Jack watched as Rune pulled a tiny clockwork ball from his pocket and swung back the hinged opening. He held it out to Jack who took it.
“Now toss it into the breach,” Rune said.
Peering inside the container, Jack’s breath caught as he saw a tiny, smoking ember dancing inside. “Whose is it?” he asked in wonder.
“Doesn’t matter,” Rune said. “Be happy I have an extra so your light isn’t forfeit.”
Deciding it was better to live and have questions than die and know answers, Jack tossed it beyond the barrier and there was a boom that rocked the land so hard, Jack stumbled and nearly fell. The light exploded and then quickly collapsed, taking the crossroad with it. There was a scent of ozone and sulfur in the air but the sweet smell of magic was gone. The crossroad was closed.
When he asked Rune about the technology, all Rune would say was that the Lord of the Otherworld’s mysterious benefactor had invented it. But all Jack could think about was who had died so that he could live.
That was his first witch wind.
The next time Jack saw his boss was when he was summoned to help Rune in 1692. The devilish pirate had been sent to a crossroad in a town called Salem and once again the witch wind blew. All the work order had said was that Jack was to help Rune “contain the situation.”
By the time Jack got there, many villagers had already been hanged as witches. The local lantern was nowhere to be found and Rune took seemingly great delight in stirring up the pious town reverends and magistrates. When Jack arrived, the entire town was haunted by visions of demons and witches. Jack asked Rune who among the townspeople was the witch and Rune shrugged as if it didn’t matter.
Strangely, Jack was never able to find a witch, and he wondered if Rune was keeping secrets. Regardless, he never forgot Rune’s callousness in either situation. He pledged to never again ask for the devil’s aid, if he could help it.
Now here he was in Hallowell, watching Ember O’Dare grow up and hoping that no one else would discover his deception.
Jack remained vigilant where Ember was concerned and had watched over her since she was a little girl. The orphan who blew into town and was adopted by her distant great-aunt, a woman so blind and deaf she could barely tell her charge from the black cat who hissed at Jack every time he came near.
When Ember discovered the magical barrier of his crossroad, she didn’t attempt to pass through the breach. Instead, she turned in a circle, her fists on her hips, and stared right at Jack’s hiding place as if she could see him in his tree form. After an hour, she gave up and headed back to town.
Jack set up warnings at the cobblestone entry to the bridge but it didn’t matter to Ember. She bravely wandered over to the bridge at least once a month and listened carefully as Jack set off every trigger he could think of to frighten her away. He’d tried the standards first—ghostly moans, creaking wood, echoing hoof beats, hooting owls, and chilling fog that wrapped cold hands around a mortal’s body—but nothing worked.
Every time she visited, he added more tricks, bells, and whistles. After a few years, the road leading up to the bridge housed a graveyard with creepy stone gargoyles; dead trees that creaked, groaned, and snapped; cawing ravens; and spiderwebs so thick they could trap a horse.
Running out of ideas, he decided to use his horse, the giant black stallion with the fiery eyes that he’d named Shadow, to scare the girl.
The great horse galloped out of the breach, steam from his nostrils blanketing the ground, his hooves stamping great furrows in the soft black earth. Jack told Shadow to run the girl down but warned him not to harm her. The stallion pawed the air, spun, and took off down the road in a flurry of mane and tail.
Hours later, satisfied that he hadn’t seen Ember in some time, Jack heard a giggle and an unmistakable snort from his frightening mount. Appalled, he followed the sound to find his horse trotting behind the seventeen-year-old girl, nudging her shoulder and smacking his lips as she held out an apple. She was bewitching, and looked as innocent and pure as a crisp fall morning—a bit wind-tousled and russet-lipped. Then his mouth fell open when Shadow lowered himself to the ground so she could climb on his back for a ride. Ember slipped onto his back—for she wore breeches under a half skirt—and kicked her practical black boots gently into Shadow’s side, grinning as the gigantic horse delicately rose to his feet and trotted toward the meadow.
