The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

by Dkarpenter

Summary:

William Crane is sent to Sleepy Hollow under the guise of a schoolmaster, tasked with investigating a string of brutal murders whispered to be the work of the Headless Horseman. Amongst the mist and superstition, he finds himself drawn to Hannibal Van Tassel, lord of the manor, pillar of the community… and far more entwined with the legend than he first appears.

Notes:

I wanted to write a Hannigram Sleepy Hollow AU for autumn. The fic draws mainly on Washington Irving’s original story, but also borrows inspiration from Tim Burton’s movie.

This has not been beta read (normally, my husband checks my writing, but he’s not a Hannibal fan and has grown weary of my fanfics 🙃). I used to write a lot when I was younger, but have only recently returned to it, and, as often happens with me, once I pick up a hobby, I throw myself into it wholeheartedly. My husband can’t quite keep pace with the amount I’m writing, especially given the content!

So, if you spot any grammar errors or rough edges, please do let me know. It’s much appreciated.

Chapter 1: Edwin Pruitt

 

The night lay heavy upon Sleepy Hollow, and the air had grown sharp with the bite of late autumn. From the Hudson, a tide of fog rolled in, swallowing the crooked lanes and weathered fences, muffling all but the faint hiss of leaves scudding across the frozen earth. The moon was only a blurred smear above, its light drowned in grey. Lamps burned low in their glass cages, their feeble light mere islands in the pale gloom.

Edwin Pruitt, the baker, fastened the shutters of his shop with chilled fingers, muttering at the frost already feathering the panes. He was a man quick to complain, quicker still to remember a slight. Only that very morning, he had grumbled at the price of flour in Hannibal Van Tassel’s hearing. And, as all the village knew, the Van Tassels did not forget.

He turned onto the road that led past the mill, his boots striking dull against the packed dirt. That was when he heard it: the slow, deliberate beat of a horse’s hooves somewhere in the fog.

Clop… clop… clop.

Pruitt stopped, heart giving a startled leap. The sound was steady as a pendulum, measured and unhurried, with no rise nor fall, no snort of breath, no jingle of harness. Just the hollow strike of hooves, echoing through the unseen dark.

A lantern-glow loomed ahead, bobbing faintly. Beverly Cates emerged from the fog, shawl drawn close over her plain wool dress, a basket swinging from one hand. Her cheeks were pink with the cold, dark curls tucked beneath her cap.

“Evenin’, Master Pruitt,” she called, voice bright as she drew near.

Pruitt’s gaze darted over her shoulder, searching the mist. “Who’s out riding tonight?” he asked, his tone sharp with unease.

Beverly frowned, cocking her head. “Riding?” She tilted the lantern, listening. “I hear nothing.”

The hoofbeats rang out again — clop… clop… clop — closer now, louder.

Pruitt’s face twisted, the whites of his eyes showing. “You don’t hear that?”

But Beverly only shook her head. “It’s the fog playing tricks,” she said, though her voice faltered at the edge. She dipped a small curtsy and hurried past, her lantern swallowed almost at once by the rolling grey.

Pruitt was alone again. And the sound did not fade.

It grew.

Clop… clop… clop.

Each strike louder than the last, drumming into his bones, pressing against his ears until he felt it might shake his teeth loose.

He quickened his pace, breath clouding the air in ragged bursts. The road curved between dark trees, their bare limbs dripping with fog. The air seemed to thicken, heavy as water, each breath a damp weight pressing on his chest. His pulse beat in time with the hooves.

Then — silence.

Pruitt froze, throat working. The fog shifted.

Out of it came a stallion vast and terrible, blacker than pitch, its coat gleaming with a strange, wet sheen. From its withers spilt a mantle of long raven feathers, each catching what little light there was and turning it to oil-dark rainbows. Its eyes burned faintly red, as if lit from within.

The rider bore no head. Where it should have been, billowed a wreath of black smoke, twisting and curling, tendrils unfurling like the breath of some unseen furnace.

The hoofbeats resumed, but now beneath him, thunderous, earth-shaking, impossibly near.

The sabre in the gauntleted hand flashed.

Pruitt had time for one breath — a sharp, broken gasp — and then steel swept through flesh and bone. Warmth burst across the cold air in a scarlet arc. His body, robbed of its crown, staggered and fell, steaming in the frost.

The rider caught the head by its hair, turning the pale face upward for a moment, as though to memorise the expression. Then, with no sound save the hiss of the horse’s breath, he wheeled into the fog.

The hoofbeats began again, fading, receding into the hollow silence.

And where the rider’s head should have been, the black smoke seemed — for just a heartbeat — to curl upward into the shape of antlers.

 

Chapter 2: The Angel in the Fog

 

William Crane

 

The dream began, as it often did, with the sound of her humming.

A low, lilting tune — half lullaby, half prayer — drifting through the soft light of a summer afternoon. He saw her there in the garden behind their cottage, her skirts gathered at the knee, her hands stained with soil and lavender. The air was alive with bees and the green, clean scent of crushed herbs. Her hair, long and curling, tumbled over her shoulders in a chestnut cascade; her eyes, as blue as the sky after rain, lifted to his with a smile that made the world feel safe.

“William,” she called, voice warm as sunlight, “come help your momma.”

He ran to her, bare feet pounding the soft earth, the grass cool against his ankles. She bent to gather sprigs of feverfew and wild mint, tucking them into the basket on her arm. He knelt at her side, the shadow of her hair falling across his cheek, and for that instant, he knew nothing of sorrow, nothing of fear. Only contentment. The easy joy of a child who believes his mother is eternal.

Her hand brushed his cheek. The warmth of it burned into him. He thought: I will remember this always.

—The world snapped.

The air was winter now, raw and sharp. No garden, no sun. Only the stark outline of the gallows against a colourless sky. His mother stood upon the scaffold, hands bound before her. The rope lay thick around her neck, its coarse fibres digging into pale skin. Her hair hung loose in the wind, eyes wide and glistening.

Someone read charges — “witchcraft… consorting with the Devil… unnatural acts…” — but the words were muffled, hollow. Will could hear only the hammer of his own heart.

The trapdoor creaked. His mother’s gaze swept the crowd and found him.

Her eyes shone with tears, not of fear but of love, fierce and desperate. Her lips shaped the words soundlessly: I love you.

Then the trapdoor fell away.

Her body dropped; the rope jerked taut with a wet, cracking crunch. Her head snapped to one side. Eyes bulged, mouth stretched in a strangled gasp, tongue protruding. Her legs kicked, skirts twisting, and a thin stream of urine darkened the dirt beneath her boots. The creak of the rope was steady, obscene.

Happiness was gone. In its place rose fear, hot and choking; anger, sharp as glass; heartache, vast and bottomless; disgust, curdling in his throat as he watched the crowd whisper, watched them nod as if this were justice. His mother — his beautiful, gentle mother — made into a spectacle of death.

Will could not move. Could not breathe. The sound of her final breath scraped through his skull.

He woke with a start.

The corridor outside Magistrate Crawford’s office was dim and cold. His neck ached from the awkward angle of sleeping upright on the hard wooden bench. A clerk glanced up from his desk with mild annoyance, then returned to scratching in his ledger.

Will pushed a hand through his hair, straightened his cravat, and tried to shake the remnants of the dream from his mind. The taste of it lingered like iron on his tongue.

A door opened.
“Crane,” came the bark.

He entered Crawford’s office.

The room was all dark wood and authority: tall windows draped in heavy curtains, the glow of a coal stove in one corner, the faint tang of tobacco smoke in the air. Ledgers and law books crowded the shelves; above the desk hung a map of the county and, beside it, a row of early photographs; grainy, sepia-hued, of stern-faced men in formal coats.

Behind the desk sat Magistrate Jonathan Crawford, a man built broad and square, with the thick shoulders of one who had not always lived behind a desk. His hair, once dark, was streaked with iron grey, brushed back from a brow lined by years of command. A trimmed beard framed a mouth that looked accustomed to barking orders. His eyes were deep-set and flinty, the sort that measured a man in a single glance and found most wanting. The gold chain of a watch glinted across his waistcoat, and his hands, large and blunt-fingered, rested on the desk as though ready to strike the gavel at any moment.

On the desk lay three photographs, smaller, more recent. Crawford pushed them toward Will. The images were blurred and speckled, but the shapes were unmistakable: headless bodies sprawled in frost-white fields, necks ragged where the flesh had been severed.

“Sleepy Hollow,” Crawford said. “Three in the last month. Heads missing. The locals say it’s the Horseman.”

Will’s jaw tightened. “And you don’t believe that.”

“I believe it’s a man hiding behind a fireside tale. You know the type. We’ve seen it before — the so-called werewolf of Albany, the Jersey Devil child-stealer. Every one of them is a man in flesh and blood, using fear to cover their crimes. This will be no different.”

“And you want me there,” Will said flatly.

Crawford leaned back, chair creaking. “There’s a vacancy for a schoolmaster. You’ll take it. Live among them. Ask questions. Keep your eyes open. Send word when you find him.”

Will bristled. “There must be someone better suited—”

“You’re suited because you see what others don’t,” Crawford cut him off. “You can walk into a room and smell the rot before anyone else notices the stench. That’s why I used you in Albany. Why I used you in Montauk. And why I’m using you now.”

Will glanced back at the photographs, throat tight. “And if it isn’t a man?”

Crawford’s eyes hardened. “Then it’s still flesh and blood enough to kill. You’ll find him. And you’ll bring me proof.”

Will hesitated, but Crawford’s voice came down like a gavel: “This isn’t a debate. The coach leaves at dawn.”

 

 

~*~

 

 

The coach had rattled out of the city at dawn, its wheels clattering over cobbles slick with last night’s rain. Will had climbed inside with his satchel and his irritation, feeling the weight of Crawford’s orders like shackles about his wrists.

He knew what the magistrate wanted: results. He always wanted results. Crawford never cared how many sleepless nights it cost Will, how the endless parade of corpses lingered in his head long after the case was shut. Will’s cursed talent for seeing — for looking too closely — made him indispensable, and Crawford wielded it without mercy.

Will pressed his forehead against the rattling pane, watching as the city unspooled behind him. The crowded lanes and smoky chimneys gave way to factories crouched like beasts on the riverbank, their stacks belching black clouds into the pale sky. Women hurried along the gutters with baskets on their arms, children darted through puddles, and men bent beneath loads of coal and timber, their faces grey with soot. The air was thick with the stink of tanneries, horse dung, and the sour reek of refuse.

