Crane was barely awake when he heard the unmistakeable sound of Abbie's car pulling up outside the cabin. In response to her violent knocking, he pulled on some clothes and opened the door, eyes rebelling against the garish daylight. It took a moment for him to register the slightly crazed look on his partner's face.

'Crane, I need your help.'

'Of course, Lieutenant,' he replied once he had gathered his wits. 'How may I be of service to you?'

It was then that he noticed Trudy standing by herself at the edge of the porch. He felt his spirits instantly plummet. It was not that he disliked the girl or was unsympathetic to her plight, but he often found himself strangely tongue-tied in her presence. He was unsure if it was her suffering that unnerved him, or her unearthly calm, or the knowledge that they would soon risk her life in the fight against Henry.

The thought left him feeling deeply uneasy. He had a firm conviction that they must use every weapon in their arsenal to free Sleepy Hollow from the tyrannical grip of Moloch. Nonetheless, in his weaker moments, he could not escape the knowledge that what they were planning was monstrous. Moloch, in his cowardice, had exploited the vulnerability of children for his own ends. How was this any different?

Crane had tried to make conversation with Trudy on more than one occasion, but was frustrated to discover that he – a renowned raconteur at General Washington's gatherings – had nothing to say to her. Nothing, either in his past life or his present had prepared him for spending time alone with a twelve-year-old girl, a grieving, supernaturally gifted one at that.

He was snapped out of his reverie by the realisation that Lieutenant Mills had stopped speaking and was looking at him expectantly. Luckily, his unusual brain allowed him to absorb large quantities of information at once. There was a manhunt in progress for an escapee from Tarrytown Psychiatric. Sheriff Reyes was confined to bed with a debilitating case of shingles and had personally tasked Abbie with heading up the team.

He did not remember assenting to her request – whatever it was – but before he knew what had happened, Abbie was shouting her thanks and gunning the engine. Trudy stood before him with an inquisitive look, her large green eyes guarded and full of secrets.

'Would you… care to come inside?' He bowed stiffly, suddenly aware of how foolish and antiquated his behaviour must seem to someone of her age. He recalled, with some chagrin, how his father's fastidious adherence to correct behaviour had embarrassed him as a boy.

'Can we go to the mall instead?'

'The mall?' Crane raised an eyebrow, his mouth framing the unfamiliar word.

'It's a place where people shop for clothes.' She adopted a curious expression, as if she suspected he might be slightly touched in the head. 'I always wanted to go but my mom never let me.'

Crane noted the subtle mention of her deceased mother. It was clear that the girl was skilled in the feminine arts of manipulation. He felt a sudden and wholly unexpected spark of kinship with the girl; she too was a stranger attempting to negotiate an unfamiliar world.

'Sadly, I have neither the conveyance to transport us to the mall, nor the funds to purchase said clothes.'

'I know. Abbie told me about you.'

Trudy gave him an appraising look. There was an imperious quality to her gaze that made Crane feel that he might someday rue her disapproval.

'She gave me some pocket-money. We can at least get some ice-creams.'

'It's five miles into town. How do you propose…'

'Five miles is nothing.' Trudy shrugged. 'At the compound we used to hike into the wilderness for days to prepare for the Rapture.'

During that long winter in Valley Forge, Crane would regularly lead his men on fifteen-mile-long marches, just to keep their feet from succumbing to frostbite. He was well accustomed to hikes, but did not relish the prospect of going anywhere at this time of the morning, particularly without his morning coffee. Nonetheless, he was not a cruel man and wished to offer whatever meagre comfort he could.

'I shall fetch my coat.'

Much of the walk was spent in silence as Crane frantically searched his brain for any subject that might interest a twelve-year-old girl. It struck him forcefully that, had his marriage had the chance to come to fruition, he might someday have fathered a daughter. Eventually, he would have had to deal with the strange moods and proclivities of girlhood.

'It must be difficult for you,' he heard himself saying. 'Adjusting to your new life, having lost your mother so tragically.'

'I don't like to talk about it.'

Crane sighed. Trudy's silence was impenetrable, it seemed. 'I only meant to say that I too know how it is to feel completely alone, to have lost everything familiar. To be thrust into a world without so much as a map or a lodestar to guide me. To have lost a family I did not even know I had…'

The sudden image of Katrina holding a bonny infant in her arms burned through his mind. The pain of her desertion was still close, so much so that he felt his eyes stinging and his throat aching with an unreleased sob. Instead he coughed. 'I mean to say that you are not alone, Miss Trudy. Whatever you may believe.'

She stopped in her tracks and turned to him, her green eyes swimming with tears. She nodded tersely before walking off again.

Crane was struck dumb with the realisation that her eyes were the same shade as Katrina's.

They spent the whole morning walking around the mall, neither of them able to conceal their wonder. They feasted their eyes on the vast array of stores with shelves groaning under the weight of shoes and clothes, restaurants and bakeries advertising enticing delicacies, jewellery shops filled with an Aladdin's cave of treasures.

At the ice-cream parlour, Trudy bought a cone with two scoops of rocky road, slathered with chocolate sauce. She consumed the treat with the enthusiasm of a prisoner released from captivity, which, in a way, she was.

Crane selected one scoop of vanilla and one of chocolate for contrast. He could barely suppress the pleasured grin on his face as he ate his ice-cream, mindful of Trudy's warning against the dreaded 'brain-freeze.' They walked along side by side, enjoying the novelty of their day out.

He was shocked out of his pleasant daydream by an anguished cry. A small boy stood among the throng of shoppers, a look of the most acute distress on his face. Crane felt a tug at his heart when he realised that this child was – he believed the modern parlance was – mentally handicapped.

A woman stepped forward and attempted to comfort the child, but was only rewarded with renewed bouts of sobbing. His anxiety seemed to be exacerbated by the milling crowds and the music blaring through speakers throughout the mall.

The boy's cries reached a pitch and he began hitting himself in the face and body. It was deeply upsetting to watch, and Crane saw several security guards standing at the verge of the crowd, unsure what to do.

Trudy stepped forward, kneeling down to the boy's height. Almost instantly, the boy's fearful sobbing began to wane.

'Hey, I'm Trudy. Do you want my ice-cream?'

The child looked so surprised that he stopped crying. He stood transfixed, reaching his hand to take the cone from her hand. Trudy spoke to him in soft tones, telling him about red balloons and cotton candy and all the wonderful sights she had seen that day.

She seemed to Crane to be a different girl, unburdened by the pain of her recent bereavement. Little by little, the little boy seemed to fall under her spell. He was mesmerised, absently licking the ice-cream cone as he listened to her words, his eyes wide with delight.

Then he laughed, a sound so unexpectedly joyous that it seemed like bells chiming.

'Brandon!' A harried-looking woman pushed her way through the crowd and went straight to the boy. 'There you are! How many times have I told you not to wander off?'

She hugged her son tightly for a moment, before holding him at arm's length and examining him closely. 'What's the matter with you?'

The woman looked from Crane to Trudy, a look of alarm contorting her features. 'What did you do to my son?'

Trudy looked terrified. 'I'm sorry, I… I didn't mean it!'

She jumped up and ran away before Crane could stop her. 'Forgive us, madam. The girl meant no harm. He was distressed, and…'

'No, you don't understand,' the woman said. 'Brandon doesn't laugh. He rarely smiles – he just cries and hits himself. He has no language. I don't know how to communicate with him. But that girl just… got through to him. How?'

It was that moment that the truth pierced Crane like a shard of glass. He almost laughed at his own stupidity. Her ability to heal was no accidental gift. Trudy was no magus, no mere healer.

She was a witch.