When she finally slid off and headed back to the village, Ember called out to the dark forest with a flirtatious and, dare he say it, victorious toss of her hair, “Thanks for letting me ride your horse!”
Jack stalked back to the bridge, furious. The light in his pumpkin crackled and spat. When Shadow, head hanging guiltily, clomped closer, Jack said, “That was about the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen. You should be ashamed to call yourself a great and feared stallion of the Otherworld. Get on home and think about what you’ve done.” He slapped the horse’s rump.
Shadow nickered and shook his head, then headed back into the breach and disappeared while Jack shouted after him, “And no dinner tonight either! You already made a pig of yourself!”
* * *
* * *
Ember cast the spell again, asking the whispering leaves to tell her the name of her watcher, but the only answer she heard on the wind was “Sleepy Hollow.” She didn’t know what it meant or why it was important, but she began carving the phrase into the old fallen tree anyway, and lit a fat tallow candle when the meadow dimmed with oncoming night so she could finish the job.
She never felt frightened in the western woods. Even at night, she’d occasionally sleep in the glade alone, wrapped in her cloak. There was nothing of the nefarious in her fellow townspeople so she never worried about being caught there unawares. Long ago, she’d developed the ability to read minds. In most cases, the villagers had nothing to hide other than the occasional husband imbibing in secret to avoid lectures from his wife, or a slight misrepresentation on the quality of produce sold or traded. The townsfolk were good at heart.
As for wild beasts, she knew wolves roamed the woods, but Ember didn’t fear animals. All the forest creatures she’d come across had been strangely interested in her, but not because they wanted to devour her. Even the unruliest horses quieted beneath her hands. Besides, there were plenty of sheep, cows, geese, and chickens roaming around and they’d be much more tempting a dinner for a pack of wolves than a human.
Wandering strangers would normally pose a threat, she’d admit, but Ember was nowhere near the roads leading to town and she knew she was never really alone, not truly. Her invisible protector was always near.
She’d only seen him once.
When she was young, she’d caught a glimpse of him on his horse. All she could recall was wild, unkempt hair as white as a moonbeam, a dark coat hugging a long, lean form, and silver eyes that pierced the darkness. Even then she hadn’t been afraid of him. Only curious.
She’d felt his presence often since then. Sometimes she dreamed of him. As a child, he seemed to her like an older brother. A guardian and a friend. Someone who knew what she was, who understood her power. Ember sensed him watching and honed her skills with magic, hoping he approved and was impressed by her abilities.
When Ember grew older and the young men of the village began seeking her out, hoping to engage her romantically, her dreams of her invisible sentinel changed. Her breath hitched when she sensed him near and she sought more opportunities to walk the paths he guarded.
None of the village boys she knew interested her. They were as easy to read as tea leaves at the bottom of a cup or the promising taste of rain in the sky. Ember didn’t want easy. She wanted mysterious.
Above all else, she wanted him to reveal himself. To tell her why he’d been watching from the shadows all her life. When nothing she said out loud worked well enough to get him to respond, she turned to spells, but no magic she conjured would show her what she most lon
ged to see.
Exhausted from trying once again, she lay down in the grass near the fallen tree she’d just carved words into. She wriggled uncomfortably for a moment, her boots catching on the hem as she dragged the length of her skirts over her legs and then twirled her fingers in the air to loosen the stays of her corset, a trick she’d learned very quickly when she’d come of an age to wear one, and fell into a deep sleep.
When she woke to the sound of chittering squirrels, she found she was warmly wrapped though she knew she’d forgotten her cloak. Ember inhaled and caught the scent of leather, wood, and something rich and dark, like mulling spices. Rising, she shook out the greatcoat that unmistakably belonged to a man and studied it.
From the length of it she could tell he was taller than she, though most men she knew were. The coat was dark, a sort of blue-black, wide at the shoulders and draping straight through the waist only to flare out slightly at the bottom. The buttons were carved ivory or bone, very finely done and colored to look like leering grins and sunken eyes. She brushed the leaves off the fabric and slid her hand down the inner lining, reveling in the silky feeling.