Mile by mile, it faded. The tenements thinned, the smoke dispersed, and the sky grew wider. Fields rolled out on either side of the road, silvered with frost. Farmhouses crouched behind low stone walls, their orchards bare-limbed against the pale light. Crows wheeled overhead, their cries carrying on the cold air. The land looked clean, almost innocent, though Will knew well enough that murder nestled here as easily as it did in the alleyways of New York.

By the time he dozed against the corner of the coach, the city was no more than a smudge on the horizon.

The coach lurched to a halt with a hiss of the brake and a jangle of harness. Will blinked awake to find the window full of pale morning mist and the dark outline of skeletal trees.

“This is your stop,” the coachman called, his voice muffled through the panel.

Will opened the door and stepped down into frost-hardened mud. His boots crunched on the rutted track. The air was colder here, the fog thicker; it curled low around the trunks of the trees and clung to the ground like a living thing.

He looked up the road. The way ahead was swallowed in white, the faint line of a fence vanishing into nothing. “I thought you were taking me to the village,” Will said, glancing back at the coach.

The driver, a broad man with a weathered face, shook his head. “This is as far as I go. Hollow’s cursed ground. Been that way since before my granddaddy’s day. You want to get there, you’ll walk it.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Because of the Horseman.”

The man spat into the frost. “Because of what rides there at night. Call it what you like.” He flicked the reins; the horses tossed their heads, uneasy, their breath pluming in the cold. “Sun’ll burn the fog off by noon. Until then… keep to the road.”

Before Will could answer, the driver clucked to the team, and the coach rattled away into the mist, leaving him alone.

Silence closed in, thick as the fog. Somewhere distant, a crow called, its voice hoarse and lonely. Will adjusted the strap of the small satchel slung over his shoulder and began to walk.

The road wound between tangled hedgerows and patches of marshy ground where frost crusted the reeds. The occasional farmhouse stood back from the road, windows shuttered despite the morning. Now and then, he caught the briefest glimpse of a face at an upper window — watching — before the curtain dropped.

The fog shifted as he walked, revealing the faint spire of a church ahead and, beyond it, the clustered roofs of Sleepy Hollow. Past the church, half-veiled in the morning gloom, rose a hill crowned by a sprawling house of pale stone. Tall chimneys, steep gables, and windows that caught what little light there was like watchful eyes. Even at this distance, it had a presence, elegant, imposing… and faintly predatory.

The Van Tassel house.

 

 

 

~*~*~*~

Hannibal Van Tassel

 

The porch of the Van Tassel house stretched broad and gracious, its carved Dutch columns weathered pale by sun and season. Beyond the railings lay orchards bare of fruit and fields where frost silvered every stalk; the Hudson mist curled thick among the hedgerows, softening the edges of the land until it seemed the whole world might dissolve into white.

At the long table on the porch sat Hannibal Van Tassel and his ward, Abigail. She was dressed in the fashion of the time, her gown of soft blue wool cut high at the waist, with puffed sleeves gathered neatly at the wrist and a white fichu tucked modestly at her bodice. Her dark hair was coiled into braids pinned beneath a lace cap, though a few wisps had escaped to soften her face.

Her expression, however, was far from soft. Abigail’s eyes were quick and intent, missing nothing of the world around her, and her mouth, though smiling, carried a hint of calculation, as though she weighed each word she heard for hidden meaning. At a glance, she was the image of a respectable young ward, poised and genteel, yet there was a keenness to her gaze that suggested a mind sharper than her years, and a restlessness just beneath the surface.

A silken cloth of ivory damask ran the length of the table, heavy with dishes fit for a manor: bowls of stewed apples glossed with honey, cold meats sliced fine, fresh bread still warm from the ovens, and a silver platter piled high with buttered crullers dusted with sugar. A maid moved quietly about, pouring coffee into porcelain cups while another fetched platters from the sideboard within.

Abigail leaned forward on her elbows, curls escaping their ribbon, her spoon abandoned in the apples. “They say it was the Horseman,” she declared, wide-eyed. “Edwin Pruitt, struck down in the road and left with no head at all. Everyone in the village is talking of it. Some swear they heard his ghost wailing by the mill this very morning.”

Hannibal buttered his bread with unhurried precision, the silver knife gleaming in his hand. “Old tales will always find new victims,” he said mildly. “The villagers delight in their own superstitions. Give them a missing body part and they will invent a monster to match.”

“But they say it was the Horseman,” Abigail pressed, her voice hushed with half-thrill, half-fear. “Clad in armour, astride a great black beast—”

“A fireside fancy,” Hannibal interrupted, brushing a stray crumb from his cuff. His smile was courteous but cool; the matter was dismissed. “A convenient cloak for some very human violence, nothing more.”

Abigail huffed, unconvinced, but Hannibal was already rising from the table. “You may tell the cook the stewed apples were excellent,” he said, drawing on his gloves. “I have letters to attend before receiving Mr. Crane.”

Inside, the house welcomed him with cool stone floors and high-beamed ceilings, the air fragrant with beeswax polish and woodsmoke. Flemish tapestries hung upon the walls, their threads dulled to rich shadows by age, while gilt-framed portraits of stern ancestors kept silent watch. A tall clock ticked solemnly in the hall, its pendulum marking each second with a measured, inexorable beat.

Hannibal moved with the ease of a master surveying his domain, servants bowing as he passed. He entered his study — a room lined with dark bookcases heavy with volumes, the scent of vellum and ink as familiar to him as breath. Upon the desk lay a scattering of correspondence, which he sorted absently, long fingers precise and deliberate.

At last, he came to the tall window that overlooked Sleepy Hollow. The village huddled beneath the morning fog like a cluster of toys abandoned by some careless child: the spire of the church pricking at the grey sky, the crooked streets already stirring with figures bent to their daily toil.

He watched them for a time, lips faintly curved, eyes cool. Their motions were predictable, their desires base, their chatter empty as the clucking of hens. Human pigs, every one of them, rutting through life in mud of their own making.

And then—

He saw him.

Among the shifting shapes of villagers, one figure drew his gaze with unnatural force. A young man walking the road from the mill, his coat plain, satchel slung across one shoulder. Yet there was nothing plain in the way the fog seemed to lift for him, or how the meagre light touched him as though reluctant to let go.

Curls the colour of rich chocolate sprang free about his brow, catching what little sun there was in glints of gold. His features, delicate yet strong, were lit from within by an intensity Hannibal could feel even at this distance. His stride was measured but restless, as though his mind never ceased its turning.

Ethereal — that was the word that came to Hannibal’s mind. An angel wandered by mistake into the mire of Sleepy Hollow. An angel with bouncy curls and a face so beautiful it ached to look upon.

Hannibal’s gloved hand came to rest against the windowpane, as if he might reach through the glass and touch him. His pulse quickened, not with surprise but with recognition, as though he had been waiting, unknowingly, for this very vision to appear.

“So tempting a morsel,” he murmured to the silence of the room.

 

 

~*~

 

 

A soft knock at the door interrupted Hannibal’s thoughts. The maid entered with a curtsy, eyes lowered.
“Mr. Crane is here, sir.”

Hannibal’s pulse quickened; an unfamiliar sensation, unwelcome and yet irresistible. He already knew who it must be. Sleepy Hollow so rarely welcomed strangers that the very air seemed to carry the news when one arrived. The angel in the street curls bright even in the fog. He had not been a dream.

“Show him in,” Hannibal said, his voice calm though anticipation thrummed beneath his skin.

The maid bobbed again and withdrew.

A moment later, William Crane entered.

The morning light fell across him as he stepped inside: hair an unruly halo of chestnut curls, eyes wide and blue as a midsummer sky, mouth full and set in a wary line. He was younger than Hannibal had imagined, though there was no softness in him. His gaze was sharp, almost challenging, as if the world had disappointed him too often to meet it with courtesy. His plain coat and scuffed boots could not disguise the vitality beneath.

“Mr. Van Tassel,” he said, giving a curt nod rather than a bow. His voice was low, edged with a brusque dryness that made the maid, still lingering in the hall, bite her lip in shock.

Most men, Hannibal would dismiss for such gracelessness. He could not abide rudeness; he had never tolerated it. Yet here it was… enthralling.

“Mr. Crane.” Hannibal inclined his head, lips curving. “Welcome to Sleepy Hollow. Please, sit.”

Will sat stiffly, hands folded over his satchel as though ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. His eyes flicked about the study, noting every detail: the shelves of books, the polished instruments upon the desk, the maps pinned neatly to the wall. Always looking, always measuring.

“You come to us as schoolmaster,” Hannibal said. “I must confess, you will find it no easy post. The villagers would sooner have their children in the fields than at a desk. To them, numbers and letters are luxuries — pumpkins and buckwheat are necessities.”

Will’s mouth quirked faintly. “Then perhaps I should bring my lessons to the fields. Teach them to count bushels and read grain tallies. At least then I might keep them awake.”

Hannibal’s laugh was low, genuine, surprising even to himself. “Practical. I approve. Though you will find that not every parent values education as I do. Ignorance has a long tenure here.”

“Then ignorance must be shown the door,” Will said sharply. “And if it won’t go willingly, I’ll kick it out.”

There was a fire in his words, a sharpness that should have made Hannibal recoil. Instead, it struck through him like a note of music he had been waiting all his life to hear.

Why?

He shifted slightly in his chair, unsettled. Normally, such insolence would have disgusted him: an ill-bred, graceless fool presuming to speak out of turn. Yet William Crane’s defiance rendered him powerless, caught between irritation and fascination.

Was it the curse? Some trick of the Wendigo, weaving snares of attraction into his flesh? He had always prized beauty, yes — but beauty had never pierced him. Never settled into his mind like a seed, demanding root and flower.

And those eyes. Those piercing eyes that looked not only at him but into him, as though William Crane could reach past every mask, every cultivated veneer, and glimpse the shadow beneath. There was darkness in him; Hannibal could see it. Not the vulgar kind he despised in others, but something rarer, shaped of the same cloth as his own.

Hannibal leaned back, studying him with the care of a connoisseur, every line of his face etched into memory. This beautiful, rude, cranky angel. At last, someone interesting.

A faint smile touched his mouth, secret and possessive. I think I shall enjoy this man’s company very much.

 

Chapter 3: So, Tempting a Morsel

Summary:

As Will takes his first uneasy seat in this new life, desire and dread twine...because in these woods, legends don’t stay on the page, and something in the mist is already looking back.

Notes:

The chapter title is taken directly from Irving’s book. In the original, Ichabod uses the phrase "So, Tempting a Morsel" when thinking of Katrina. But I couldn’t resist borrowing it here, as it felt very Hannibal/Will coded.

