Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
I shake my head. “No, I…” I didn’t even close it.
“There you go,” she says with a satisfied smile, though it looks eerie with her eyes in shadow. “Anyone could have snuck in, and it sounded like you were gone for long enough. As for the blood, probably a trick of the eye. You know you see what you want to see. And don’t forget, you are at a school for magic. Don’t underestimate some of these students. More than a few of them showed an inclination toward the power of illusion.”
“I know what I saw,” I say firmly, my molars grinding together. “That was no prank.”
“Perhaps a student dressed in a nightgown or, as I said, an illusion,” she says. “The students here will continuously surprise you. Keeps you on your toes, doesn’t it?”
Then with a flick of her hand, she waves goodbye and turns, gliding out of the dining hall like a ghost in black, sipping her coffee as she goes.
I watch her go, absolutely befuddled. Could she be right? Could it have been a prank by the students? I look around the room, trying to see if any one of them is looking my way and laughing, but no one is paying any attention to me.
I let out a low breath before taking a large gulp of my coffee, which has already gone lukewarm from talking so much. Probably for the best that I don’t have too much—I don’t want to add to the anxiety that I already have.
I go back to my table where I left my textbook on crystals in Ancient Rome, surprised to see Ms. Peters flipping through the pages.
“Good morning?” I ask as I approach.
She looks up, and her face reddens even more. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says in a breathless dainty voice. “I was looking for this at the library. Didn’t realize you had taken it out.”
“You’re free to borrow it if you want,” I tell her. “Or I can return it to the library, and you can officially borrow it if you like playing by the rules.”
“No, that’s quite alright. Take your time,” she says. She sticks out her hand. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Clara Peters.”
I shake her hand. It’s cold but sticky, like she just put on oil. “Professor Ichabod Crane,” I tell her. “You’re the kitchen witch.”
“Kitchen witch?” she asks, her brows bending quizzically.
“It’s what some people call a witch who is good with herbs and plants and food. Tinctures. Medicine of sorts. Often overlaps with being a forest or hedge witch.”
“Oh,” she says softly. “I don’t really know what to call myself, but that makes sense.”
“How long have you been teaching here for?”
“Four years,” she says.
“Ah. So not quite a beginner like myself but not someone with tenure either.”
“Actually,” she says with a faint, disbelieving smile, “I’ve been here the longest out of everyone. Most teachers don’t last more than a year or two. Vivienne Henry, the woman you’re replacing, she was here the longest. Seven years. I thought she would never leave.”
Welcome to Sleepy Hollow. May you never leave.
“Why did she leave?” Of course, I know nothing about the teacher whose position I had taken over. I hadn’t even thought to ask. “Work get too much for her? The isolation?”
Did students leave dead snakes in her room?
Clara shakes her head, pressing her lips together until they go white. “No. She liked it here. And she was a good witch too. Very powerful. Put on fantastic shows for us. Really believed in the students.”
I cross my arms, intrigued. “So what happened?”
She looks a bit nervous. Perhaps I’m pressing too hard. “She…she had a bit of a breakdown. Mentally. Hysteria, they said. One day, she just snapped and said some things about the school that just wasn’t true. She was acting all paranoid, and then…”
“Then?” I prod.
“She was found in the lake. Dead. Everyone said it was suicide.”
I was not expecting that. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly, feeling bad for asking so much. I should have read the signs. “I didn’t know.”
“No one knew it was coming,” she says softly, looking down at her hands. “Until her episodes, she was always so happy. Everyone loved her.”
“Sounds like I have some big shoes to fill,” I admit, rubbing the tense spot at the back of my neck.
“She was kind, and you seem kind too,” she says with a placating smile. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”
I try not to laugh at that. I’ve been called many things by my students, but kind hasn’t been one of them.
“Anyway, I better get going,” she says, stepping away from the table. “It was nice having this chat. I’ll see you later.”
“Of course,” I say. But as she turns her back to me, I call out softly, “Clara?”
She pauses to look at me, a fretful look on her face, like an animal close to escaping. “Yes?”