Stretching out her senses, she didn’t detect him near at the moment. As Ember chewed on her lip, her stomach rumbled with hunger. She remembered that Samhain began that evening. That meant the harvest celebration would soon be well under way and she had a lot to do since her school oversaw all the festivities. Her aunt would be missing her.
Ember cut through the apple orchard, waving to the men who were up early harvesting the ripe fruit and reminding them to save her a bushel for her winter stores. Her mouth watered as she thought of her aunt’s famous apple cobbler served up with a warm mug of frothy milk topped with cream. Ember liked pouring the milk right on top of the bubbling cobbler so the sweet dough soaked up all the cream and the rich liquid filled all the crannies.
When Ember reached the now-familiar cobblestone path, she ducked between the overgrown bushes and skipped ahead quickly, ignoring the cawing ravens, the moaning wind, and the flickering lights meant to frighten her.
After Ember arrived at the bridge, she cleared her throat and said loudly, “Thank you for lending me your coat, good sir. It was much appreciated.” Carefully, she folded it and placed it atop the stone wall. Then, kicking the toe of her boot in the dirt, added, “So, tonight the town is celebrating Samhain and the harvest. If you’re of a mind, I’d be happy to offer you a cup of cider and a meal to repay you for the use of your coat. I heard that old Widow Mead is making currant bread pudding with sticky toffee sauce.”
There was no answer except the stirring of leaves at her feet, but Ember knew he was near, listening.
“Well, do as you will, but know you are welcome.” With that, Ember curtsied awkwardly, turned, and marched stiffly down the path toward home.
She dressed carefully that night. Instead of her comfortable breeches and knee-high boots flecked with mud, she wore a full dress in a blue print with tatted lace at the elbows and collar. She paired the dress with a soft pair of white, silk stockings and black slippers. Her waist was cinched tightly, accentuating the soft curves of her body both above and below her corset. Ember ran a hand over a plump hip and sighed.
She would much rather be thin and small-chested like several of the girls in her class. A large bosom did nothing except to serve as a distraction. How many times had she been talking with a classmate about something serious, only to find his eyes had drifted down by degrees, settling somewhere between her chin and her navel and taking up residence?
Ember’s dark brown hair hung down her back in soft ringlets, the sides pulled up and pinned back with a pair of jeweled combs that belonged to her great-aunt. One lone ringlet was positioned over her shoulder, the end of it just reaching the neckline of her gown and making the bare skin above it glow in contrast. She daubed on a splash of perfume she’d created using the skills her aunt taught her combined with a small spell meant to draw the eyes of the one she wanted to meet.
When Ember was ready, she took the arm of her great-aunt Florence, who tucked a delicate handkerchief into Ember’s sleeve, and then Ember guided her to the festivities. The night was warm, and Ember settled her aunt in a chair next to her friends, then turned to watch the boys as they bobbed for apples, flicking back their sopping hair and shouting their success to the crowd as they tried to tempt unattached maidens to take the first bite.
Older women peeled apples in long strips and handed them to their unmarried daughters and granddaughters to toss over their shoulders. After doing so, the girls would turn with a squeal to examine the patterns the peels made, hoping to divine the first letter of their future husband’s first name. Ember’s aunt handed one to her.
Ember sighed. “You know this means nothing,” she said loud enough so her aunt could hear. “It’s just a silly game. There’s no magic in it at all.” According to Florence, Ember’s great-great-great-grandmother had been a witch, so Ember’s abilities didn’t frighten her in the least. Ember had repeatedly offered to try to find a spell to give her aunt back her sight or her hearing or both, but her aunt had opted not to try. “There’s a price to pay for all magic,” she’d said. “And I’m not sure I’d want to pay something so heavy.”
Now Florence responded, patting Ember’s hand. “I know, dear. I know. But oblige an old woman. There’s a bit of magic in hope, and I’d like to entertain the notion that you won’t end up alone in your later years like me.”
Squeezing her aunt’s hand, Ember said, “Fine. I’ll throw the apple peel. But only because I love you.”
“What?” Ember’s aunt asked.