And thank you so much for all the kudos so far! I’m so pleased that people are excited to see a Sleepy Hollow AU. It’s been such a joy to write this one. 🖤🎃

~*~*~*~

William Crane

 

The morning mist still clung low upon the ground when Hannibal Van Tassel led his horse into the yard. Will followed, feeling faintly ridiculous as he swung himself into the saddle of the borrowed animal.

It had been years since he had ridden, not since boyhood, before his mother’s death. After that, he had gone to live in the city with his father, where horses clattered only in the streets, drawing carriages and carts. A policeman on foot had no need of a mount, and so the skill had atrophied into memory. Now, perched awkwardly, he felt the eyes of the manor upon him, though none watched save Hannibal.

The horse Hannibal had given him was called Gunpowder. The name conjured visions of fire and thunder, but the creature beneath him was a far humbler beast: a dapple-grey with a rough coat, ribs faintly visible, mane coarse and tangled. Yet its dark eyes were steady, its stride sure, and Will knew better than to sneer at a plain companion.

“You will need a horse,” Hannibal said as they set out side by side, the soft thud of hooves muffled by the damp earth. “Sleepy Hollow may look a mere hamlet from the churchyard, but its farms and outlying fields sprawl further than you imagine. Traversing them on foot would leave you weary before you began your day.”

Gunpowder’s gait was solid, but every shift of muscle jarred Will in the saddle, reminding him how long it had been since he had trusted his weight to such a creature. He sat stiffly, conscious of his hands on the reins, his posture, every awkward bounce. Hannibal’s words washed over him, and only belatedly did Will realise he had not replied. He gave a small, appreciative hum, hoping it would suffice, though his mind was far too occupied with the man riding beside him.

Hannibal sat his horse with an ease that seemed bred into his bones, his back straight, gloved hands light upon the reins. Each movement was fluid, harmonious with the animal beneath him, grace woven into every line of his body. The mist softened the edges of his face but did not diminish its striking lines: the sharp cheekbones, the strong nose, the lips that curved at the corners in an unusual upward turn, as though he smiled at some private thought. And his eyes, amber, keen, and glinting with something both amused and appraising, made Will’s pulse stumble each time they met his.

Heat rose in Will’s face, a mortifying mix of shame and something far less simple. He felt awkward enough, bouncing stiffly on Gunpowder’s back like a child just learning his seat, but what made it worse — unbearable, even — was that he found Hannibal very attractive. His poor riding seemed all the clumsier beside such elegance, as though his body itself betrayed him in Hannibal’s presence. He looked quickly away, wishing he did not feel like a schoolboy beside a master horseman, wishing he could banish the thought of amber eyes and the upward curl of that mouth.

Will had never thought himself drawn to men. The notion had simply never occurred to him. Yet here he was, unable to keep from glancing sideways, unable to deny the strange ache that settled in his chest at the sight of Hannibal Van Tassel. From the first moment he had stepped into the man’s study, he had sensed it: a darkness, coiled and quiet, not unlike the shadows Will carried himself. It unsettled him. It fascinated him.

And he was certain, though he dared not test it openly, that Hannibal looked back at him. That in those amber eyes there lingered more than courtesy, more than politeness. That Hannibal too felt the tug of whatever this was.

They followed the road through the thinning fog until the sound of running water reached them. There, beside a brook whose current gleamed like quicksilver, stood the schoolhouse.

It was a humble building, the timbers weathered, the roof bowed under years of rain and snow. Ivy clung to one wall; moss softened the stones at its base. Will found himself strangely pleased at its position by the river, where the murmur of water would fill the silence between recitations.

A small lean-to at the side served as a stable, little more than a shed with a rail for tethering. Hannibal dismounted smoothly, tied his reins, and gestured for Will to do the same.

Inside, the schoolroom was a single chamber: a blackened hearth at one end, a row of rough-hewn desks facing a taller master’s bench at the other. Light filtered through warped panes of glass, falling across shelves where battered primers and slates were stacked in uneven piles. It smelled faintly of chalk and damp wood.

At the back, half-hidden by the shadow of the chimney, a narrow staircase led upward. Hannibal inclined his head for Will to follow.

The stairs creaked underfoot, opening onto a modest set of rooms: a small chamber with a bed, a washstand, and a chest; another space scarcely large enough for a table and chair. There was no kitchen, no hearth save the one below.

“You will take your breakfast and dinner at Alana Van Brunt’s,” Hannibal said. “She has agreed most graciously. She is a neighbour, and her household is accustomed to hosting. Luncheon, you may contrive for yourself. It is not a life of splendour, but it is sufficient.”

Will’s throat tightened unexpectedly. To have even this space — his own bed, a window that looked down over the brook, a quiet corner of his own — felt more than he had dared hope. He turned quickly lest Hannibal see his expression, though the heat still crept up his neck.

“This is…” He cleared his throat. “This will serve very well.”

Hannibal’s gaze lingered on him, unblinking, unrelenting. When he spoke, his voice was low, steady.
“If you should require anything, Mr. Crane… you are always welcome at Van Tassel Manor.”

The seriousness of it made Will look up sharply. Hannibal’s amber eyes held his, intent and searching, as though willing him to understand some deeper meaning beneath the words. Will’s pulse quickened. He dropped his gaze, suddenly self-conscious of his own blush.

Hannibal straightened, drawing on his gloves once more. “Alana will expect you for dinner at seven. I will leave you to acquaint yourself with your new home.”

And with that, he descended the creaking stairs, his footsteps fading until Will was left alone in the quiet schoolhouse, the river’s song whispering through the open window like a promise.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Alana Van Brunt’s dining hall was bright, where Hannibal’s was shadowed, its polished floors and neat mouldings betraying a taste for newer fashions. Where Van Tassel’s house clung proudly to its Dutch ancestry, Alana’s had embraced more modern touches: pale plaster walls, lighter woods, tall windows unshuttered to let the last of the day’s light spill in. Servants moved briskly about with dishes and decanters, and Will had the impression of a household that thrived on bustle.

He sat at the long table, coat brushed, hair smoothed, trying not to feel out of place.

Alana was very pretty, her complexion fair, her dark hair gathered in glossy coils. Her gown was of rose-coloured silk, the bodice neatly fitted and trimmed with pale ribbon, fashionable without ostentation. She carried herself with an easy grace, the kind born of someone accustomed to company, her smile bright and her laughter quick to her lips. Yet there was a softness in her eyes that betrayed her heart, for it was plain where her thoughts strayed whenever Hannibal Van Tassel’s name arose, which it did often, and with unconcealed warmth.

“…and he is so devoted to the estate,” she said as a maid refilled her glass. “Always thinking of the tenants, the harvest, the children’s schooling — truly, he is everything a gentleman ought to be. I daresay he will not remain unmarried much longer.”

Will managed a polite smile, though something coiled tight in his chest. Jealousy was a foolish thing. He hardly knew the man, and yet the thought of Hannibal proposing to this woman filled him with a sudden, hot discomfort. The sensation gnawed at him, absurd and unfamiliar. How could he feel a claim upon Hannibal Van Tassel after scarcely an introduction? It was madness. Some misfiring of his own mind. Perhaps he was overtired from the journey. Perhaps he was sickening with some fever, for what else could explain this sudden, irrational sense of ownership, this need to guard a man who was nothing to him?

Will lowered his gaze to his plate, forcing his voice mild, “You are fortunate to count him as a neighbour.”

“Oh, indeed,” Alana said, her eyes alight. “The whole village is fortunate. And he is so very handsome, is he not?”

Will’s knife scraped faintly against the porcelain, the sound sharp in the air. He swallowed, but the images came unbidden —Hannibal’s face in startling clarity: the curve of his mouth, lips shaped as though to secret confidences; the keen cut of his cheekbones; the dark, unreadable eyes that seemed to pierce straight through him. Again and again, they flickered through his mind’s eye until he felt near to burning.

Hannibal was far too… distracting. The man’s low, velvety voice kept intruding upon his thoughts until Will could hardly breathe. He reminded himself — focus. He was here for a reason. He needed another subject. Anything but this.

“…The villagers seem much occupied by talk of the Horseman,” he ventured, swallowing hard. “It was the first tale I heard upon the road.”

At once, Alana leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yes! Poor Master Pruitt, the baker. The third murder in as many weeks. All alike: a body left headless, with no head ever found. The Hollow has not slept easy since.”

“Surely it is the work of a man, not a spirit,” Will said quickly. “These things grow in the telling.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed, though her eyes glinted with mischief. “But do you know — Beverly Cates swears she saw him not an hour before his death. Spoke with him in the fog, she says, and then—nothing. He was gone.”

Will stilled, filing it away. Beverly Cates. He would find her tomorrow. “Did she say what he spoke of?”

Alana shook her head. “Only that he seemed… troubled. Distracted. Some claim he thought he heard hoofbeats, though she insists she heard nothing at all.” She shivered delicately and reached for her glass. “Such stories cling to this place, Mr. Crane. You will hear a dozen versions before the week is out.”

Will inclined his head, though his thoughts were already moving, fitting the detail into the grim mosaic taking shape.

Dinner passed in a pleasant blur of dishes: roasted fowl with herbs, stewed apples, fresh bread and butter. Alana chatted freely, her gaze often wandering as though picturing a future with Hannibal Van Tassel at her side. Will responded with all the civility he could muster, though his own thoughts strayed again and again to the man himself: the straight set of his back, the taut lines of muscle as he had pulled upon the reins, the effortless command in every gesture. Heat rose in Will’s face as he realised the extent of his noticing. This sudden obsession with Hannibal, the absurdity of it, made him look quickly away, as though he could banish the image by sheer force of will.

As the lamps were lit and the servants cleared away the last of the dishes, Will thanked his hostess, bowed low, and excused himself. But as he walked back toward the brook and the schoolhouse, one thought circled sharp in his mind: Beverly Cates. The last to see Pruitt alive.

Tomorrow, he would speak with her.

 

 

~*~

 

 

The dream began differently this time.

His mother stood by the hearth, sleeves rolled to her elbows, stirring a pot that sent up curls of steam fragrant with herbs and spice. The fire painted her face in gold, and her hair gleamed like chestnut silk as it tumbled over her shoulders. The small cottage was warm, its corners glowing with lamplight. Outside, snow pressed against the shutters, but within was only safety, only love.

She turned and smiled at him, ladling broth into a bowl. “Come, William,” she said softly, setting it on the table. The scent of thyme and cloves filled the air. He sat, watching her move, graceful, unhurried, her hands sure. She bent to kiss the crown of his head, her curls brushing his cheek, her eyes full of fierce, unshakable love.

