone as though a light had switched off, he watched as she expertly slipped the mask she never seemed to be without back over her face.

"Is there anything else I can do for her?"

It was such a simple question.

What can a mother do for her daughter? The answer was so many things, yet he wasn't allowing any of it.

"How long do you really think you can keep Bella and I apart, Ichabod?" she asked, her voice sorrowful, yet taunting. "You may have Abigail and Jennifer attempting to fill my role in her life as a mother, but you can never fill the place I stand in as a witch. Bella already needs me and you know as well as I that the day is fast approaching when she'll learn the truth and she'll no more forgive you than you've forgiven me."

A tired expression eased onto her face.

"How can you justify doing the exact same thing I did? You're keeping secrets from our child to protect her; to make sure she's safe." She stared searchingly into his eyes. "Is that not what I did for you before I learned better?"

Hot pressure built in his chest.

"Your lies were selfish," he bit, his fists clenching as he gripped the edge of the desk. "Everything you did was for yourself or to further your own agenda."

"Is that so?" she asked, her eyebrows raised. "You're so clouded by your own wish to know everything that you would condemn me for doing all I could to preserve this world."

"You've lost your mind." He stared at her in dumbfoundment. "All that time in Purgatory stole your sanity."

"Perhaps." She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, her gaze steady and unrelenting. "But the real question is, what made you lose yours?"

"Mine?"

"Why haven't you been allowed down here, Ichabod?"

Heart hammering in his chest, he stiffly replied, "It was my choice."

"Was it?" She asked, her eyebrow lifting almost teasingly. "Tell me, dear husband. Does Abigail know about this little visit?"

Short of breath, he hardened his gaze. "What I do with my time is my business; not Abbie's and most certainly not yours."

"So, you're going to tell her, then?" She leaned forward to where she was within a breath of him. "I am, and always will be, your greatest weakness. No matter how much of yourself you attempt to change, that is something that will always be so. I know it, you know it, and Abigail knows it."

Abruptly pushing away from the table, he headed for the door; his need to be away from her suffocating him.

"You're going to return to me, Ichabod," she called after him, the chains rattling as she moved behind him. "Before this is over, you'll be on your knees begging for my help."

Grabbing the door with a hastiness he couldn't avoid, he slammed it closed and dropped the lock in place.

"God, help me," he whispered as he leaned against it, her words reverberating in his core.

Next up: Nightmares. Jenny's insight.