“I said I’ll throw it!” Ember said next to her aunt’s ear. Then she closed her eyes and tossed the peel over her shoulder. It landed in a long line with a tiny curl at the bottom. “There, you see? It makes no letter at all.”
“It matters not in the least,” Florence said. “It’s all part of the fun.”
“Right. Fun,” Ember said.
“Looks like an ‘I’ to me,” a bushy-browed man sitting near her aunt said into her ear trumpet.
“Oh, Ignatius,” said Florence as she threw a peel in his direction. “Ember’s much too young for an old man like you.”
Ignatius, the town magistrate, waggled his eyebrows at Ember as he adjusted his slipping wig and loosened his cravat.
“He’s far too handsome a lad for me, you mean,” Ember said with a wink. “Besides, what would his wife say?” As Ignatius sputtered, and Florence asked loudly, “Where’s your wife? Is she here?” Ember took her leave to find the food.
The air smelled of apples, smoke, pumpkins, and cinnamon. Young people crowded around the bonfire and filled their plates from the fare placed on long tables by the women of the town. Betrothed couples tossed hazelnuts into the fire waiting to see if they would pop and separate or burn close together symbolizing a harmony and peace in their upcoming unions. Ember ignored them and loaded a plate with roasted corn, pigeon pie, steamy chicken and dumplings, fried hominy, a slice of fruit tart, pickles, and a fresh baked roll slathered with creamy butter and thick jam.
As Ember tucked into her food, she noted the abundance of lanterns lit with flickering candles. They graced porches and windows in an attempt to ward off evil spirits thought to wander the dark roads on Samhain. According to tradition, some folks thought they were also meant to welcome spirits of deceased loved ones.
Ember didn’t know if ghosts were real. She’d never seen one though she’d looked. Ember knew there were things she couldn’t see that were perfectly real, but she told her aunt that, in her opinion, ghosts and spirits probably had a lot more interesting things to do than haunt the living. Her aunt agreed. Even still, her aunt had set an extra place at the table that night for her late husband. Ember supposed it gave comfort to the living and, if the dead were given a peek, she thought they’d probably like to know they were still in someone’s thoughts.
Som
ething moved in the corner of her eye. She thought for a moment a lantern was dancing in the dark, but then, when she blinked, it was gone. She heard a plaintive meow and bent down, giving a stray cat her uneaten pigeon pie. When she stood, Ember stretched out her mind and felt the comforting presence of her silent watcher. Picking up the cleaned plate, she patted the cat on the head and strode outside the glow of the bonfire.
A hand touched her shoulder and everything in Ember stilled. “I believe you dropped this,” a squeaky male voice said.
Ember frowned. In all her imaginings, her guardian’s voice had never squeaked. She turned. “Oh, Finney. Thank you,” she said, taking the handkerchief he held out.
The young man blushed when she tucked it into the décolletage of her dress. She’d done it hastily and a corner of the handkerchief stuck out the top of her neckline. “Yes, umm…well…you’re welcome, Ember,” he said, shifting nervously and scratching his head. Then he took a deep breath and offered his arm. “Care to take a turn around the barn with me?”
“Why not?” Ember gifted her friend with a smile but the smile faded when she glanced behind at the dark road lit with lamps.
Later, after dinner, she played a game with the girls just to make everyone happy. They took turns pouring egg whites into a bowl to see if a letter formed. Again, the letter was supposed to indicate a future husband. Though she was hardly interested, she took the offered bowl of water, and poured in the stirred egg. Of course, hers moved very differently from everyone else’s. At first, the egg swirled and swirled and then it straightened into a long line with a hook at the end, just as the apple peel had done before. Someone suggested it was a “J” and another hollered “I,” which resulted in a hoot from Ignatius.
When the evening’s festivities were over, the bonfire burned out, and the food put away, Ember put her aunt to bed and blew out all the candles except one. Taking a mug of cider and a small plate of delicacies, she went to her room and placed her offerings on the windowsill, covering the food with the handkerchief she pulled out of the bodice of her dress.