And then—

The trapdoor fell.

The rope snapped taut with a wet crack. Her neck jerked sideways, her eyes bulged, her mouth gaped in that strangled silence. The smell of herbs and spices curdled into smoke. Her skirts twisted as her body swung, and the creak of the rope filled his ears until there was nothing else.

Will woke gasping.

His bed was damp with sweat, the thin sheets tangled about his legs. Moonlight streamed through the crooked panes of the schoolhouse window, throwing pale bars across the room. He swung his legs to the floor, chest heaving, and crossed to the washstand. The cool water in the basin stung his skin as he splashed it over his face, dripping down his neck.

It was then he heard it.

A horse’s distressed whinny, sharp, breathy, rising in the night air. Not pain, but agitation. The sound of a beast scenting something unnatural.

Will froze, water dripping from his fingers. Slowly, he turned to the window.

By the brook, where the moonlight lay like silver fire upon the water, stood a horse vast and black, its mane spilling long feathers that gleamed with an oily sheen.

Upon its back sat the Headless Horseman.

The great black steed reared high, hooves lashing the air, its raven-feathered mane streaming as the moon cast a pale crown about it. Sparks flew as its iron shoes struck earth, breath pouring from its nostrils in steaming clouds.

The rider’s body gleamed in the silver light, clad not in bright steel but in black armour that drank the moonlight into itself. From a distance, it seemed wrought of some strange design; too jagged, too organic, as though it might resemble bones. But Will was not near enough to be certain, and the thought only made the sight more dreadful.

Where the head should have been, a wreath of black smoke, twisting upward in restless curls. For a heartbeat, the vapour coiled into the shape of vast antlers before unfurling again into formless shadow.

Will’s breath caught. Though there were no eyes, no face, he felt the Horseman looking at him — directly, intently — as though the empty gaze had locked with his own.

The brook whispered. The horse stamped once. The smoke twisted antlers unfurling and fading again.

And then the vision melted back into the fog, leaving only the silvered water and the echo of hoofbeats in Will’s skull.

 

 

 

~*~*~*~

Hannibal Van Tassel

 

 

The fire in the drawing room burned low, throwing a steady glow over polished oak and pewter gleam. Hannibal poured the wine himself, a deep red claret that caught the light like spilt rubies, before handing the glass across.

Frederick Chilton received it with a flourish, bowing his head as though Hannibal were a courtier and he, a king bestowing honour. His hair was too carefully curled, lacquered into place with pomade that caught the light in greasy gleams. His coat hugged him too tightly, stitched to the latest fashion but betraying more vanity than taste. A gaudy ring flashed on his finger as he raised the glass, sipping with exaggerated relish before smacking his lips in satisfaction. He leaned back into the chair with one ankle propped on his knee, posture as self-satisfied as his smirk, the very picture of a man convinced of his own importance.

“My dear Van Tassel,” Chilton began, his eyes gleaming, delighted at his own superiority. “I assume you have heard about our poor Pruitt… or rather, what remained of him. The body passed beneath my most professional care.” He leaned back with smug satisfaction, swirling his wine. “Third in a month. Old Jabez Miller, then Widow Winship, and now Pruitt. All alike: head gone clean away, the wound blackened at the edges as though fire had kissed it shut. No bleeding, no tearing — cauterised, as if by some infernal heat. The villagers tremble at talk of sabres and phantoms, but I tell you — the strangeness of it has them half-mad with fear.”

He bent forward, lowering his voice as though imparting a priceless secret. “Of course, no one but a man of my expertise could truly understand what such a wound suggests. Without me, they would still be jabbering about ghosts like frightened children.”

Hannibal’s jaw tightened. He imagined pinning Chilton beneath a scalpel, carving him into silence. A maggot in silk, buzzing of his own importance. He despised him: the pomaded hair, the prattle, the preening. And yet… Hannibal forced himself to sip the claret, letting its metallic tang smother the rising hunger. Chilton had his uses: serving as both mortician and undertaker to the village. He fed on corpses and gossip both, and what he disgorged was sometimes worth hearing.

“Of course,” Chilton prattled on, “a death like that only feeds the legend. And the talk of legends only feeds the gossip… And, speaking of gossip, there has been much talk about a certain new schoolmaster.”

Hannibal inclined his head, keeping his movements measured, unhurried. “Mr. Crane. Yes, I am acquainted.”

“Acquainted,” Chilton repeated, as if savouring the word. “Such a remarkable face, is it not? Those eyes — like sapphires set in milk-white flesh. Quite the conversation piece among the ladies.” He preened, clearly counting himself among them. “I confess, I should not mind some… instruction from such a schoolmaster.”

The urge to lean forward and smash his smirking face into the mantelpiece came upon Hannibal so suddenly, so violently, that he stilled in his chair, fingers white against the carved armrest. It took every shred of control not to rise and grind Frederick’s teeth to powder beneath his hand. The claret coated Hannibal’s tongue, rich and metallic. He swallowed carefully, suppressing the rise of something far less civilised. “Indeed.”

“Oh, come now.” Chilton leaned forward, lowering his voice as though about to impart a confidence. “Surely you’ve noticed the way your dear Abigail looks at him? It would be a most fitting match. The charming scholar and the jewel of the Van Tassel household.”

Hannibal’s gaze slid to the fire, the crackle of resinous wood masking the slow grind of his teeth. His ward. His Abigail. He would see her protected, cherished…but not by William Crane. Not by his William Crane. The thought of her eyes resting too long upon the schoolmaster’s face, of her smile bent toward him, sparked a jealousy so sharp it startled him.

And yet the greater flame was rage: burning, ravenous, and all-consuming at Chilton’s tongue shaping William Crane’s beauty into words. How had this man, a stranger barely introduced, already claimed such territory within Hannibal’s heart and mind?

He realised, belatedly, that Chilton still waited for his response. Hannibal’s lips curved in a smile that did not reach his eyes, “You believe him suitable?” he said at last, venom threading through each syllable.

“Why not?” Chilton spread his hands, delighted with himself. “Though, naturally, one could argue there are other prospects far more fitting.” He tipped his glass in a mock salute. “But alas, some men are so universally admired that one can scarcely compete. A burden I know well.”

Hannibal fixed him with a glare sharp enough to cut glass, but Chilton was too busy sniffing appreciatively at his wine to notice. Abigail. His ward. How dare this carrion fly imagine himself worthy? How dare he even speak her name in the same breath as his own? Hannibal allowed himself the faintest of smiles, cold and precise. “Universally admired. Yes. A heavy burden indeed.”

Frederick prattled on about the baker’s death, about the Horseman’s blade severing cleanly through bone, about the speculation murmured in taverns and along pews. Hannibal listened, sifting gossip from fact, filing away each detail. This was Chilton’s value: a carrion bird who fed on rumour and corpses, returning to regurgitate them for Hannibal’s use.

Still, as Chilton spoke of William Crane — his eyes, his lips, his supposed effect on the village’s womenfolk — Hannibal’s mind slipped back to the study window, to that first glimpse of curls catching the fog-bound sun. So tempting a morsel.

Chilton droned on. Hannibal imagined his skull parting neatly beneath a sabre’s kiss, the chatter silenced in a single sweep.

But not tonight. Tonight, the maggot still served his purpose.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Night had fallen heavy, the fog thick as wool about the orchards. The manor stood distant, its lanterns muted, its voices silenced. Here, at the far edge of the estate, Hannibal kept a sanctuary of solitude: an old stone folly half-swallowed by ivy, the crumbling ruin of a hunting lodge abandoned before his grandfather’s time.

Here he was alone.

He paced the damp earth, gloves discarded, breath smoking in the cold air. The claret still burned in his throat, but Chilton’s words burned hotter. William Crane — spoken of like meat laid out on a board, for all to devour with their eyes. Abigail’s name was tethered to his in speculation. Chilton’s smirking mouth daring to claim what was not his.

Will is mine.

The thought struck sharp, undeniable. Mine to behold. Mine to claim. No carrion parasite would sully him with talk of marriage or possession.

Hannibal’s composure cracked.

His chest heaved, each breath ragged. His hands trembled, flexed, clawed at the air. The change came, not by choice but by fury.

Pain exploded through his skull, white-hot, as the first antlers forced their way free. Bone split with a wet crack, tendons snapping, flesh tearing as horns erupted from his brow, branching, twisting, splitting the night air with their ascent. Blood coursed down his face, hot as pitch. His jaw locked in a silent snarl as skin blackened, blistered, hardened; burning as though turned to ash, flaking, and sealing into armour that fused with his flesh.

His ribs bowed outward, cracking beneath the force, then knit together again, twisted and reforged into a grotesque exoskeleton. From a distance, it might seem like armour, but up close it was the architecture of bone itself, ribs overlapping in a cage of calcified strength. His chest burned with every breath, as if the furnace within were sealed by its own bones.

His fingers writhed, bones lengthening, tendons straining, until his hands were encased in gauntlets of charred bone and smoke. And then — the worst of it — his face dissolved. Eyes, mouth, flesh itself liquefied into black vapour, his head unravelled in a choking plume of smoke that roiled upward, curling into a living crown.

The Horseman stood where Hannibal had been.

From the fog came the answering snort of his steed. The horse was changed as he was: its hide gleamed like coal, its mane now a mantle of raven feathers, each one slick as oil, glinting with faint colours in the dim. Its eyes blazed red, its breath poured in steaming gusts, its hooves struck sparks from the stone.

Hannibal staggered, chest heaving, every nerve singing with pain. He loathed it. Not the agony, but the loss of control. Never before had the curse torn itself free without his bidding. Always he chose when to wear the mask of death, when to hunt, when to kill. Control was his creed, his armour. And now, a stranger had wrenched his autonomy from him. Unbidden. Will’s face, Will’s voice, Will’s eyes — they had driven the monster out like a puppet dragged upon its strings.

It was intolerable. Unthinkable.

If he can unmake my control, he must die.

The thought came cold and final, hard as steel. Better to end William Crane than to allow him this power. Hannibal would not be enslaved by desire, bewitched by beauty, weakened by want. He would carve this sickness out of himself.

He swung into the saddle. The horse screamed and bolted forward, iron hooves drumming the earth, sparks flying with each strike. Hannibal rode hard, the wind a howl in his ears, the fog torn aside in their passage. His rage lent speed, every muscle and sinew bent to a single purpose: kill William Crane before the weakness took root. Better blood than surrender. Better silence than chains.

On and on he rode, the night swallowing him, until the spire of the schoolhouse rose through the mist.

And then—

A glow. A candle in a window. Will Crane, standing within, looking out at the fog. Just a figure in the dark, curls limned by faint light, one hand against the glass.

The fury guttered out of Hannibal in an instant, leaving only the hollow ache of obsession. He could not kill him. It could not harm him. The curse bowed to Will as much as Hannibal did. He was bewitched, undone.

Not to kill. Not tonight.

Tonight, he would only look. To remind himself that the angel in curls belonged to him, and him alone.

The Horseman reined his steed into silence, the fog swallowing him whole.

 

Chapter 4: Design, Not Luck

~*~*~*~

William Crane

 

 

Will woke to the sound of birds.

For a moment, disoriented, he lay still on the narrow cot, staring at the rough-hewn beams above him. The air was cool, touched with the scent of damp wood and the faint sweetness of wildflowers drifting in through the open shutters. No clatter of wheels, no hawkers’ cries, no hammering of iron on cobbles. Just the soft pulse of nature: a crow calling in the distance, sparrows flitting at the eaves, the brook outside murmuring like a lullaby.

It felt strange. In New York, he had never slept past dawn. The noise had always roused him, pulled him out of dreams before they could settle. Yet here, he had slept deep into the morning. He could still half-feel his dreams clinging to him; his mother’s face, her voice humming softly, and then… the pounding of hooves in the fog. The horseman.

A dream. It must have been a dream.

Will swung his legs to the floor, rubbing his eyes. Saturday. He had much to do before lessons began on Monday: speak with Beverly Cates about her final conversation with Pruit, perhaps introduce himself to the town constable, and go through the schoolroom itself to ensure it was in order. A routine. Orderly. Manageable.

He was pulling on his coat when a knock came at the door.

Will frowned. Visitors had not been part of the plan. He crossed the room and opened the door—

Hannibal Van Tassel stood on the step, a wicker basket looped over one arm. His posture was immaculate, his dark coat cut perfectly to his frame, though his expression was softened by the faintest of smiles; not broad, but the kind of microexpression that suggested it was meant only for Will.

“Mr. Crane,” Hannibal said, inclining his head. “Miss Alana Van Brunt mentioned that you did not appear at breakfast this morning. I wondered if you had slept in, and thought it prudent to bring you something. One must eat.”

He lifted the basket slightly. Inside, Will glimpsed neatly wrapped parcels: pale cheeses, slices of cold meat, apples polished to a shine, and jars of preserves that caught the light like garnet and amber.

Will hesitated. “That’s… very kind of you.”

“Kindness,” Hannibal said smoothly, “is simply good sense. You will work better with strength in you. And the weather is fine today — crisp, but bright. Why not eat by the brook? I recall a small bench just behind the schoolhouse.”

They carried the basket around to the back, where the brook ran close, its water clear and quick over the stones. The grass was still beaded with dew though the sun was already climbing, and the air carried that clean, brisk sweetness particular to autumn. A crooked fence marked the boundary of the yard, and an old oak spread its branches wide, dappling the ground in shifting shade. The little bench beneath it waited as though it had been placed there for this very meal.

They settled on the weathered bench, its wood silvered by years of sun and rain. The river breathed softly beside them, carrying the smell of water and silt, mingled with the sweetness of fallen leaves. Ducks paddled in the shallows, the occasional splash of a fish breaking the surface. The day was unseasonably warm for autumn, the sun spilling gold through the branches, though the air still carried the crisp edge of the season. Above them, the trees were ablaze: maples and oaks crowned in amber, scarlet, and bronze, their leaves drifting lazily down to speckle the grass.

Hannibal unpacked the basket with meticulous care, arranging each item as though it were a feast on silver platters rather than a rustic lunch.

Will tried to keep his attention on the spread, but his eyes betrayed him. Again and again, they strayed to Hannibal. To the sculpted lines of his cheekbones, the fine shape of his mouth, the way his long, elegant fingers handled even bread and fruit as if they were works of art. Each movement was controlled, deliberate, yet never stiff; his hands had the same economy of grace as a hawk folding its wings.

Heat rose in Will’s cheeks, and he snapped his gaze away, ashamed at himself. He was staring like a boy with his first crush. Ridiculous. He should be thinking of the murders, of the Horseman, of his duty. Not of the quiet curl of Hannibal’s mouth, not of how the sunlight seemed to gild his hair with fire.

Will bit into a slice of cold meat to distract himself, and at once felt Hannibal’s eyes on him. Sharp. Intent. A glint of something unreadable sparking in the amber depths. Will shifted, throat dry, and reached hastily for an apple.

“It is a fine thing,” Hannibal said, voice smooth as smoke, “to eat in the open air. I much prefer it to the endless chatter of the dining table.”

Will managed a wry smile. “Easy for you to say. You’re lord of the manor. The chatter is all for your benefit.”

Hannibal’s lips curved, just faintly. “An empty benefit. Words spent to fill silence, nothing more. I find silence far more… nourishing.”

Will studied him sidelong, restless with a need he could neither name nor dismiss. Silence was not nourishing for him; silence was dangerous. Silence brought dreams of his mother’s dangling body, of creaking rope, of hooves in the fog. And yet… here, sitting beside Hannibal, the silence did feel different. Not threatening. Not empty. Alive, somehow.

He cleared his throat. “The villagers tell me much of the Horseman.”

Hannibal dabbed delicately at his mouth with a cloth. “They always do. Legends grow fat in places like this. A single body and they weave a thousand tales.”

“Three bodies,” Will corrected.

Hannibal’s eyes gleamed. “Yes. And of them — Pruitt, the baker? I cannot imagine the village suffers greatly without him.” His tone was mild, almost amused, as though they discussed a troublesome rooster put down at last.

Will blinked, taken aback, and then found himself laughing, though uneasily. “You sound like you’ve considered who might be expendable.”

Hannibal’s small smile deepened, no more than the curve of a microexpression. “Have you not?”

Will dropped his gaze, colour rising again. He should have been alarmed. He should have felt horror. Instead, he felt his guard slipping yet further, some hidden door inside himself opening. Before he quite knew why, he said: “I was a policeman, once. In the city.”

The words hung there. A confession. He had not meant to speak them. He did not speak such things to anyone.

And yet, with Hannibal, it felt… safe.

Amber eyes studied him, steady, intent, unblinking. “Then perhaps it is fate,” Hannibal said softly. “You, arriving just as the Horseman rises again.”

Will swallowed, unnerved by the sudden weight of his gaze. “Or very bad luck.”

“Not luck,” Hannibal murmured. “Design.”

He leaned back, perfectly composed once more. “The villagers will not speak easily to you. They will not trust an outsider. But with me beside you, they will be polite. And if your training allows you insight into these deaths, then I am all for your involvement. Sleepy Hollow cannot afford more fear.”

Will exhaled, tension loosening in his shoulders. He had not realised until this moment how much he wanted permission. Encouragement. “Then I’ll take you up on that.”

Hannibal’s smile flickered again; small, restrained, but unmistakably pleased.

And Will, despite himself, could not help but look at him once more. His face. His hands. His presence was a gravity that pulled Will’s every thought into orbit. He repromanded himself inwardly, but the truth remained: he liked, very much, the thought of spending the afternoon with Hannibal Van Tassel.

 

 

~*~

 

 

They found Constable Brian Zelter behind the tavern, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he hefted sacks of barley onto a cart. Sweat slicked his temples despite the coolness of the day, and his face was pinched with irritation at being caught mid-task.

Zelter was a man of middling height and stock, thick through the waist but with arms corded from farm work. His coat, a dull brown, patched at one elbow, had been thrown across a barrel, though his hat still perched stubbornly on his head as though to remind any onlooker of his authority. His cravat was crooked, his waistcoat straining a little at the buttons, yet he carried himself with the stiff-backed air of one who believed the title of constable set him above his neighbours. His eyes were small and sharp, quick to measure, quick to dismiss, and his mouth seemed perpetually set in a line that hinted more of complaint than command.

“Van Tassel,” he said, setting the sack down with a thump. He gave a brisk nod toward Hannibal, but when his gaze slid to Will, it cooled a degree. “And this would be the new schoolmaster.”

“William Crane,” Hannibal said smoothly, as though presenting him to a peer of equal rank. “Mr. Crane has an interest in the disturbances of late. I thought it prudent you should meet.”

Zelter wiped his palms on his breeches, not offering a hand. “Disturbances,” he echoed, his mouth twisting. “That’s one way to put it. Three folk dead in as many weeks. Bodies without their heads. It’s got the women clinging to their rosaries and the men too drunk to speak sense.”

Will studied him, filing away the detail. Zeller’s tone was dismissive, but his eyes were sharp enough. “And what have you learned from the bodies?” Will asked.

The constable gave a short laugh, not entirely kind. “Learned? Schoolmaster, I’m no physician. I saw what anyone could see — heads gone clean off, not a drop of blood left to spill. Looked more like cauterised stumps than wounds, if you ask me. But ask the villagers and you’ll hear fifty versions of the tale before supper.”

“And which do you believe?” Will pressed.

Zelter’s eyes narrowed, his gaze darting to Hannibal before returning to Will. “I believe in keeping order, not in chasing phantoms. The dead are dead. The living need to be calmed. If you’re wise, you’ll keep your pupils from filling their heads with such nonsense.”

Hannibal’s expression did not change, but his stillness seemed to weigh upon the constable, pressing him back a step.

Will inclined his head, swallowing the retort on his tongue. Crawford would have wanted answers. Crawford always wanted results, never mind what it cost to wrest them out. But he had not warned Will that the local constable was part-time at best — a man more farmer than officer — and certainly not that he would be meeting him blind. Zelter’s eyes had held no recognition, no hint that he knew Will was sent by the magistrate himself. Crawford had clearly not bothered to inform him.

Will felt the weight of it then: he was to play schoolmaster and investigator both, with no ally in the Hollow save the man at his side. And Zelter, self-important and already half-dismissive, would be of little use. Useless, perhaps, except to remind Will how very alone he was.

Zelter wiped his brow again, already glancing back at the cart. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. Barley doesn’t move itself.”

Dismissed. Just like that.

Will turned away with Hannibal, the prickling sense of failure already settling under his skin. Zelter had not said anything outright rude, but the message was clear enough: Will was an outsider, and no help would be offered.

“An unhelpful man,” Hannibal said softly, as they walked back toward the road. There was a gleam in his amber eyes that Will could not read. “But perhaps not without uses. Even carrion birds have their place.”

Will said nothing, though unease flickered through him. For the first time since arriving in the Hollow, he wondered whether he had already begun to walk among vultures. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I might speak with Beverly Cates. She was the last to see Pruitt alive.”

Hannibal inclined his head at once, his expression softening. “A sensible choice. Beverly is steady and observant, and she will tell you what she knows without embellishment. The Hollow has few such women — you may find her company refreshing.” His lips curved faintly, almost approving. “Come. She keeps her shop on the square.”

 

 

~*~*~*~

Hannibal Van Tassel

 

The constable had been a disappointment, though hardly a surprise. Hannibal walked beside Crane through the misty street, outwardly composed, inwardly making a note: he would have a quiet word with Constable Zelter about his duties. A schoolmaster, even a new one, should not be made to feel unwelcome. Not here. Not when Hannibal had plans for him.

He steered Will toward the seamstress’s shop at the corner, a narrow building of brick and timber whose windows were bright with morning light. Inside, the air smelled of beeswax and starch. Bolts of fabric in muted colours lined the walls, and a great oak table bore half-finished garments scattered with pins.

Beverly Cates looked up from her work, needle paused between her fingers. She was a young woman of plain dress but keen eyes, her hair pulled into a serviceable knot beneath her cap. At the sight of Hannibal, she smiled readily, setting her work aside with practised grace. “Master Van Tassel. And Mr. Crane, I presume.”

Before Will could reply, a voice rasped from the shadows near the window.

The Widow Miller sat by the window with a basket of mending at her knee, her black bonnet casting her features into shadow. Her face was long and sharp, her mouth tight with perpetual displeasure. She had been handsome once, but spite had carved itself into every line. “So it’s true,” she said coldly. “They’ve set an outsider to take my Jabez’s place. A boy, no less. You scarcely look older than the pupils you’re meant to teach.” Her gaze swept over Will, lingering on his curls, the brightness of his eyes, and she sneered. “A face like that will turn heads, I grant you — but hardly fill them with learning.”

Will’s shoulders stiffened, colour rising in his cheeks. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

Jabez Miller. The name alone soured his tongue. A pompous fool, puffed up with petty authority, his lessons so shoddy that half the children could barely scrawl their names. Hannibal recalled complaint after complaint from villagers, ignored while Miller preened in his role. And Hannibal remembered more: the reek of sweat and wine when he had found Miller rutting clumsily with Widow Winship, trousers about his ankles, in the upstairs room of the schoolhouse. Miller’s face was purple with rage at being discovered, his blustered threats as if Hannibal Van Tassel might be cowed by scandal. And now both Miller and Winship were headless, carrion for the crows.

Good riddance.

Hannibal’s jaw clicked softly. He saw how Will bit back his words, and he felt a sudden heat in his chest: sharp, protective, consuming. “Your late husband,” Hannibal said with measured calm, “was scarcely competent to teach his own name. I recall more than one occasion when he mistook a ‘b’ for a ‘d.’” His voice was silk over steel. “The Hollow deserves better.”

The Widow Miller gave a sharp laugh, brittle as snapped thread. “Better? Then God help us if this pale whelp is what you call better. He looks as though a strong wind might carry him off, curls and all. A schoolmaster, ha! He belongs in a cradle, not at a desk.” Her mouth curled in disdain. “Mark my words, Van Tassel, he will bring nothing but trouble.”

Hannibal’s hands trembled. He looked down and saw the skin along his knuckles darkening, hardening, as if the curse itself itched to break through. A crackle of pain went through his bones. His breath came ragged. How simple it would be. One surge, one breath, and the Horseman would stand where he stood, smoke wreathing where a head should be. The Widow’s sharp tongue would still, her basket of mending upturned in a spatter of scarlet, her head dangling from his gauntleted fist.

The image sang to him, sweet as any aria.

“Are you all right?”

Will’s voice, quiet, low, concerned, broke Hannibal from the haze of hatred consuming his thoughts. He looked down into those ocean eyes, clear and steady despite the flush in his cheeks. They fixed on him with a kind of unguarded sincerity that pierced straight through the storm.

His pulse slowed. His hands stilled. The black faded back into pale flesh.

“Yes,” Hannibal said softly, the fury banked though its embers still glowed. He glanced once more at the Widow Miller, who had already bent back to her stitching, smug in her spite. His lips curved, faint and cold. “Quite all right.”

But inside, the hatred coiled and smouldered, a promise waiting for its moment. He would not forget her words.

Beverly glanced between them, her lips pressing together in quiet dismay. After a moment, she set down her work and smoothed her skirts. “Perhaps I might take my break now. A short walk to stretch the legs,” she said carefully. “Mr. Crane, if you would join me? Master Van Tassel, of course.”

The Widow muttered, but Beverly did not wait for her answer. She led them out into the street, where the air was crisp with woodsmoke and the golden leaves stirred in the breeze.

“My apologies,” she said softly, once they were away from the door. “The widow’s grief has sharpened her tongue. She is not herself.”

“She is precisely herself,” Hannibal replied, voice smooth as glass. “Her rudeness has no excuse.”

Will glanced at him, startled by the edge in his tone, but Beverly pressed on. “In any case, ask what you will. I will tell you what I can.”

Will did. His questions came one after another, measured but persistent: had Pruitt seemed afraid, had she noticed anyone near him, had there been any quarrels of late? Beverly answered plainly, shaking her head when she knew nothing, repeating only what she had seen. Pruitt had spoken with her in the fog, distracted, as if listening for something she could not hear. Then he was gone, and within the hour his body was found.

“And the other deaths?” Will asked at last. “Jabez Miller, Widow Winship — did you notice any link between them?”

“Only the obvious,” Beverly admitted. “This is a small place. Everyone knows everyone’s business, more or less. There are a hundred connections, but nothing that makes sense of this.”

She looked genuinely regretful as she said it, her eyes lowered, her voice apologetic. “I am sorry, Mr. Crane. I wish I could be of more help.”

Hannibal studied her, and for once, he felt no contempt. Polite, truthful, measured. Beverly Cates was a rare sort in the Hollow. He inclined his head. “You have done more than enough.”

Yet inwardly, his thoughts were black. Miller, Winship, Pruitt: pigs all of them, rude, arrogant, and deserving of their slaughter. The Hollow whispered of mystery, of phantoms and curses, but Hannibal knew the truth: the Horseman’s blade had simply done the work their own mouths had earned.

And Will…dear, beautiful Will…need never know that.

For now.

 

Chapter 5: The Widow Miller

Summary:

The Horseman rides again...

 

 

The fire had long since died. The little house crouched in silence, the night pressing close at its windows. Widow Miller lay in her narrow bed, the quilt tucked up beneath her chin, staring at the photograph on the nightstand.

Her husband’s face, stiff and severe in its sepia frame, gazed back at her. Jabez Miller, schoolmaster, pillar of the community. A man of learning. A man of authority.

A liar. A cheat.

Her lip curled as the old bile rose. She seized the photograph in one claw-like hand and hurled it across the room. It struck the wall, glass shattering with a sound like brittle ice. The frame fell face down on the floorboards.

“Rot in hell, you faithless wretch,” she spat into the empty room. “With your Winship whore.”

The house gave no answer, save the sigh of wind through the eaves. She drew the quilt tighter, muttering, half to herself.

Then she heard it.

Clop…Clop…Clop.

Hoofbeats. Distant, steady, measured as a pendulum.

Her breath caught. She sat up, heart hammering, eyes straining at the darkened window. The sound came again, louder this time, rolling through the fog-thickened night.

Clop…Clop.

Her husband had spoken of it. Just before his death, he had complained of hearing phantom hooves dogging his steps. She had mocked him for it then. Now the echo of that rhythm pressed cold into her marrow.

Clop…Clop…Clop.

A horse whinnied outside, sharp and shrill. The boards of the porch groaned. Someone — something — was outside.

Her knees gave beneath her as she stumbled from the bed, nightdress clinging to her withered frame. The air was bitterly cold, her breath clouding pale as she hurried across the room. She clutched at the closet door, yanked it open, and crammed herself inside, pulling it shut with shaking hands.

The darkness was suffocating. She pressed both palms over her mouth, willing her breath to silence.

The front door splintered inward.

Crash.

The sound of boots upon the floorboards, heavy, deliberate, punctuated by the metallic clank of spurs. Slow. Certain. They crossed the hall and entered her chamber.

The stench came first: smoke and scorched bone, the iron tang of blood baked into armour. Then the sound, the creak of leather, the grind of steel. The closet door shuddered beneath a gauntleted hand.

It was wrenched open.

She screamed as fingers, blackened and clawed, fisted in her hair and dragged her out into the dim light.

She saw him then.

The armour was black as night, plates fused into grotesque ridges that mimicked ribs and spine, as though the bones of a giant had been hammered into his form. The gauntlets ended in hooked claws, smoke seeping between the joints. Where a head should have been, there was nothing but a crown of writhing black vapour, coiling upward, almost forming antlers before shredding back into mist.

Her knees struck the floor. She clawed at his grip, nails snapping, breath tearing ragged in her chest.

The sabre hissed from its sheath. A single sweep.

Steel met flesh, bone, sinew.

Her world went white-hot — then nothing.

The body slumped, twitching. The Horseman held the head aloft by its grey hair, the face frozen mid-scream. Smoke coiled about it like a lover’s embrace.

Without a sound, he turned and strode back into the fog, boots ringing hollow. The hoofbeats began anew, fading into the night.

And in the little house, the broken photograph lay amid shattered glass, the schoolmaster’s face still turned down to the floor.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6: Communion

Summary:

Headless bodies, magic, darkness, hunger…and a breakfast that is far more than it seems.

 

~*~*~*~

William Crane

 

The dream began in a haze of lamplight and the smell of herbs.

His mother’s hands moved quickly but gently, smoothing sweat-matted curls from the brow of a woman writhing on the bed. The woman’s nightdress clung to her skin, her face pale and slick with tears, her cries breaking the stillness of the room like waves against stone.

“William,” his mother said, her voice firm yet soothing, “fetch me willow-bark, and mint, and valerian root.”

He turned to the shelves, jars and bundles blurring in the dim light. Somehow, his hands knew where to reach: dry bark flaking into his palm, cool leaves, twisted roots. He carried them back, his small heart hammering, and she pressed a quick kiss to his temple.

“Good boy. Now grind them.”

She set the pestle in his hand. The scrape of stone on stone rang oddly, echoing as if he stood at the bottom of a deep well. Her voice, too, wavered in and out, distant though she was only an arm’s length away.

“The babe is turned,” she told the woman, voice muffled by dream. “We must turn it right. You must breathe. That’s it—breathe with me.” She dipped a cloth in a basin and wiped the woman’s face, humming a soft, low tune, the same lullaby she had once sung to Will.

He turned, holding out the ground herbs.

The bed vanished.

The room dissolved into cold, empty sky.

The gallows loomed before him, stark and black. His mother stood on the scaffold, rope cutting deep into her pale throat, her hands bound. Her eyes found his, full of tears, her lips forming the words I love you—

The trapdoor fell.

Her neck snapped with a crack that split the silence. Her body jerked and twisted, skirts tangling, legs kicking. The creak of the rope was steady, obscene.

“Seize the boy!” a man’s voice thundered. The magistrate. “He is a witch too!”

“No,” Will whispered, backing away. “No, this isn’t real. It didn’t happen—it didn’t—”

Hands seized him, nails digging into his skin, yanking his arms behind him. He thrashed, kicked, and struck out with fists. Their grip was iron. They dragged him forward, toward his mother’s swaying body, toward the empty noose beside her.

He screamed, clawing at their hands.

“Will!”

The voice cut through, distant yet sharp, familiar in its urgency.

“Will!”

He struggled harder, lungs burning, throat raw from the force of his cries. The gallows loomed closer, the rope waiting. The guards dragged him to the steps—

Will bolted upright with a gasp, chest heaving, sweat cold on his skin. A scream still scraped his throat.

Hands gripped his shoulders, firm but careful. Above him loomed Hannibal Van Tassel’s face, closer than any dream: his amber eyes intent, his mouth drawn tight with concern. The room was dim, dawn just brushing pale light through the shutters. The shapes of the schoolhouse bedroom were still blurred with shadow, but Hannibal was vivid, solid, his presence a weight against the terror still rattling in Will’s chest.

“Will,” Hannibal said softly, urgently, “you are safe. It was only a nightmare. You were screaming in your sleep, thrashing about—I feared you might do yourself harm.”

Will blinked, disoriented, and then noticed it: a faint flush across one side of Hannibal’s cheek, strands of his usually immaculate hair loosened from their perfect order. His cravat was askew.

“Did I…?” Will’s voice was hoarse. “Did I hurt you?”

Hannibal’s lips curved, the barest ghost of a smile. “Not at all. A scratch at most. Nothing of consequence.”

Will swallowed, heat rising in his own face now. Hannibal, always immaculate, looked almost human like this, untidy, imperfect, and the thought unsettled him more than the remnants of the dream. And yet… he could not bring himself to pull away. The warmth of Hannibal’s hands lingered on his shoulders, the nearness of his body radiating heat through the cool dawn air. It curled low in Will’s stomach, a thrum of want he could neither explain nor admit. He told himself it was comfort, safety. But the truth was sharper, hotter. Desire, unwelcome and undeniable.

Will closed his eyes, trying to steady his breath. “What are you doing here?” His voice came out hoarse, ragged.

“There has been another murder,” Hannibal said. His hands eased but did not leave Will’s shoulders. “The Horseman has struck again. I came to fetch you, assuming you might wish to see the scene. I knocked, but when I heard you cry out, I came up at once.”

Will dropped his gaze, shamed by the shaking in his hands. “I… suffer with nightmares,” he admitted. “They’ve plagued me for years.”

“Of course you do,” Hannibal murmured, his tone low, almost intimate. “You carry much. Too much, I think, for one man to bear without its spilling into his dreams.”

For a moment, the words hung between them. Will felt himself pinned by those amber eyes, studied as if Hannibal could see straight into the heart of him.

He forced himself to ask, “Who was it? Who’s dead?”

“The Widow Miller.”

Will blinked, his mind snapping back to the day before. “The woman in Beverly’s shop?”

“The very same.” Hannibal rose smoothly, brushing down his coat. “I shall wait below while you dress. Then we will go together.”

He inclined his head, a courtly gesture, though his gaze lingered on Will a heartbeat longer than courtesy required. Then he turned, descending the stairs with measured tread, leaving Will to sit trembling on the edge of the bed.

For a moment, Will only sat there, pulse thudding in his ears. Widow Miller — so sour, so sharp — alive yesterday, headless today. The Horseman did not wait long between blows. His skin prickled with the reminder that anyone in this village, himself included, might be next.

And yet what unsettled him more was not the death itself, but Hannibal’s composure as he spoke of it. No horror, no surprise, not even pity. Smooth, calm, assured, as if death were another fact in a ledger he had already balanced. Will felt both drawn to and wary of that composure. He envied it. He distrusted it. And still… he could not look away from the man who possessed it.

 

~*~

 

 

The sun was only just cresting the hills when they set out, the village behind them still half-shrouded in mist. Will sat stiffly atop Gunpowder, the horse’s steady gait jolting through his bones. Beside him, Hannibal rode his black steed with the same effortless grace as before, posture straight, movements fluid, as if man and beast were born as one.

The air was sharp with the chill of night, but the rising sun washed the fields in pale gold. Frost clung to the hedgerows, glistening as it melted. A rooster crowed somewhere in the distance, answered by another across the hollow. Birds shook the dew from their wings and scattered into the light; a fox slunk from a ditch, its coat ruddy against the silvered grass. The world was waking.

Will cleared his throat. “I should apologise,” he said at last, breaking the silence between them. “For earlier. The nightmare. It must have been… unpleasant.”

Hannibal turned his head, his expression unreadable, but his voice smooth. “You have no reason to apologise. A nightmare is not a fault, and it revealed nothing but your humanity.”

Will pressed his lips together, then found the words spilling despite himself. “My mother was a midwife.” His voice softened. “She was kind… so kind. She cared for every woman, every child. She would stay at their side for days if she had to. And she was beautiful—” Images crowded his mind: her long curling hair tumbling down her back, her blue eyes crinkling when she smiled, her voice humming low as she worked with herbs and cloth. “She saved so many lives.”

He drew a sharp breath. “And for it, she was accused of witchcraft. She was hanged.”

Hannibal’s gaze lingered on him, amber eyes intent. His tone was measured, low. “That must have been a terrible burden for a child to bear.” He paused. “Were you there when she died, William?”

Will’s jaw tightened. The silence stretched as memory surged: the rope’s creak, the brutal snap of bone, the gasping choke, her legs jerking as skirts twisted. His throat worked. “Yes,” he said at last. “I was there.”

The only reply was the muffled thud of hooves on damp earth. Hannibal rode in silence, his gaze fixed ahead, but Will could feel the weight of his thoughts circling like crows. Now and then, Hannibal’s eyes flicked toward him, as if measuring whether the next question should be asked at all. The hesitation was palpable, almost uncharacteristic.

At last Hannibal spoke, his tone low, almost gentle. “A child should not carry such memories. They cut deeper than any blade, and they never heal. You have borne a grief that would have destroyed a lesser man.” His eyes slid to Will, sharp with intent. “That you still draw breath, that you still endure… it speaks of uncommon strength. Perhaps more than you yet realise.”

Will swallowed hard, uncertain whether to take the words as comfort or something else entirely. The warmth of them sank deep, yet so too did the unease: as though Hannibal saw his pain not with pity, but with recognition.

At last Hannibal spoke again, his voice pitched low, careful. “Do you believe she was what they claimed?” A pause, deliberate, as though he sought to soften the cruelty of it. “A witch?”

Will blinked, startled. He opened his mouth to deny it—but then he saw her again, bending over steaming bowls, grinding roots, her hands tracing symbols in the dirt of the garden, her voice lilting in songs half-remembered from older tongues. He remembered the way villagers sometimes crossed themselves when she passed.

His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “…Yes… I think, perhaps, she was.”

 

 

~*~

 

 

The rest of the ride passed in silence. Hannibal’s profile was calm and composed, but his eyes glinted with unspoken thought each time the dawn light caught them. Will could feel words hovering unsaid between them, but before either could give them voice, the Widow Miller’s house loomed into view.

The cottage crouched low against the frost-touched field, its shutters crooked, the thatch sagging in places. The door hung askew on its hinges, one panel splintered inward. Hannibal dismounted first, tying his stallion to the leaning fence. Will followed, clumsy with Gunpowder’s reins, and together they stepped across the threshold.

The stench struck at once. It was not yet the full reek of rot, but the cloying sweetness of fresh death, undercut by the sharp tang of iron. The air was close, warm enough for flies to wake and gather in black knots, their droning thick in the silence. Maggots already writhed pale in the wound, spilling and burrowing where the torn flesh gave them purchase.

The headless body lay splayed across the boards, the nightdress twisted about her thighs, one arm crooked awkwardly beneath her. The gaping ruin of her neck was hideous to behold; the flesh seared black at the edges, as though fire had licked it shut, yet gaping wide enough to reveal the pale gleam of her spine. Congealed blood clung thick around the wound, crusting into dark clots around her collar.

And yet the blood had not pooled as Will expected. Instead, it had fanned outward in a strange, deliberate arc across the floorboards, spattering walls and furniture as though painted by some unseen hand. A macabre composition. Grotesque… and oddly beautiful.

Will’s stomach did not turn. His eyes traced the crimson arc with quiet intensity, following its curve as though it were a cypher, some secret language written in blood. He crouched slightly, head tilted, noting the way the dark spray fanned evenly from the wound, as if cast with purpose. The ruin of the Widow’s neck did not repulse him. It drew him in.

He did not hear the shuffle of boots on the floorboards, nor the low murmur by the hearth. Only when a voice cut through the silence did he start.

“Van Tassel.”

Constable Brian Zelter stood rigid near the chimney, his coat hanging open, his hair damp with sweat though the room was chill. His face was mottled with irritation, small eyes narrowed. “And what business has the schoolmaster here?”

Will straightened, caught like a boy discovered at mischief.

Hannibal’s voice came smooth, deliberate. “Mr. Crane accompanies me as a matter of prudence. Two minds see more than one, do they not?”

Zelter’s scowl deepened, mouth twisting as though he tasted something sour, but before he could snap back another voice slid in — mellifluous and smug.

“Indeed, they do.”

From the shadows emerged a man with hair carefully curled and a waistcoat snug to the point of vanity. He held a folded handkerchief delicately to his nose; the scent of decay seeming to offend him less than the opportunity to display himself. His other hand rested theatrically at his waist, posture contrived as if on a stage. The cloth muffled the smell of death, but his eyes were free, and they roved over Will with a frankness that made his skin prickle. His smile curled thin, pleased, proprietary.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Crane,” he said smugly. “I am Doctor Frederick Chilton — undertaker and mortician of the Hollow.”

Will did not respond. His skin felt chilled, unnerved beneath Chilton’s gaze.

“I had not thought to find you here among… less savoury company,” Chilton added, his eyes boring into Will.

Will shifted, unsettled, wishing he had not looked up at all. The stare slid too long, lingered too low, as though measuring him for something unspoken.

Hannibal moved almost imperceptibly closer, his sleeve brushing Will’s arm; a barrier, quiet but unmistakable. The amber of his gaze, when it flicked toward Chilton, burned with restrained ire.

Will cleared his throat, focusing on the body. “Was there any sign of struggle?”

Zelter blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Bruising, overturned furniture, anything to suggest she fought?” Will pressed, his tone brisk. “If not, then she either knew her attacker or was taken by surprise.”

Chilton chuckled. “How very… astute.”

Zelter bristled. “This is hardly your place, Crane. You are no constable.”

“Someone ought to ask,” Will said sharply. His eyes flicked back to the body. “And was anything taken? Valuables? Or was the head the only prize?”

Zelter hesitated, and for a moment the silence hummed with the weight of Hannibal’s amusement.

Finally, Will asked the question that had pressed on him since he crossed the threshold, “Have you any suspects?”

Chilton and Zelter exchanged a glance. The constable cleared his throat. “Names are whispered, of course. Quarrels with neighbours, grudges left to fester. But no real suspects.”

Will blinked. “None at all?”

“Not a word,” Chilton said smoothly, his tone almost too assured. His gaze flicked sidelong, oily and intent, as though he relished the omission.

Will’s mouth tightened. Then why not? By every measure, he and Hannibal ought to have been the first names on any tongue. The absence itself was unsettling. Like a silence too heavy to be natural.

“Well then,” Will said slowly, almost to himself, “perhaps the killer can be found by his work. What he does. How he does it.”

Zelter snorted. “Profiling killers now, are you? Best leave such fancy talk in the city. Here, the tale’s as plain as day — it’s the Horseman.”

Will ignored him. His gaze had already fixed upon the corpse, the curve of the blood spray, the blackened wound. His eyes unfocused, as though seeing not what lay before him but what had been. The pendulum had begun to swing, his mind moving inward, backwards, into the shadow where another’s thoughts might take root.

 

 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Hannibal Van Tassel

 

 

The words from Zelter still lingered in the air, but Hannibal scarcely heard them. His attention was wholly on Will.

Something changed in him. His sharp blue eyes, so alive and guarded a moment ago, went distant, unfocused yet strangely intent, as though fixed upon some invisible horizon only he could see. For an instant, Hannibal thought the colour itself shifted, light catching at impossible depths, blue mingling with green in a swirl like the ocean drawing back before a wave. No villager would notice. Zelter would not. Chilton, least of all. But Hannibal saw. He always saw.

Magic.

Delight unfurled through him, rich and heady. He had suspected Will might be a natural-born Witch ever since their talk of his mother, the midwife branded a witch. Hannibal had turned the words over many times in his mind. A woman who brought life into the world, condemned for sorcery. A healer mistaken for a devil’s handmaid. Yet was it only a mistake? Or was she actually a witch?

He had longed to ask, but had held his tongue. Even for Hannibal, there were questions that skirted the edge of rudeness, and this one was perilous. Do you believe she was what they claimed? A witch?

He had contemplated it in silence, watching Will’s guarded face, weighing whether to speak. But he had already suspected there was something different about him, some thread woven finer than common cloth. There must be. There had to be. How else to explain the gravity between them, the inevitability with which they had been drawn together?

And now the truth stood before him, revealed in the depths of his gaze. Not only darkness, but touched by magic. Chosen.

The young man moved slowly, circling the corpse. His voice, when it came, was quiet but certain, as though the words were drawn up from some deep well.

“He was angry,” Will murmured. “The strike was not careless, not frenzied. Deliberate. Sudden loss of control, but not without… design. He needed to make her suffer, even if only for a moment. She offended him, and he thought her a pig unworthy of her breath. So he slaughtered her.” His eyes traced the sweep of crimson across the floorboards. “But he also admired the act. See how the blood falls? Not random. It’s a composition. A canvas. The work of someone who must make his rage… beautiful.”

Each word struck Hannibal like a note of music played for his ears alone.

No one had ever spoken so of him. No one had ever known him so profoundly. Not even Misha, sweet Misha, who had been the light of his soul. She had loved him, yes, but she had never understood him. Not the shadowed place where his rage and artistry were one. Yet this man — this rude, beautiful, haunted angel — saw it as though he had peered into Hannibal’s very marrow.

Hannibal felt it then, sudden and absolute: the sense that he had fallen. That this man was his mirror, his match, his undoing.

William Crane saw him. Truly saw him. And Hannibal could never let him go.

Will swayed, a sudden lightness in his head making the room tilt. He caught himself against the edge of the table, but his knees still threatened to give. A giddiness clung to him, born of exhaustion he could not name.

“Mr. Crane.”

Hannibal’s voice, low and intent, came with the firm weight of a hand on his shoulder. Will lifted his gaze. Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, it felt as though the air itself thickened between them. Will’s eyes were wide, dazed, as though some part of him still wandered in the Horseman’s shadow. His soul seemed to bore straight into Hannibal’s, raw and unshielded, searching for something to tether him back.

Hannibal tightened his hand, grounding him with that simple, deliberate touch. His thumb pressed lightly against the muscle, an anchor. “Easy,” he murmured.

Will blinked hard, drew in a breath, and forced a faint, apologetic smile. “Forgive me. I didn’t…sleep well.”

Hannibal inclined his head, studying the pallor of his skin, the tremor that had not quite left his frame. “Then you are weary. Perhaps even delirious from want of food. You must not neglect your strength.” His tone softened, coaxing. “Come back with me to the manor. We shall have breakfast — something warm. It will steady you.”

For a moment, Will only looked at him, the offer hanging between them like a thread of light. Then, slowly, he smiled; small, genuine, disarming. “I’d like that.”

And in that instant, the corpse, the constable, the undertaker…all of it vanished from Hannibal’s mind. There was only Will.

 

 

~*~

 

 

The manor’s kitchens lay beneath the house, reached by a stone stair that spiralled down into warmth and shadow. Unlike the grand rooms above, the kitchen was practical, almost modern in its design. The flagstone floor was clean-swept, the great hearth banked with embers, and iron pots suspended from hooks. Rows of copper pans gleamed from their pegs, polished so bright they seemed to hold little suns. A large wooden table bore neat jars of spices and dried herbs, their labels in Hannibal’s own hand; beside them stood a mortar and pestle, well-worn from use. Where the manor’s parlours and halls clung to age-old Dutch solemnity, here was precision, order, innovation. Hannibal’s domain.

“Sit,” Hannibal said softly, indicating the small table by the hearth. Will hesitated, glancing around as though expecting someone to sweep in.

“You…cook yourself?” Will asked at last, settling awkwardly on the bench. His brows knitted, confusion and something close to amusement in his expression.

“On occasion.” Hannibal moved with purpose, selecting a pan and setting it to heat. “The cook”,—he allowed himself a quiet laugh—“Madam Alder, is no doubt still asleep at this hour. And she despises it when I meddle. She calls it an insult to her craft.” A faint curl of his lips. “I find it difficult to restrain myself. Cooking is…a necessity, yes, but also a pleasure. A way of shaping life into order. Do you not agree?”

Will tilted his head, wary, but said nothing.

Hannibal drew from the larder a wrapped bundle, untying it with deft fingers. Within lay slices of pale flesh marbled with fat, already salted and cured to his liking. Tongue, tender, rich. The Widow Miller had been coarse, but in death she yielded something pliant, useful…like every pig brought to slaughter. A woman who had sneered at Will, who had sought to diminish him. And now she would be eaten, diminished utterly, her spite transformed into nourishment.

He laid the slices in the hot pan. They sizzled at once, releasing a savoury aroma that filled the kitchen, something between bacon and ham. He turned them with a practised flick, then added eggs, their yolks golden as late autumn leaves. A sprinkle of herbs followed, thyme, a trace of sage, to cut the richness with brightness. He worked swiftly, gracefully, each gesture deliberate.

When the food was ready, he arranged it on two plates as though presenting a banquet, setting one before Will with quiet care. Then he sat opposite, his own portion untouched for the moment, watching.

Will picked up his fork, hesitated, then tasted a slice of the meat.

Hannibal’s gaze fixed on him. He did not blink, did not breathe. Delight bloomed in his chest, dark and intoxicating. To see Will eat, to see him consume the flesh of that woman who had dared to insult him. It was a communion, a sacrament. The curve of Will’s lips as he chewed, the faint furrow of his brow as he considered the flavour…Hannibal felt a hunger rise that had little to do with food.

“Good?” he asked softly, his tone silk over steel.

Will swallowed, meeting his eyes. “Better than good.” A faint, reluctant smile touched his mouth. “I didn’t expect…you cook beautifully.”

Hannibal allowed himself the barest incline of his head, as though it were nothing. Inside, he was incandescent. This was as it should be: the pig devoured, the angel fed, and himself at the centre of it all.

Will ate slowly, as though unaccustomed to food prepared with care. Between bites, he glanced up, catching Hannibal’s gaze, then looked quickly away. His fingers worried at the edge of his napkin.

“It’s been…” He hesitated, fork poised above the eggs. “A long time since anyone cooked for me.”

Hannibal tilted his head, amber eyes steady. “How long?”

Will gave a faint, uneasy laugh. “Not since my mother. After she was gone, it was all boarding houses and taverns, and later…city fare. Nothing like this.” His gaze dropped to the plate, voice quieter. “Not like someone preparing a meal especially for you, as though it mattered.”

Hannibal felt the words slip beneath his skin like the edge of a blade. He pictured that boy, curls tousled, eyes wide, watching his mother hang, and then sitting alone, year after year, denied even the simple grace of being cared for. Rage flickered, sharp and cold, and he smothered it beneath a smile.

“It matters,” Hannibal said softly. “You matter.”

Will blinked, colour rising in his cheeks. He pushed at the eggs with his fork, trying to mask his discomfort, though Hannibal saw every shift of his breath.

Hannibal leaned back slightly, letting the moment breathe before he offered, with deliberate calm: “Tomorrow, when you finish at the school, come to the manor. I will cook for you again. Something finer than this little rustic fare.”

Will’s lips parted, then pressed into a line. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You would not,” Hannibal replied smoothly, his tone brooking no refusal. “I would enjoy the company.”

For a heartbeat, Will’s blue eyes lifted to his, unguarded. Then he gave a small nod. “All right. Tomorrow, then.”

Hannibal inclined his head, hiding the satisfaction that swelled inside him. Already, the threads drew tighter. Already, the angel’s wings brushed closer to his own.